“He’s hit! He’s hit!” Pigpen flies into view, gun drawn and on the prowl to kill.
Eli’s firing. Round after round into the darkness. The sound is deafening and white lights appear in front of my eyes as my damn arm screams in agony. Urge is to go down. To surrender to the burning torment, but the need to survive forces me to ignore the wetness running along my skin.
Two shadows in front of me and I aim my gun. Last-second recognition halts my finger from pulling the trigger. Eli and Pigpen walk backward as a human shield as they fire, edging me toward my bike.
“How bad?” Eli shouts.
I’m fucking fantastic. Blood’s pouring down my arm and it feels like I’ve been branded by a hot iron. “I can ride.”
They protect me as I straddle my bike. I ignore the pain as I lift my arms to provide cover as Pigpen, then Eli, slip on their bikes. No one’s shot back. Odds are they’re long gone, but I’m not in a gambling mood.
Eli revs his engine and I grimace as I rotate the throttle. Eli’s on my left and Pigpen on my right as we take off. Both have their guns still drawn and their expressions are deadly.
The world around me zones in, then out. The blood streaming down my arm is more than a trickle. Coldness numbs my fingers and my grip on the bike weakens. Eli drives ahead of me. Gravity beckons to me and the last thing I see is headlights.
Breanna
MY MIND WHIRLS and my hand can barely keep up with my racing thoughts. The pencil scratches against the paper, my handwriting unintelligible to anyone other than me. This code was much easier than the first. Each letter clicks into place and each word that is created causes blood-tingling euphoria.
There were too many letters in one continuous sentence. Too many Q’s. Too many Z’s. As if they were a placeholder for spaces. I purposely blurred my vision and letters started rearranging in my head and that’s when I saw it—these letters need to be reorganized into columns. My entire body trembled and I dug in, entering the most intense word search of my life.
Consider this your... My cell pings and my muscles convulse as I snap out of the trance and back into my bedroom. Another ping.
My breath catches in my throat. Razor. It has to be him. I scramble for the cell, which is lost under a heap of wadded paper balls. I slide my finger across the screen and my happy feelings die.
Message 1, Kyle: We should get together to figure out what my paper will be about. Maybe I can help you with the research.
Message 2, Kyle: You still need to let me know what you want in return for writing my papers.
Disappointment tastes like stomach bile. His paper is due soon, and if Razor doesn’t find out the identity of the fifth person, I’ll become something I never wanted to be: a cheater.
I roll my neck in an attempt to ward off the sore muscles caused by hunching over the code for too long. A quick check of the time and it’s no wonder I’m stiff. I retreated to my room after I put my younger siblings to bed at nine and I’m still sitting cross-legged in the middle of the single twin bed at midnight.
I scroll through my messages, hoping I missed one from Razor. Friday night, Razor and I texted while he was on break and then...nothing. I texted him again, but he never responded. It’s Sunday and my chest aches. I understood why we couldn’t talk Friday, because of his job, and I’m sure that’s why I haven’t heard from him, but I miss him.
My cell buzzes and my stupid heart leaps. One glance down and the bitter nausea returns. Kyle: You look sad at school sometimes. I didn’t do this to make you sad.
How exactly did he think blackmailing people would make them feel? Ecstatic? Included? He’s freaking psychotic, but Razor has told me to play nice. Me: Things have been tough at home lately. I’m fine. We’ll talk about your paper soon.
I power off my cell and toss it onto my nightstand. If it’s off, then I can pretend Razor’s contacting me instead of knowing he isn’t.
A knock on my door and my eyes widen when Mom walks into my room. Exhausted is the best way to describe her. Her black hair is knotted in a clip at the base of her neck, but several strands have broken loose. Dark circles are under her eyes and it’s like a few new worry lines have formed near the corners since dinner.
She’s in a Bellarmine University T-shirt, a gift I’m sure from Clara, and a pair of sweatpants. Mom’s in her early fifties and tonight is one of the rare nights it shows.
She smiles as she closes the door behind her. “Hi.”
“Hey,” I say. “I thought you were in bed.”
“Elsie had a nightmare and then Liam stopped by to talk.”
I had heard his car rattle into the drive about two hours ago. He works third shift and sometimes stops by here for leftovers before he clocks in.