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I step off the road, slipping down into a shallow, grassy culvert.
Crouching down, I watch as an older truck—a Toyota Tacoma body style—pulls off the road onto the gravel one that leads to the center. There’s enough light to see that the paint is red, a few patches are peeling, revealing its rusted body beneath. There are men in the bed, dressed in dark clothing.
Four men pile out of the truck bed, easily hopping over the sides with grace in their athletic builds. I see that they’re wearing black ski masks over their faces.
The sight of their clothing makes my heart lurch into my throat. “What in the world?” No one with good intentions needs to cover their face with a ski mask.
It might be windy on this island, but not that windy.
Crouching down further, I hold my breath, deathly afraid to be noticed.
Should I turn back? Stay toward the edge of the road and run the couple miles back to the dorm? What if whenever these men are done, they leave and head my way, instead of doubling back the way they’ve come?
The idea of being caught alone with a truckful of bad men ties my stomach in knots.
No.
Best to stay here, stay hidden, and wait. I slip my hand in my coat pocket, already knowing I left my phone behind on top of my dresser. Still, a whispered, “Shit,” slips from my mouth when I find my pocket empty.
Nothing to do but watch.
The driver stays in the truck. I can’t get a good enough look to confirm whether there’s a passenger with them. One man goes to the back of the truck. I hear the sound of metal as he flips down the tailgate. Two others step forward, their interest lying in whatever they’ve brought with them in that truck bed.
What are they doing? Why are they here, so late at night? Dressed in disguise.
One of the two men holds something up.
The other reaches forward. A torch of some sort? Suddenly, the bright orange of a flame hisses forth from the torch, lighting whatever the other man is holding.
The man with the torch directs his attention to someone else, as the man with the fire in his hand takes off, disappearing from my sight as he runs along the far side of the building.
The annoying habit of talking to myself out loud strikes worst when I’m nervous. My hands press against the cold, damp ground. “What’s he doing? Where’s he going with that?”
The sound of thud. A second man, taking off in the same direction with fire in his hand. He reaches the back of the building, holding up what I now believe to be a homemade bomb, right in front of the wall of windows.
“No!” I jump up, almost shouting.
A knee-jerk reaction. A foolish one. I dive back down, knees in the grass, and watch, a ghastly fascination. Can’t look away. Can’t even blink.
The man chucks the fireball. It sails through the air. The sound of exploding glass shatters the night. My heart races, sweat beading at my hairline. My palms feel clammy, and I brush them across the thighs of my jeans as I watch the back of the building burst into flames.
There’s a shout, a deep voice echoing all around me, and the men pile back into the bed of the truck.
They’ll be gone soon, I hope. Then I can call the police. What is the number for the cops out here? I’m sure it’s not 911. With my breath held in my chest, I wait, so ready for them to be gone and to be back in the safety of our housing with Fiona and Carol Ann.
The truck turns, gravel spitting from the rear tires as it tears back toward the main road. My stomach drops. The truck doesn’t turn right, doesn’t head back the way it came.
Two headlights headed straight for me.
Chapter Two
Kitt
There’s nowhere to go. The ditch I’m in is shallow. Low grass surrounds me.
“All I can do is lie down.”
It goes against all my instincts, my gut screaming at me to run as fast as I can back to the dorm. Instead, I move lower, to the lowest part of the ditch, and lie down on my back, staring up at the starlit sky.
