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“He seems smart to me,” she said faintly as her fingers tightened on the wood. “Smarter than you. ”
When he turned back to her, she moved. The two-by-four swung for his head before he could react. His arm came up, but not quick enough. He’d taught her what John hadn’t about fighting. He’d taught her how to disarm, how to kick effectively, but more, he’d taught her how to counter a defensive move.
She was short, weak, he’d always said, so he’d taught her to be effective rather than powerful. Using the momentum of her body, her shoulders, she slammed the wood into his shoulder, causing the gun to drop as she kicked out.
The heel of her boot caught his chin as she punched back with the end of the two-by-four into his head. Blood sprayed around her before she dropped the wood and ran for the stairs.
Forget the tunnel, she had no idea where it went. Jonesy was bigger than her, faster; she needed corners and furniture to hide behind, not a tunnel to run through.
She raced up the stairs cursing her boots even as she gloried in the blood they had shed.
She slammed open the basement door as the blast behind her sent a bullet tearing through the wood inches above her head.
Ducking, she slammed the door closed, locked it, then threw a kitchen chair against it before racing to the back door and into the night.
It was dark and foggy as hell as the mist from the lake shrouded the house and the forest surrounding it. The night oozed a heavy blanket of thick fog, so thick it felt smothering as she stumbled around the house and ducked behind the border of evergreen hedges planted around it.
A quick glance at the bike had a sob choking her. The tires were flat. There wasn’t a chance of escaping on it. For the moment, all she had were the hedges.
It was minimal covering, but it was dark, her clothes were dark. Blinking back her tears, she prayed for a chance.
TWENTY-THREE
Breathing in slow and deep, Rogue tried to forceback the panic threatening to rise inside her now that she had escaped the house. Surely it wouldn’t be too hard to hide here for a while. Maybe Jonesy would just leave.
She flinched at the sound of the kitchen door slamming closed.
The night suddenly seemed malevolent and frightening. Fear congealed inside her as a shiver raced up her spine and she strained to see through the thick fog to the land around her.
“Scary, isn’t it, little girl?” Jonesy’s voice was almost conversational as he spoke into the night. “The nights get real dark here in the mountains without the city lights to brighten them. Fog rolls in, and you can’t see what’s behind you, or what’s in front of you. It’s real easy to get lost, or to fall over a cliff. Or even worse, fall in the lake. The water is mighty cold this time of the year, Rogue. ”
She shivered at the thought of how cold.
Eyes wide, the breath laboring in her chest, she fought to stay in place rather than to sprint through the night.
“Do you know the directio
n of the road out of here?” he called out to her. “Have you been here enough times that you’ll be able to stay on the gravel rather than the rocky ground and know where you are?”
She was smarter than that. She knew the difference between a graveled road and rocky ground.
Jonesy chuckled again. “Come on, Rogue. At least I’ll kill you quick. The night will make you suffer. ”
God, how could she and her father have been so wrong about him? He wasn’t a friend, he was a monster.
Kneeling behind the thick, heavy hedge, Rogue felt the first tear fall. The night was cold, wet. For the briefest moment she remembered the feel of Zeke’s arms, the warmth of his body. A sob lodged in her throat at the need for that warmth.
She had seen the pain in his eyes earlier when he had realized Gene had betrayed him.
Rogue felt that pain echoing inside her. In one night she had lost the man she loved, a friend, and possibly her brother.
“Rogue. ” Jonesy’s hiss was filled with amusement as he drew closer to the hedge. “I know this land, this farm. I know every inch of it and of this house. I wonder if I can guess where you’re hiding. ”
Her eyes widened at the sound of his voice, so much nearer now. Struggling to move silently, she edged along the side of the house, careful not to brush against the hedges.
Jonesy was a hunter. Her father had told her about the hunting trips they had taken together and how Jonesy seemed to have almost a second sense of where his prey would hide, which way it would go.
She wasn’t an animal, she told herself, but was there really any difference between a human and an animal that knew it was hunted?
