Chapters (78)
- Cover
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Sixty-Six
- Sixty-Seven
- Sixty-Eight
- Acknowledgments
- Discover More
- About the Author
- Also by Owen Laukkanen
The fence sat a couple of rows over, just a little lower than the cars, the razor wire curled at the top, the barbs gleaming sharp and vicious in the glow from the security lights. On the other side of that fence was the truck and, he hoped, Jess and Lucy. Mason had but one shot at escape.
Balancing as best he could on the top of the stack of cars, he blocked out the noise of the dogs barking behind him and below him, closed his eyes, and took a leap of faith. Landed with a crash on the next pile of junk, felt something sharp jam into his stomach and knew he’d be paying for it later. He scrambled to the top of the pile, repeated the process. The dogs hadn’t figured him out yet, and he made the last stack and climbed to the top, found himself staring out at dark forest so close he could practically touch it.
Home free.
Then the screen door on that farmhouse slapped open, and someone fired a shot, and it wasn’t Jess with the shotgun. Mason quit admiring the trees and just leapt straight toward them. Didn’t plan to catch a leg on that razor wire, but he did, heard his pants tear and felt skin tearing too as he fell. Landed awkward and rolled an ankle, pulled himself to his feet and half staggered, half crawled toward Jess’s Chevy, the brake lights lit up and the engine raring to go.
Mason supported himself on the bed of the truck, limped around the side to the passenger door, and climbed in. Slammed the door closed, and Jess was already moving, the engine howling now, the tires scrabbling for traction.
Lucy was there too, wedged in between them, and the dog licked Mason’s face, and wouldn’t stop doing it, as Jess hauled ass away from the farm.
Eighteen
Eighteen
Kirby Harwood’s cell phone rang loud and insistent. Beside him in the queen-sized bed, not watching the sport-fishing reality TV show, Terri-Lee put down her book and frowned.
“Who could be calling at this hour?” she said. She had that tone to her voice again: disapproval, accusation. As if they wouldn’t be getting disturbed like this if only they were living the life they should have been, if Kirby hadn’t gone and fucked up his full ride, dragged them back to this shit-hole town. She had that tone of voice a fair bit these days.
Harwood looked at the display, recognized the number. Was already standing when he accepted the call.
“Harwood.”
“They got the dog.” Bryce Whitmer’s voice, deep and steady. “Came in with a shotgun and blew the lock off the back gate. Had the drop on me before I could go for my gun.”
Harwood walked into the hallway, leaned against the wall. “Bullshit.”