As the long-barreled revolver appears from beneath the corpse, I shoot Alois Engel high in the back. The impact drives him into the body beneath him, but after a couple of seconds, he thrusts himself up once more and tries to lift the gun. His eyes slowly track around to me, and the gun follows—

I close my eyes and fire again, this time into the center of his chest, where I know his heart is pumping violently. My second bullet slams him to the floor and keeps him there, while a pool of blood spreads quickly from beneath him.

With a curse of fury and guilt, I turn, grab my rifle, and crash through the door after Lincoln.

Chapter 77

Outside, I see Lincoln walking slowly after Snake, who has one arm tight under Wilma’s chin while his other holds the long-bladed knife to her throat, beneath his forearm. Snake has nearly reached a pickup truck parked about twenty feet from the house.

“Help me!” Wilma cries. “Don’t let him take me!”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Lincoln says, keeping pace with Snake.

“I’m here!” I shout.

“Get around to the side of him!” Lincoln orders. “Flank him. Don’t let him in the truck.”

“Easy now,” Snake says, his voice surprisingly steady. He sounds like he’s trying to calm a spooked horse.

“Is the blond kid dead?” Lincoln asks me.

“Yeah.”

Snake winces, but he doesn’t utter a word in anger or regret. “Cage just killed my son,” he says in the tone of a man laying casino chips on a green baize cloth. “He already killed my nephew. Let my son be enough.”

“It ain’t the same,” Lincoln says, cutting his eyes at me. “Get around him!”

As I try to do that, a low rumble reaches my ears. In five seconds the sound doubles in volume.

“You hear that?” I ask sharply.

“Motorcycles,” Lincoln says. “Goddamn it.”

Triumph dances in Snake’s eyes. “You boys are in the shit now. Things turn quick, don’t they? You better haul ass.”

Lincoln’s going to kill them both—

The rumble has become a thundering bellow, reverberating off the abandoned buildings on Rodney’s main street. Headlight beams spear the darkness a hundred yards behind us, growing brighter by the second.

“We’ve got to go!” I yell, darting to the truck, which looks like an old International Harvester.

“You can’t leave me!” Wilma cries. “He’ll kill me for sure.”

“Those bikers don’t know which house it is,” Lincoln says.

If I open the door to the truck, its interior light will go on, pinpointing our location. From the passenger side, I squint into the dark and see there’s no key in the ignition.

“Snake’s got the keys!” I call to Lincoln. “Or one of those kids.”

“Not for long.”

“No!” Wilma screams. “Don’t shoot!”

Lincoln has taken two steps forward and steadied his aim.