Page 53 of Destroyed With You

“You’re right.” He turns to look directly at me. “It can be accessed by a retinal scan, too.”

Oh, God, he’s right. I don’t want to, but I take a step closer to the body, putting me at his head. I kneel, then grab his hair so that I can pull his head up.

Immediately, I recoil, gagging at the sight of the empty sockets where his eyes used to be.

“They might still be nearby.” Winston’s voice is urgent but gentle as he helps me to my feet. My legs are shaking, and I remind myself that I see death all the time. For that matter, had things not gone so completely off-kilter, I would probably have killed this man myself.

I grimace. The thought doesn’t make me feel better. And God knows, I wouldn’t have tortured him or mutilated his body.

“We need to look around. The eyes. They might still be useful.”

I cringe, but nod. “I’ve seen a lot,” I say. “But that, I don’t know if—shit!”

The scream rips out of me as a bullet shatters the window and whizzes by my head to lodge in the wooden wall behind us. At the same time, Winston grabs my arm and yanks me to the ground.

“Let’s go!” He has his weapon out and rises just enough to peer over the windowsill before dropping back to the floor. “The shooter must be hidden by the trees. I don’t see anyone.”

“Head to the back. We need to get to the car.”

He nods, then urges me to follow him.

I hesitate, realizing something. “Go ahead,” I tell him, then crawl back to the dead man and carefully pull out his wallet with two fingers at the edges. I grab a paper bag from Whataburger and shove the wallet inside, then I toss in a nearby magazine and soda can, both sitting on the end table nearest the body.

From the doorway into the kitchen, Winston urges me on. I stay low as I sprint to him. He’s right, of course. Whoever fired at us was at the side of the house right then, but if he circles to the back before we get to the car…

“More than one?” I ask as we pause in the kitchen.

“I hope not.”

I grimace. At least he’s honest. “Give me the key,” I say. “You cover me. I’ll come get you.”

I can tell he wants to protest.

“Just do it,” I say. “I’m a kickass driver. And we don’t have time to argue.”

He gives me the key. “Go.”

I do, sprinting out the door, my legs churning as my thumb punches the button on the remote to unlock the car. I keep expecting a bullet in my back, but there are none, and I make it all the way to the car, then slide in behind the wheel safe and sound.

Maybe there really is only one shooter, and he’s on the far side of the house right now.

I say a silent thank you to the universe, then start the car. I hurry forward, maneuvering until I’m parallel to the back of the house so that Winston doesn’t have far to run. It’s not a long distance, and, since it was clear for me, I expect—hope—that it will be for him, too.

Of course it’s not, and I’ve only moved a few feet when a spray of bullets hits my side, shattering the driver's side window and coming close enough that the buzz of the bullet fills my ear.

“Shit.” I accelerate with my head as low as possible, then swing around in front of the door as Winston races toward me. A moment later, the back passenger door flies open, and Winston dives in.

“Go!” he shouts. “Just go!”

I do, the gas pedal all the way to the floor.

We skid on the uneven surface but soon get traction, and we go bouncing toward the main road, the back passenger door hanging open as Texas dust fills the car.

“At least two,” he says, shifting in the back seat and yanking the car door closed. Then he crawls into the front and straps himself in beside me.

“Get us the hell out of here.”

“That’s the plan,” I say. “We need to lose them, but this isn’t exactly the vehicle for that. Our best hope is that it takes them a while to get to wherever they hid their car.”