EDGE OF DEFIANCE

AN EMP POST-APOCALYPTIC SURVIVAL THRILLER

KYLA STONE

PAPER MOON PRESS

Edge of Defiance

Copyright © 2020 by Kyla Stone All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblances to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Printed in the United States of America

Cover design by Christian Bentulan

Book formatting by Vellum

First Printed in 2020

ISBN: 978-1-945410-54-3

Created with Vellum

“In the depth of winter, I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer.” ~Albert Camus

CONTENTS

Preface

1.  Liam

2.  Liam

3.  Liam

4.  Liam

5.  Liam

6.  Liam

7.  Rosamond

8.  Rosamond

9.  Hannah

10.  Hannah

11.  Hannah

12.  Noah

13.  Quinn

14.  Liam

15.  Liam

16.  Liam

17.  Rosamond

18.  Liam

19.  Quinn

20.  Quinn

21.  Quinn

22.  Hannah

23.  Hannah

24.  Hannah

25.  Hannah

26.  Noah

27.  Liam

28.  Liam

29.  Rosamond

30.  Liam

31.  Liam

32.  Noah

33.  Liam

34.  Liam

35.  Rosamond

36.  Hannah

37.  Hannah

38.  Liam

39.  Liam

40.  Quinn

41.  Liam

42.  Quinn

43.  Liam

44.  Quinn

45.  Quinn

46.  Quinn

47.  Hannah

48.  Hannah

49.  Hannah

50.  Liam

51.  Liam

52.  Liam

53.  Liam

54.  Noah

55.  Liam

56.  Liam

57.  Rosamond

58.  Hannah

59.  Liam

60.  Hannah

61.  Quinn

62.  Quinn

63.  Noah

64.  Hannah

65.  Hannah

66.  Quinn

67.  Quinn

68.  Liam

69.  Sutter

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

Also by Kyla Stone

About the Author

I.  No Safe Haven Sneak Peek

Chapter 1

PREFACE

Much of this story takes place in Southwest Michigan. For the sake of the story, I have altered certain aspects and taken a few liberties with a real town or two. Thank you in advance for understanding an author’s creative license.

Also, Edge of Defiance was supposed to be the last book in the series. However, the characters had other ideas. Liam, Hannah, and the others have more story to tell. I’m excited to announce that there will be at least two more books in the Edge of Collapse series!

Without further ado, enjoy Edge of Defiance!

1

LIAM

DAY FORTY

Gunshots echoed in the distance. Boom! Boom! Boom!

Ghost bolted for Molly’s front door with a fierce growl, his hackles raised. The cats hissed and scattered, darting under the sofa and fleeing into the kitchen and hallway.

Sixteen-year-old Quinn Riley jumped to her feet. “Fall Creek is under attack!”

Liam Coleman’s adrenaline spiked. He moved to the front door, M4 at the ready, every sense alert. Samantha Perez and Jose Reynoso, both cops, were right behind him.

Reynoso’s radio crackled again. “Hostiles have overrun—checkpoint beyond the bridge,” Officer Hayes said, his voice breaking into static. “Two militia are dead—the third warned us—taking heavy gunfire—”

“Copy that,” Reynoso said. “We’re on our way.”

“We can help.” Atticus Bishop turned from his position at the window, holding the modified AK-47 that Liam had given him. “We’ll go with you.”

Reynoso hesitated. “Chief Sheridan won’t like it—”

“He’ll do what it takes to keep Fall Creek safe. You heard Hayes. We may need everyone. It could be too much for the militia. We need to move!”

Reynoso nodded curtly. “Fine.”

The fire crackled in the fireplace, candles flickering on the bookshelf. Cozy and inviting, Molly’s living room was a lighthouse beacon against the brutal cold, a haven against the enemies lurking outside.

Liam peered through the door’s glass pane. Nothing moved, the street quiet and empty.

He glanced back at Hannah. She stood in front of the sofa, little Charlotte Rose tucked against her shoulder with her bad hand, her good hand already reaching for her pistol.

Pop! Pop! Pop! Another flurry of gunfire echoed outside.

Annette King gasped. Mike Duncan, the owner of the local gas station, glanced around like an attacker might jump out at him any minute. His college-aged son, Jamal, looked on the verge of panic.

Liam scanned the room. A half dozen tense and frightened faces stared back at him— Mike Duncan and his son; Annette King, the former high school principal who now ran the town shelter; Dave Farris, owner of the Fall Creek Inn and ham radio aficionado; Atticus Bishop, the pastor; and Reynoso and Perez, two Fall Creek police officers.

Quinn, Hannah, and Molly, Quinn’s grandmother, had brought this group together to defy the militia. They wanted to fight, but the townspeople weren’t ready. They weren’t ready to battle the militia or anyone else.

