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“No,” I say, heading through to the living room. “It’s just us. Well? Spit it out.”
And Pony does, no preamble. “It’s Van. He’s the mole.”
I stare at him a second. “Pony, you better have something solid behind an accusation like that,” I say, struggling to keep the disbelief from my voice. “Van’s been with me since day one. He’s always had my back—and yours, too.”
“Exactly why he’d make the perfect mole, isn’t it?” Pony raises his hands, as though setting a stage. “Think about it, Bricker. Who would suspect him?”
I want to laugh it off as a sick joke, but Pony seems to be serious. “Then give me some proof,” I demand. “If you’re gonna accuse him, I need to see something solid.”
“Cap, I wouldn’t bring this up if I didn’t have evidence. I followed him last night, right to a meeting with a PacSyn asshole. Isawthe contact handing Van an envelope of cash. It was a fucking pay-off. I swear to God.”
“Van wouldn’t betray us,” I say again, but more slowly.
Pony remains silent, watching me with an unnerving calmness.
“Tell me again—when exactly did you follow him?”
“Last night. Around midnight. Come on, man,” Pony insists, his voice hardening. “You think I’d come here and risk our friendship if I didn’t have proof? Call him, if you like—tell him you know where he was last night, see what he says.”
“I know what he’d say, because Van was right here with me last night. Didn’t leave till past one. So you’re lying, Pony.” My voice is low, dangerous. “You’re fucking lying. And I’d like to know why.”
For a moment, Pony looks as though he’s been slapped. But then his face twists into a sneer, and he barks out a laugh. “Too bad, I was really enjoying myself stirring up all that shit between you.”
Oh, God. He’s dropped the act now.
That overly-friendly demeanor is gone, replaced by something cold and calculating—and desperate.
“Sorry, Bricker. Nothing personal, you understand.” And with those words, Pony pulls out a silenced handgun, aiming it right at me. Time slows down as my instincts kick in, and I dive for cover just as he fires. The bullet rips through the air where I stood moments before, but I’m not fast enough to completely dodge it. Pain sears across my arm as the bullet grazes my bicep.
“Lights out!” The house immediately obeys, plunging everything into darkness. I hear Pony curse, his footsteps momentarily faltering, and I take the opportunity to dive into the kitchen area, hiding behind the counter.
“Lights on,” Pony tries, then, “I’m home!”
The system doesn’t respond. It’s loyal to only my voice, and I can hear him cursing as he snaps useless light switches on and off. But then a bright spotlight sweeps over the kitchen cabinets, and I know he’s using his phone’s flashlight.
I have to put some distance between us, find my weapon, and take Pony down. But I left my gun upstairs in my bedroom when I went to see Nico, and I have no idea how I’m going to make it there without getting shot again. Pony barges around, unsubtle as fucking always, but sooner or later it’ll occur to him where I am.
There just aren’t that many places to hide in this open lower floor. And apart from that…
I press my hand against my bleeding arm, the warm blood seeping through my fingers, threatening to leave a trail that Pony could follow straight to me, no matter where I go.
“Come on, Bricker,” Pony taunts, his voice echoing through the house. “You can’t hide forever.”
He’s right. But I’ve got to try. As I edge my way along the side of the counter, praying that Pony won’t see me, and I think about Max. If I don’t survive this, I’m never going to find out his side of the story about my father.
And I’ll never get to see his eyes go soft again just before he kisses me, never hear his surprised chuckle at my jokes again…
“Bricker?” Pony’s voice is closer now, and I can hear the sinister smile in his tone. He knows he has me cornered, and it’s only a matter of time before he finds me.
But I won’t go down without a fight.
There are the knives, of course, but taking a knife to a gunfight? There’s a reason there’s an old adage about that. I take a deep breath, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in my arm as I carefully creep through the kitchen, just getting behind the end of the counter as Pony rounds it at the other end. But I have a clear run through to the foyer now—and the stairs.
I bolt like hell.
Pony fires wildly, and one bullet goes so close to my head I feel the breeze as it passes, but I make it to the stairs, and I run up them fast as I can, my bloody hand slipping on the railing.
I crash into the wall before I throw myself into my bedroom, locking the door behind me—not that it’ll matter. Pony can just shoot the lock out, if not kick the door in. But it might give me the few seconds I need.
