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Shotgun propped on my shoulder, I kick the porch door open and stomp out.
The motion sensor lights by the barn are on.
That alone tells me something ain’t right. They’re calibrated and sensitive enough not to go on from the movements inside the stalls, only outside.
Creeping closer, I catch a shape moving in front of the lights, silhouetted.
“Hey!” I shout, slinging the gun down and jacking it sharply. “You’re gonna want to come out real slow. Hands up. I’ve got no chill tonight and a barrel full of buckshot.”
Nothing. The silhouette disappears, and I creep closer, wary and on my guard and definitely pissed off.
There’s no one in the barn, though the horses are restless, unsettled.
But one of the stall doors is open—and Plath isn’t inside.
Crap!
I don’t know if it’s horse thieves or vandals, but you never, ever touch my mare.
There’s a flash of motion again just outside the barn door. I make sure I’ve got a firm grip on my shotgun and go darting out.
I’m not letting these freaks get away.
I’m not expecting to walk into an ambush, either.
I’m ready for one or two half drunk kids from town daring each other to do something stupid—but suddenly I see how wrong I am.
My heart climbs into my throat.
Roughly ten tall men in black with masks all come charging, slamming me up against the barn wall.
I manage to get one good shot off, sending buckshot spraying.
One of them howls and staggers away, clutching at his arm and his face with a muffled cry.
I hope I made ground beef out of something on that guy.
But I’m horribly outnumbered. The others grab my wrist, overwhelming me and slamming my hands up over my head.
The shotgun slips out of my hand. I hear someone else grab it and toss it away.
Oh, God.
I know how screwed I am, but if I’m going down, it’ll be kicking and screaming.
Making it hard to keep a grip on me, I shove one foot out and hurl a boot right in one of those fucker’s guts, slamming him back.
He doubles over with a roar.
Then I whip my head to the side and crack another intruder in the skull. Makes my head ring, but my daddy didn’t call me hardheaded for no reason.
Even with my vision blurring from the blow, I manage to drive an elbow into someone else’s face before they get me.
Ten against one, and I knocked out three.
Not bad, but…
I think they’re ready to even the score.
Suddenly I’ve got brutal hands on my arms, pinning them to the barn wall. Another hand on my neck, men all crushed in on me so I can’t move my legs.
Cowards.
If they really had balls, they’d show their faces when they came to beef with me.
I don’t recognize any of the eyes scowling at me through the masks.
Which means I don’t get quite as much satisfaction when I haul back, wet my mouth, and spit right in the closest one’s face.
I’m half expecting him to go the cliché movie villain route and backhand me for my efforts. I’m braced for it, even.
But all he does is wipe his face, growling, his mouth moving beneath the mask.
“Can’t blame you for that, bitch,” he sneers. “You fight real good. But listen, I got nothing against you. I’m just here for the treasure. You talk, and this doesn’t have to get any uglier than it already is.”
I stare at him, blinking slowly.
His voice doesn’t sound familiar, and I definitely don’t know those blue eyes staring at me.
But I realize there’s some big blocky shapes silhouetted past my fence, on the road. And they sure as hell look like big rig semi-trucks to me.
“Treasure?” I’m not bluffing when I say I’m lost. “What fricking treasure are you on about?”
“Don’t play dumb!”
Now he starts the movie villain crap, squeezing my windpipe because I gave the wrong answer.
Only, the dumbass is wearing thick padded workman’s gloves.
And he’s not very experienced at this because he’s not squeezing the right place to smother me.
All I really feel is a dull pressure that doesn’t do much but make me uncomfortable.
“You suck at this,” I say.
He blinks. “What the fuck?”
“You can’t even choke me like a man. You’re out here about to give yourselves heat stroke in winter gear and ski masks on a hot summer night. How dumb. And you’re supposed to be scaring me into giving up some treasure?”
One of the boys in the back snickers.
It’s a small relief these aren’t real dangerous people. But it’s a bigger worry that things could get reckless real fast.
Seriously.
Treasure?
When did pirates invade Heart’s Edge, looking for their flipping booty—
“Enough!” he roars.
Crack!
There it is.
Finally.
The rough backhand snapping across my face.
That whiplash jerk of pain twists my neck, my head slamming to the side, my whole skull ringing. I taste blood and feel the burn where my teeth cut the inside of my mouth.
