BooksBarbecue
Back Season of Fear Save as PDF
Chapters (67)
  1. Contents
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright Page
  4. PROLOGUE
  5. PART ONETHE EXTREMES
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. PART TWOSOMETHING BAD
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. PART THREECHAYLA
  38. 31
  39. 32
  40. 33
  41. 34
  42. 35
  43. 36
  44. 37
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. 40
  48. 41
  49. 42
  50. 43
  51. PART FOURHIT AND RUN
  52. 44
  53. 45
  54. 46
  55. 47
  56. 48
  57. 49
  58. 50
  59. 51
  60. 52
  61. 53
  62. 54
  63. 55
  64. 56
  65. 57
  66. EPILOGUE
  67. AUTHOR’S NOTE

He took a sideways glance at Cab and Lala, who were crawling on the slippery tile, trying to regain their balance. ‘Do you really think you can?’

‘Watch me.’

‘You’ll die, too,’ he said.

‘Maybe.’

Deacon took her measure, deciding if she was serious.

He tilted the gun barrel down as if to surrender, but then, with a smirk, he turned and ran. Caprice fired repeatedly after him. The bullets were like little bombs blasting between the walls. Windows cascaded outward, breaking and falling. The storm howled as if Caprice were firing into its belly. She kept shooting wildly as Deacon vanished, until the gun was empty and each new pull of the trigger ended in an impotent click.

Deacon was gone. Chayla folded him up into her furious heart.

Cab, who was still reeling from the impact of the door, jumped through the window in pursuit.

54

A searing pain burned like a lit cigarette on Deacon’s back and made a trail of fire through his soft insides. As the bullet exited through the taut muscles of his stomach, he realized with a sense of wild surprise: She shot me. The impact kicked him forward, stumbling, but he righted himself. He put a hand on his abdomen, which was warm and wet, and pressed hard, feeling blood squirm between his fingers.

He was invisible in black. Behind him, silhouetted against the pinpoints of candles, he saw Cab Bolton scanning the grounds. The gardens hid Deacon. He lifted his gun and fired from the trees, and Cab ducked. He didn’t think he’d hit him.

The distance to the foreclosure house felt like miles. He knew he wouldn’t make it. He headed away from the main gate, following the vine-draped north wall through dense bushes that whipped into his face. The house loomed to his right, nothing but a black shape.

Escape was impossible. He understood that. He was dying from the hole in his abdomen, but it didn’t stop him from using his last breath to get away. If he could get to the estate’s garage, if he could steal a car, there was hope. As long as blood pumped, then his heart was beating, and he was alive. He’d learned that lesson a long time ago.

Why is there so much blood?

That one night, that one moment on the road, never left his head. He could still feel the bitterness gripping his stomach as he made the night-time drive from Tampa. He could feel his head swim with each joint, but the pot didn’t relax him; it just fed his impatience. That night, he was an eighteen-year-old boy, hating the world, hating his domineering brother, hating his little sister puking in the back seat, hating his parents who had died. All of that rage made its way into his foot, dead-heavy on the accelerator. Seventy miles an hour. Eighty.