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A loud pounding of footsteps came from the far side of the room. Ryder swung his weapon to the left, aiming it at the noise. A wooden door swung open, revealing a staircase leading up. And a little girl.
“Mama, can I go online?”
The little girl couldn’t have been more than seven years old. She had her mother’s pretty blue eyes and the cutest pointed chin he’d ever seen. She saw his gun pointing at her and came to a dead stop. The air around her throbbed, beating out a deep, almost inaudible rhythm—one only Ryder and men like him could hear.
This woman wasn’t the Beacon.
The little girl was.
Hell, no. He couldn’t do this. Let whatever demon was coming have this town. He was going to throw the woman and her kid into his truck and get them out of here.
And go where? The Terraphage would follow the Beacon wherever Ryder took her. With the roads as bad as they were, he’d have no hope of outrunning it.
If they were going to survive this, he was going to have to make a stand. Kill the Terraphage when it came.
A mocking bubble of laughter rose up inside of him. No one could kill one of those things. Anyone who had been stupid enough to try had failed. The Terraphage was huge, evil, and unstoppable.
Which meant he needed every second possible to come up with some kind of plan.
Ryder didn’t see the chair coming at his head until it was too late. He tried to duck it, but the woman’s aim was true and the metal leg connected with the side of his skull.
Lights out.
Jordan watched the man crumple to the ground, lifting the chair to strike at him again. Rage poured through her limbs, making her stronger than she would have imagined. She shook with the force of it, clenching her teeth against the need to let out a battle cry.
How dare he point that gun at her baby?
Anne started toward her, but Jordan held up a hand. “Stay back, honey. He’s dangerous.”
Or he had been. Right now he was limp and bleeding, lying utterly still. Maybe she’
d killed him.
Part of her hoped so. A man who would draw a weapon on a child deserved to die.
He was a big man, filling out that worn leather jacket with wide shoulders and a thick chest. His hair was dark, damp, and mussed. Small scars marred the backs of his hands, especially his knuckles. Jordan guessed they were from bar fights or something equally distasteful. Any man who would point a gun at a child wouldn’t have hesitated to take out his anger with his fists.
Jordan had never regretted her divorce; her ex was a loser who had never wanted Anne. But for the first time since turning her back on men, Jordan wished she had one around—someone willing to protect her and her daughter from the threat this man posed.
Anne took a tentative step closer. “Mama, that’s the man I dreamed about. The one that came right before the monster.”
A cold, heavy dread slithered down Jordan’s spine. Her daughter’s dreams had been getting progressively worse for weeks now, but Jordan thought they’d been making progress. “No, it’s not. That’s just your imagination playing a dirty trick on you.”
“No. That’s him. I’m sure that’s him. He’s even got the same messy hair.”
Jordan stepped to the left to block Anne’s line of sight. “Just go upstairs and get me that big roll of tape out of the toolbox. We’ll talk about this later.”
The pounding of little feet told Jordan her daughter had done as she asked.
She kicked the gun out of reach and poked the man’s leg with the toe of her shoe. He didn’t move. He didn’t make a sound. Encouraged by his stillness, she moved closer and poked him in the ribs.
Nothing. He was out cold. Or doing one heck of an acting job.
Anne returned with the duct tape. “Who is he, Mama?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why’d he have a gun?”
