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There was no way in hell he was going to walk away from this.
For an instant, he wished the Guide would find him and shoot him and put him out of his misery.
“Please,” said Michael. “I didn’t do any of this.”
“We can talk about it. Let me up.”
“If I let you up, you’re going to arrest me and haul me out of here. There’s someone with a gun who’s going after Hannah, and I need to find him—”
“You found him, Michael Merrick.” A gun hammer drew back and clicked behind Michael’s head. “And I have all the proof I need.”
Michael went still. His world centered on that moment, the space of time between the click of the gun and the explosion of the bullet.
And in that moment, he realized he truly had nothing left to lose.
The jagged rock was still clutched in his fist, and Michael didn’t hesitate. He ducked and spun off his knee, driving the edge of the stone into the man’s abdomen. The rock glanced off bone. Michael felt a rib fracture. Skin tore and blood rushed over his hand.
It should have horrified him.
Instead, he kept on pushing. He thought of all the people who’d died over the last three days, and he kept on pushing.
Another rib broke.
The Guide stumbled back, yelling. Michael didn’t recognize him at all. He could have been the same guy from the restaurant bombing—or not.
He was also aiming his gun again, but Michael’s free hand had already found another rock.
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?”
