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Blinking back tears, Lia reaches out to grip Flint’s arm. “Thank you for always taking care of us.”
“No, thankyou.” Sincerity fills Flint’s eyes as he pats her hand. “We wouldn’t be able to do this without you.”
“Go on.” I tap Flint on the shoulder. “You take Lia in the van with the kids. I’ll follow behind.”
Flint cups Lia’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, with Marc watching our backs, nothing will go wrong.”
* * *
My gaze shifts to the rearview mirror once more.
Now that we’re out on the highway, I’m sure we’re being followed. I’m not sure when the nondescript gray sedan appeared, but I noticed them a few cars back once we hit Main Street and headed out of town.
Flint had taken several random turns along the way, and the gray sedan did the same, always keeping at least one car between us.
When Flint circled a city block before getting on the highway, it sealed the deal. All our precautions meant nothing. Berdherst out-maneuvered us on this one.
I tap the phone attached to a magnetic holder on the dash and call Flint.
He answers on the first ring, his tone upbeat for the kids. “Do you need a pit stop already?”
“Can’t go on a road trip without snacks,” I reply, and a cheer sounds in the background.
I hang up, trusting Flint to find a suitable spot for a confrontation.
Thirty minutes pass, and we leave the major cities behind, heading out toward the mountains.
A sign flashes for a gas station ahead, and a mile later, Flint pulls off the highway into the small parking lot of a run-down gas station.
The rusty sign at the entrance announced it as Henry & Sons, though I know for a fact Henry doesn’t have any sons.
Flint pulls his van over to the side of the building, while I stop at the pump, where a plastic bag covers the nozzle, announcing that it’s out of order, as is the one ahead of me.
Henry & Sons hasn’t sold gas for over a decade, but the shop stays open, selling snacks and firewood for those who like to go camping in the mountains during summer.
This time of the week, he doesn’t get much business, which works out perfectly for us. It’s too bad we’ll be putting him out of business during his busiest season.
As Flint hustles everyone into the shop, I pull the shotgun from behind my seat. Climbing out, I crouch behind the pumps nearest my bumper.
A few minutes later, the gray sedan pulls into the parking lot, and two men climb out.
I lift the shotgun to my shoulder and fire at the one on the passenger side, who carries a gun.
The men duck back into the safety of their car.
I pump in a fresh round, aim at the front passenger tire, and blast a hole in it.
A shot rings out, and I duck as a bullet slams into the metal box next to my head.
Fucking amateurs.
I return fire, taking out the other tire, then set my shotgun on the ground and press my hands against the asphalt. The amulet beneath my shirt heats as the fires inside me rise, and I push past its attempt to suppress my magic, shoving the fire out of my body.
Flames roll across the parking lot like a tidal wave, sweeping under my van and leaving it unharmed before bursting out the other side. They quickly surround the sedan, and the blast of tires exploding fills the air, followed by panicked shouts and car doors flinging open.
The asphalt bubbles beneath the car, and the rims melt into the parking lot.
Another shot fires wildly, hitting the sign over the gas station, and rage boils inside me, feeding the flames. That’s too close to where Flint and the kids hide.
