He sighed. “Goddammit, baby brother.”
Quickly, he checked the keychain in his phone’s flashlight — yep, there it was. Sandi’s stupid little Sentry Storage key, silver, circular, stamped with a little A-37, otherwise unremarkable. He’d found the keychain half-buried in the snow where it had landed, thirty feet from the restroom window.
Darby had been telling the truth, more or less.
And he was grateful for that. If she’d been lying, and Lars had blown her brains out just now, they’d be leaving behind a forensic goldmine of perfectly preserved fingerprints. And they’d never access Jaybird’s steroid shots, meaning the little girl would likely die long before they reached their destination. And then everything — this entire bloody clusterfuck, the AMBER-Alert in California, the FBI’s probable involvement, the murders of Sandi, Ed, and Darby — all of it would be wasted without making a single cent. All because dear, sweet Lars got jumpy and shot Darby without permission.
Thank God she told the truth.
Ashley mashed the chattering keychain into his pocket, lifted his cordless nailer from the snow, and raced back to the entrance.
“Larson James Garver,” he howled as he ran, exhaling a furious mist: “You just earned yourself an orange card—”
*
Darby fought for control of the gun.
Rodent Face was on the defensive now, stumbling backward, hot blood pumping from his jugular to his own frenzied heartbeat, trying desperately to shake her off, to gain enough distance to control the Beretta.
Darby wouldn’t let him. She held onto the weapon, her slippery fingers clasped tightly over his. Then she spun, changing direction, and tugged away from him, counter-clockwise, twisting the pistol against the joints of his knuckles. Lars was taller and stronger, but Darby was smarter, and she knew how to use inertia against him—
Inside the trigger guard, she felt his index finger snap.
Like a baby carrot.
He screamed through his teeth. There was a wet whistle to it; air leaking through the hole in his windpipe. Blood surging up in strangled bubbles. They were both spinning now, a whirling tango, hands locked on the firearm, crashing into the coffee counter’s edge, tipping chairs, firing into the ceiling — CRACK, CRACK, CRACK — showering plaster grit, exploding a fluorescent light overhead, until the gun’s slide locked empty and the trigger lost slack.
They slammed into the Colorado map, both still clutching the Beretta.
Lars let go — knowing it was empty.
Darby held on — knowing it was still useful — and punched Lars in the teeth with it. He staggered away from her, holding his neck, but tripped over the bodies of Ed and Sandi. Now Darby was on top of Rodent Face, hitting again, again, again. Bashing with the aluminum heel of the pistol. She landed a particularly good blow and felt his cheekbone break with a meaty crunch.
He kicked her away, and they separated.
Darby scooted backwards on the slick floor, the empty Beretta clattering. She tried to stand up, but slipped. Gasoline everywhere. Her palms splashed down, still half-blind, blinking his blood from her eyes. The fuel jug had tipped in the scuffle; it was on its side, pouring with rhythmic glugs. And near it, she saw her Swiss Army knife, a serrated shadow twirling on tile.
She grabbed it.
Lars was crawling away from her, toward the locked door. Not fast enough. He was moaning thick words, something desperate, clotted with tears and blood: “Ashley-Ashley-kill her-kill her—”
Not happening.
Not tonight.
“Kill her please—”
Darby caught up to him and raised the blade high over the back of Larson Garver’s skull, the metal glinting a streak of LED light. Her words from earlier tonight came back like an echo — I’ll cut his throat if I have to — and across the room, she made sidelong eye contact with Jay.
She was watching, awestruck.
“Jay,” Darby gasped. “Don’t look.”
*
Ashley twisted the doorknob — locked.
“Lars,” he panted. “Open the door.”
No answer.
He checked the front window, but it was still blocked by Ed’s overturned table. No access. He peered through the gap and saw only darkness — the lights were off in there. Flustered, he moved back to the front door, stumbling over sloped mounds of snow, nearly dropping his nailer.
“Lars,” he called out, saliva freezing on his chin. “Please . . . baby brother, if you’re alive in there, say something.”
Nothing.
“Lars.”
Those concussive gunshots rattled in his mind, hollow and panicked. Why would Lars fire a string of rapid shots? That hadn’t been controlled gunfire; that was the sound of desperation. Spray and pray, they called it. So what happened in there?
Still no answer.
He reared back and kicked the door. The frame creaked, but the deadbolt held. Getting worried now: “Lars. I’m not mad. Okay? Just answer me—”
He was interrupted by a voice.
Not his baby brother’s.
Darby’s.
“He can’t talk right now,” she replied, “because I cut his throat.”
Ashley’s knees went weak. For a sputtering moment his mind short-circuited, and he forgot about the deadbolt and twisted the doorknob again. “You’re . . . no, you’re lying. I know you’re lying—”
“Want to know his last words?”
“You better be lying—”
“He cried your name before I killed him.”
“Darby, I swear to God, if you really killed my baby brother in there, I will cut the meat off Jaybird’s little bones—”
“You’ll never touch her,” Darby said, her words hardening with a chilling certainty. “I have the gun now. And you’re next.”
Ashley punched the door.
A bolt of shattering pain exploded through his fist. A jangling echo throbbed up his forearm. That was a mistake — a huge mistake — and he clenched his knuckles, his breaths curling through gnashed teeth, his eyes welling with hot tears.
Broken. Definitely sprained, at minimum.
He screamed. Something he wouldn’t remember. It started as Lars’s name, maybe, but it morphed into howling nonsense. He wanted to slug the door again, again, again, to break his other hand, to bash his forehead, to destroy himself against an immovable object. But that would solve nothing.
Later. He’d grieve later.
He leaned against the door, his forehead touching the iced metal, controlling his breathing. It was still okay. He was still in this fight. In his unhurt hand, he still had his cordless nailer. And plenty of steel 16-pennies, purchased secondhand and fingerprint-free, stacked up in the drum magazine. Ready for duty. The cold weather hadn’t yet sapped the battery. The indicator light was still green.
Alright, Darby.
You lost your mom. I lost my baby brother. There was an intoxicating symmetry to their suffering tonight. Two wounded souls, each reeling from loss, each nursing damaged hands, joined by the rawest pain—