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“Really?” Menacing as a cobra, Smith rises to his feet, unsheathes his handgun from his belt, and points it at Tucker’s head. “I’d love to interrogate you the old-fashioned way, buddy, but unfortunately there ain’t time for that. So either you tell me what’s going on, or”—he lowers the gun—“I bust your kneecaps. The right first, then the left.”
Tucker, talk, I pray silently. No point in playing the hero.
A cold rage fills me at how powerless we are against these brutes.
“Come on,” Smith threatens. “Don’t make me count to ten.”
“My gun, okay?” Tucker snaps. “I had a gun hidden in my backpack. Logan knew about it.”
Winter gasps next to me. “Why is Tucker telling them we have a gun?”
“He’s being smart,” I say. “He doesn’t want them to realize we called for help.”
“But why?”
“Because if Smith knows about the reinforcements, he might change his plan—take a different path, maybe bring along some of the prisoners as hostages… Right now, the only threat he knows about is us. And I think he considers us more of an annoyance than anything.”
“Yeah, but now they think we have a gun,” Winter says. “Smith won’t stand for that. He’ll come after us just the same.”
“He still has to find us first.”
Smith takes a few steps back, still clutching his Beretta in one meaty hand.
“Dr. Spencer, Miss Knowles!” he shouts. “How very impolite of you not to stay for breakfast. Now I feel like you just used me for a night’s fun and left me to hang the next morning.” He approaches the prisoners again and points the gun at Archie’s head. “I suggest you don’t try anything funny with that gun you stole, or I’ll blow Mr. Hill’s head right off. A pity, really, after all the effort you’ve put into saving his life. And even if you shoot me first”—he makes a jerking motion with his chin at Carter—“Carter here will take care of Mr. Hill for me.”
The sergeant takes out his own gun and points it at Archie, while Smith keeps shouting threats. “I’m sure none of us would want that, now, would we?”
Winter and I both keep dead still on the ridge, looking aghast at the scene below us, unsure what to do.
“No need to act like children,” Smith continues. “Do I really have to count to ten?”
We still don’t move.
“All right. You have until ten. One… Two…”
I turn to Winter. “I have to go.”
“Three…”
“What? No! Are you crazy?”
“Four…”
“It makes no difference if they have me, too,” I say. “But you stay hidden right here.”
“Five…”
“If you’re going, I’m going,” Winter protests.
“Six…”
“No, you’re not.”
“Seven…”
“Logan, please.”
“Eight. I’m running out of patience. Nine…”
