Brewer had released Joshua long enough to punch Michael a second time, this time in the gut. Stumbling backward, Michael had grabbed the iron shovel from the fireplace and swung it with all his might. Brewer had been leaning down to pick up Joshua from the floor when Michael had hit him in the head with the shovel. Brewer had gone down on his knees and Michael had pushed him away from his little brother.

Who had been breathing. Thank God.

Then Michael had picked Joshua up and run.

Wincing at the pain in his shoulder, Michael pushed to his knees, gently settling Joshua on the ground so that he could do a three-sixty search.

So many times in his life he’d wished he could hear. Never so much as this moment. If Brewer was following, Michael wouldn’t be able to hear a twig breaking or the sound of labored breathing.

Brewer could be hiding anywhere. Michael didn’t trust the bastard as far as he could throw him.

Stop wasting time. Get to the road.

Drawing a deep breath, he picked Joshua up and cradled him against his good shoulder. He took a step and had to bite back a scream.

It hurts. God, it hurts. The pain was shooting from his shoulder, up his neck, to the back of his head now. He hoped he hadn’t whimpered.

Taking another look around, he started walking again, slowly. Yeah, it hurt. But he’d suck it up. He’d had worse, after all. Lots of times. Thanks to Brewer.

For a moment he wished the man was dead, then he shook his head hard. No. Not dead. Just in jail. Where other bad guys—bigger, meaner bad guys—will hurt him every day of every year for the rest of his miserable life.

That would be . . . What had his teacher called it? Oh, right. Poetic justice.

He came to the edge of the old orchard and peered into the night. He could see the flickering light at the end of the driveway again. He was glad he knew it had always flickered. Otherwise he might be worried that he had a concussion.

He took a step out of the trees, then froze. Shit. Oh shit.

He scrambled back under cover and lay down out of sight, the pain in his shoulder making his eyes tear up. He blinked the wetness away and stared at the car making its way down the driveway toward the main road. It was too dark to see the make, model, or color, but that didn’t matter, because Michael already knew it was a 2018 BMW 530i. Alpine-white exterior with a tan leather interior. Brewer was very proud of his car.

The car was moving super-slowly. Maybe five miles per hour, if that. It stopped, then crawled another few feet forward.