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stiff-frozen blanket.
Lana began pushing through. Head. Shoulders.
A coyote lunged.
She fired.
She pushed the rest of the way out, scratched, skin ripped, oblivious to the pain. On hands and knees on the hood. She had to fumble for the rope. Rope in one hand, greasy. Gun in the other, stinking of cordite.
She fired wildly. Once, twice, three times, bullets chipping rock. The coyotes broke and ran.
She laid the pistol on the hood.
She fumbled the lighter from her pocket.
No.
She struck the lighter.
The flame was tiny and orange.
You will not.
Lana brought the flame toward the rope’s end.
Stop.
Lana hesitated.
“Yes,” Lana breathed.
You can not.
“I can,” Lana sobbed.
You are mine.
The flame burned her thumb. But the pain was nothing, nothing next to the sudden, catastrophic pain like an explosion in her head.
Lana cried out.
She clasped her hands over her ears. The lighter singed her hair.
She dropped the rope.
She dropped the lighter.
Lana had never imagined such pain. As if her brain had been scooped out and her skull filled with burning, white-hot coals.
Lana screamed in agony and rolled off the hood.
She screamed and screamed and knew that she would never stop.
TWENTY-NINE
16 HOURS, 33 MINUTES
“WE CAN WAIT him out,” Edilio said to Sam. “Just sit tight here. You could even catch a few Zs.”