The militia were dangerous. Mattias Sutter and the town superintendent, Rosamond Sinclair, were tyrants hiding behind saviors’ masks. Liam needed to deal with them, but first he had to handle this immediate threat.

Liam already had his boots and coat on. He rested his M4 on its sling and slipped on his gloves while Bishop and Reynoso zipped up their parkas. “Hunker down. Keep your eyes open and your weapons close. Wait for a situational report before you even look outside your window.”

“We will,” Dave said. “Thank you for your help. We appreciate it.”

Liam half-shrugged. He didn’t do well with gratitude or compliments. He was a man of action, not words. He wanted to get out there, assess the threat, and neutralize it.

He adjusted his chest rig with the plate carriers he’d confiscated from Desoto, along with two fragmentation grenades, two fresh magazines, his Gerber MK II tactical knife, and the Glock 19.

He turned to Molly and Hannah. “Guard the entrances to the house. Stand watch until I say otherwise. Ghost will help. No one gets near without whistling the code.”

Hannah nodded. “I remember. Happy Birthday.”

“Shoot anything else.”

Molly reached for the Mossberg 500 leaning against the sofa with wrinkled but steady hands. “No one’s getting in my house without an invitation. Not unless they’d like a few holes punched in ‘em.”

Quinn slung her .22 across her shoulder. She swiped her Windex-blue bangs from her eyes and gave him a fierce stare. “I want to come with you.”

“Absolutely not,” Bishop said.

“No,” Liam said.

Quinn scowled. Her eyebrow and lip piercings glinted in the living room firelight. “I can help!”

“We need you here,” Hannah said. “You can stand watch at the kitchen door and guard our back.”

Quinn didn’t look any happier, but she didn’t argue.

“Mom?” Milo stood in the hallway. He’d been drawing in Quinn’s bedroom during the meeting. “I heard loud noises. They sounded like gunshots.”

“It’s okay,” Hannah said. “We’ll be okay.”

Quinn held out her hand to Milo. “Come help me guard the kitchen.”

More gunfire popped outside.

Ghost gave a booming bark and jumped at the door, shaking it on its hinges. On his hind legs, the Great Pyrenees Mountain Dog was as tall as Liam.

“You’ve got to stay here this time, boy,” Hannah said. “Your job is to protect us.”

Tension thrummed through Liam. He was anxious to get to the fight, and even more anxious to get back to Hannah.

He hated that she lived in Winter Haven with Noah Sheridan, her worthless excuse of a husband. He hated that he couldn’t protect her like he wanted to—like he needed to.

“You sure you’re okay here?” he asked gruffly.

Hannah met his gaze over Charlotte’s small head. She was slender, her features delicate, a sprinkle of freckles sprayed across her cheeks and nose. She was far stronger than she looked.

Her gaze was resolute, her green eyes so clear and deep, that if he wasn’t careful, he would fall right in.

His heart clenched like a fist. He’d already fallen in. There was no getting out, not for him.

“We’ll be fine,” Hannah said. “Go take care of this.”

He nodded back at her.

Charlotte wriggled in Hannah’s arms and made a soft mewling sound. The little green and gray cap he’d hand-knitted himself was pulled over her chocolate brown fringe—her downy hair the same rich shade as her mother’s.

She was so tiny, so breakable. A wave of warmth and affection rushed through him. He cared deeply for Hannah’s baby. Milo, too. He was a tough, brave little kid with his mother’s big heart.

It wasn’t just Hannah he needed to keep safe, but everyone in Fall Creek—this small, rural town tucked into the corner of Southwest Michigan.

He’d just promised these people that he would fight with them, would fight for them. He intended to keep that promise. No one was hurting anyone else on his watch.

Whatever dangers were lurking outside Fall Creek, Liam would make sure they stayed out.

2

LIAM

DAY FORTY

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the snow. The sky was blue and cloudless, the temperature in the high twenties. Snow drifts piled against stop signs, abandoned vehicles, electric poles, and storefronts.

It was a three-minute drive from Molly’s place into Fall Creek, the tiny rural township of less than a thousand people located in the bottom southwestern corner of Michigan in Berrien County.

They rode in the black Ford F150 with “Fall Creek Police Department” spray-painted across the sides. Reynoso drove, with Perez in the passenger seat and Liam and Bishop in the backseat of the supercab, windows down, weapons ready.

No one spoke. The engine rumbled, the rickety truck jostling over ruts and ridges in the snow. The sounds of sporadic gunfire grew louder.

Liam watched the buildings and trees on the right; Bishop took the left. Tense and alert, he scanned the doorways, windows, and rooftops, studying the shadows between the trees. He cataloged every detail and tucked them away in his mind.

