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Lizzy’s mouth went dry and her vision dimmed. She had absolutely nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. She was on a bicycle. He was on a motorcycle, maybe fifty yards away and coming straight at her.
Quickly she unzipped her backpack and pulled out the kitchen knife. In the afternoon sun it looked dull and inadequate, but it was all she had. Unless there was something in the shed, maybe a pickax, a scythe, an awl—anything that would help give her an edge—the knife would have to do.
Though what good would any of that do against a bullet? It didn’t matter. She couldn’t just give up, not after all this. She had to keep trying.
She was running before she consciously made the decision to run, her body taking over, refusing to give up. She didn’t bother with the bicycle; on the rough field, she was probably as fast or faster on foot than she’d be on the bike, as long as she didn’t break an ankle. She ran, tired muscles forgotten, aches and pains disappeared. All she knew was desperate effort, a burning need to get to the shed before he did. And she prayed, prayed there would be something there she could use to defend herself, prayed, hell, that the farmer who cut these hay fields would drive in on his tractor to start moving hay into the shed. Anything.
She was running west, the afternoon sun hot on her face, blurring her vision. She didn’t look back, didn’t look to see how much he’d gained on her, just flung herself headlong across the stubby grass stalks. Twenty yards to the shed … ten … then she was there, the deep shade of the structure enclosing her. She skidded to a halt, temporarily blinded, bright spots swimming in front of her eyes.
Fiercely she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to regain her vision. Damn it! She should have thought about that—she should have squinted to reduce the amount of sunlight in her eyes. Now she was helpless for a few precious moments, and the deep rumble of the motorcycle was getting closer, louder.
No time! She gripped the kitchen knife, but she knew in her bones it wasn’t enough. She had to find another weapon now.
She opened her eyes a sliver; her vision had adjusted enough that she could see to make her way deeper into the shed, working to the right, searching the periphery for anything she could use. Snakes … wouldn’t there be a hoe or something around to kill snakes?
Yeah, that would work. A hoe against a handgun.
A hoe would be better than nothing, and that was pretty much what she had right now. A knife was for close-quarters combat. She needed something that would allow her to keep some distance between her and her adversary.
The rumbling engine cut off.
And there it was, by God, as if her desperate thoughts had conjured it out of midair: a hoe. The blade was rusted, the handle wasn’t in the best of shape, but it was a weapon. She grabbed it up in one hand, knife clutched in the other, and turned to face Death as he approached.
He’d stopped the motorcycle twenty, maybe twenty-five yards away, and was sitting astride the Harley with his booted feet planted on the ground, calmly watching her as she scrabbled through the shed and finally came up with the hoe.
His black face shield caught the sun, reflected it back at her.
She was so frightened she felt dizzy, and spots swam before her eyes. She could
hear her breath, her lungs pumping too fast, and dimly she realized she was hyperventilating. She had to stop, she had to get control of herself, or she’d have no chance at all. Deliberately she sucked in a deep breath and held it, forcing herself to calm down.
The dizzy sensation faded and her vision cleared. She squared off and braced herself.
Leisurely he dismounted from the bike, kicked the stand down, and stood the Harley on the hard-packed field. Given how uneven the ground was, Lizzy had the fleeting thought that he must have found the one piece of flat earth in the entire field. His movement still calm and deliberate, he pulled his chin strap loose, used both gloved hands to pull the helmet up and off and place it on the seat. Then he started toward her.
If he had a weapon, it wasn’t evident. His hands were empty.
That didn’t mean he didn’t have a handgun tucked into his waistband in the small of his back.
No, that wasn’t how he carried his weapons. He used a shoulder rig.
Her heart was already racing, and suddenly her blood was thundering in her ears. She heard a tiny sound vibrate in her throat, something wordless and uncontrollable. Her vision shrank down to a tunnel, centered on his face, the almost brutally carved structure of his cheekbones, the eyes as dark as night, focused like a hawk’s on his prey.
There was kind of a saunter to how he moved, hips loose and easy, wide shoulders moving back and forth, his balance perfect no matter which way he needed to jump.
She looked at his face.
Time spun away from her, everything solid falling away. Dizzy, she put out the hand that gripped the knife and touched a support post, but she couldn’t grab it without dropping the knife and she wasn’t about to do that. Her chest heaving, she stared unblinking at him as past and present blended together in a swirl of color, of night and day, then and now.
His face.
She had watched him before, coming toward her just like that, as sure of himself as if he controlled everything in his world.
The quick flash of feet and fists, the thudding sound of flesh hitting flesh, the grunts as blows landed. His training partner scored a hit to the testicles and he went down, cussing through tight-clenched teeth, while she and her own training partner howled with laughter because he almost never lost a bout.
He didn’t lose this one, either. He bowed his spine and flipped upright before his training partner could take advantage, and two quick pop-pops, one with his right elbow and the other with his left knee, sent his partner down. The man lay sprawled on his back on the mat, breathing hard and groaning. He tapped one hand on the mat in surrender.
X grabbed a towel and came to where she and her partner watched, his prowling stride as fluid and easy as before, his dark eyes narrowed on her face. Sweat dripped down his face, darkened his olive-drab tee shirt. “Why do women always laugh when a man gets kicked in the balls?” he growled as he swiped the towel over his face.
