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That rock smashed into the man’s knee. The Guide fell. The gun fell.
The fire marshal was yelling, but Michael couldn’t comprehend his words. His element had taken over, and his brain was focused on nothing more than survival.
The Guide was on the ground, surrounded by smoldering underbrush. Michael trapped him there, holding him with power from the earth below. The Guide wasn’t powerless, however. The air had turned thin and ice cold again, and Michael couldn’t catch his breath.
He didn’t care. He pulled the jagged rock free and put it to the man’s throat. Blood was everywhere, running down his fingers, dripping along the man’s neck to find the earth. Michael felt every drop.
“I’ll kill you before I pass out,” he said, and meant it.
The Guide smiled. “You can try.” The smoldering underbrush burst into full-on flame.
Fire caught Michael’s clothes—and then his skin. He recoiled, smacking at his clothes, trying to ignore the burn. The fire seemed to burn hotter. The pain was intense. Michael sucked in a breath of cold air—but he got a lungful of hot smoke instead. His vision went hazy.
The Guide raised himself up on one arm. Blood smeared across his face. He found his gun and pointed.
A gun fired—but not his. Michael heard the shot just beside his head.
The Guide fell. The fire died so quickly the flames seemed to be sucked back into the earth.
The sudden silence was so absolute that Michael could swear his ears were ringing. He couldn’t move.
Then Marshal Faulkner stepped past Michael, his gun still in his hand. He dropped to a knee beside the Guide and reached out to check for a pulse.
He must not have found anything, because he holstered his gun, then looked up, at Michael. “You okay, kid?”
Michael couldn’t even generate his usual fury at being called a kid. His breath shook, but he nodded.
“You need an ambulance?”
He shook his head, then had to clear his throat. “No.” “Any more surprises for me?”
“I hope not.” Michael couldn’t quite believe how quickly that had all happened.
The Guide was dead. He was safe. His brothers were safe.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Don’t thank me yet.” The fire marshal picked up his radio and spoke into it, requesting assistance, and probably explaining what had happened. More codes Michael didn’t understand. Then he looked at Michael. “Are you going to take off again?”
“No.”
“You want to tell me how you broke the cuffs?”
Michael blinked. He’d forgotten about that part. The handcuffs were still attached to his wrists, a short stretch of chain dangling from each. “Adrenaline,” he said flatly.
Hell, it was sort of true.
Jack Faulkner’s mouth settled into a straight line. “You know I’m going to have more questions, don’t you?”
“I figured. Am I still under arrest?”
ted. Michael swallowed. He kept thinking of his brothers, waiting for him to go in front of a judge so he could get them out of that group home. An arrest record would definitely throw a wrench in those plans.
Especially if his new lodging was a jail cell.
His phone vibrated again. Michael stared at the woods. Sweat collected between his shoulder blades despite the arctic chill in the air.
“It’s gotta be him,” Michael said. “He’s f**king with me.”
