And then, as if she possesses some kind of person-summoning magic, boom. There he is, walking up from behind the car, hands in his pockets like it’s no big thing. “What? I had to take a leak.”

She grabs him, pulls him close.

Just as a little tranquilizer dart thwips into the fat of Shane’s bicep.

“Ow!” he says, and swats at it like it’s a bee.

Atlanta shoves him in the car. Before she can close the door, the big white hell-beast hops in after him—which causes Shane to scream like a Tasered Girl Scout. Atlanta slides in through the passenger’s-side door just as the tires bite into limestone scree and spin stones.

The car jolts forward.

Shane’s screams last for about thirty seconds. Then they wind down like a child’s toy with dying batteries—he slumps against the seat, the tranq taking hold. The dog sits next to him, panting, oblivious. Occasionally rebalancing his big white body as Guy takes the turns and skids across gravel toward the exit.

Ahead is the gate. Closed.

Winky in the John Deere hat is already up, barking into a walkie-talkie. He flings down the radio and goes dipping a hand into a rusted red toolbox under his metal folding chair.

Next thing they know, he’s standing straight again.

With a pistol pointed at them.

This one doesn’t look like a pellet gun. Or a tranquilizer gun. It’s the real deal.

Guy doesn’t say anything—he just makes a sound that’s halfway between a scream of anger and a yelp of fear, then he steps on the accelerator. Winky doesn’t have time do anything but jump out of the way as the car crashes into the gate, flinging it open.

The Scion’s tires skate across gravel, the ass end of the car going left while the rest of the vehicle tries to go straight. They fishtail, ending up perpendicular to the road, leaving Atlanta facing the ruined gate.

The car drifts to a stop.

Winky’s back on his feet, gun up and out.

Guy hits the pedal—tires spin uselessly on stone.

Atlanta ducks, fumbles for the shotgun in the backseat.

Hands on cold metal.

She brings the gun up.

Realizes the window isn’t down.

Winky fixes that. One shot through the glass—passes through, hits the driver’s-side window, breaking both. Glass everywhere. Guy cries out. The dog howls. Atlanta uses the butt of the squirrel gun to punch out the rest of the passenger’s-side window and then leans out, thumb pulling back the hammer on the single-barrel .410.

The pistol’s up again and about to fire. But Winky’s either smart, a coward, or both—because he throws his body into the ditch next to the gravel drive. Atlanta doesn’t even have to pull the trigger. She just keeps the barrel aimed out the window, staring down the sight.