He gritted his teeth as they passed a few abandoned cars pushed along the side of the road—a likely spot for an ambush. No one jumped out at them. The fighting was up ahead.

“This could get tricky.” Reynoso’s gaze remained straight ahead. He was a former Marine in his forties and built like a tank, short but thick. He handled himself and his weapons with proficiency. A serious guy, all business. “Sutter wants you both dead, doesn’t he?”

“Superintendent Sinclair does,” Bishop said. “She blames us for killing her sons. She believes I killed Julian, though Julian’s demise was an act of God. Gavin Pike deserved to die a hundred times over. She’ll never acknowledge that, though. And Sutter blames us for dispatching the two assassins that Julian sent to murder us.”

The gash in Liam’s ear still stung. Sutter’s former righthand man, Sebastian Desoto, had nicked a chunk from his ear lobe right before Liam drove Desoto’s karambit up his throat and into his brain.

Liam had kept the blade; it was a fine weapon.

Reynoso let out a low whistle. “That sure complicates things. Is this a ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’ situation?”

“We don’t know what kind of situation it is yet,” Liam said grimly. “That’s why we need to keep our eyes open and be very, very careful.”

Bishop adjusted his grip on the AK-47 and ran a hand through his afro. He had shed his bright orange parka and was wearing a camouflage hunting jacket over his purple Hawaiian shirt.

The pastor of Crossway Church, Bishop was a huge, burly black man with an eclectic style. He was also affable and relentlessly positive—even after he’d lost his wife and kids in the horrific church massacre.

With a pang, Liam thought of his gregarious twin brother, Lincoln. His dead brother, his dead sister-in-law. He blinked and pushed down the surge of pain; he couldn’t afford to think about them now.

“We need to know who is attacking us,” Bishop said.

“You think it’s not just a gang or group of thugs?” Samantha Perez asked.

Formerly with the National Guard, she was full-figured and solid, with broad shoulders and muscular arms. Her black hair edged her jawline in a no-nonsense cut. Everything about her exuded toughness and discipline.

“I have a hunch.” Bishop didn’t elaborate further.

Liam narrowed his eyes but kept his gaze on his side of the road. Liam didn’t trust Reynoso or Perez. They were both Fall Creek police officers, co-workers of Noah Sheridan, and under Rosamond Sinclair and the militia’s command.

And yet, Molly had invited them to the meeting to discuss the threat that the militia posed. They appeared on board with pushing the militia out, even if it meant defying their superiors.

“You both should keep your heads down,” Reynoso said. “Stay out of Sutter’s way.”

“I’m not afraid of Sutter,” Liam said. “And I’m not leaving the fate of the town in their hands.”

Bishop nodded. “My sentiments are the same.”

“We’ll watch your back,” Perez said. “Whatever revenge Sutter has planned, he’s not getting it today.”

Reynoso turned left onto Main Street at the gas station and headed south toward the bridge. The sounds of the fighting grew more intense. Gunfire mingled with yelling and shouting. Smoke hung heavy in the air.

Officer Oren Truitt waved them down a block before the bridge leading out of Fall Creek. He crouched behind the rear of a rusted green pickup truck parked at the curb of the Pizza Palace restaurant.

Reynoso parked behind the pickup and hopped out. Liam, Perez, and Bishop followed. Their boots crunched through the snow. They kept low, crouching as they darted behind Truitt’s truck.

“Sit rep,” Perez said.

Truitt was breathing hard, dense white jets expelling from his chapped lips. He was a young guy in his mid-twenties, one of the reserve cops who’d moved up to full-time with no pay, no benefits, and all the risks.

Liam respected the hell out of that.

Truitt scratched at his scruffy beard with one hand and gripped a department-issued shotgun in the other. “Sutter is keeping ten men at the roadblock on Old 31 on the north side of town in case they try to come at us from the opposite side. They drove a snowplow right through the blockade with three trucks behind it. No warning, just bam! They got across the bridge and are attempting to push further into town.”

Liam slid the barrel of his M4 over the hood of the F150. He eased onto his knees, peered over the hood, and scanned the area.

The bridge over Fall Creek was about fifty yards ahead. Two dozen militiamen had taken cover behind stalled cars and trucks along either side of the road.

Five crouched behind Friendly’s Fresh Grown Grocery to the west. More had gone inside and were firing their modified semi-automatics from the south-facing windows.

The bump stocks allowed the semiautomatics to shoot more than one shot with a single pull of the trigger by harnessing the recoil energy. The modified semiautomatics fired more like automatic machine guns, but with poorer accuracy.

At least a dozen dead and wounded men and women lay scattered across the road and around the surrounding buildings—a few were militiamen, but most were the hostiles.

Smoke billowed from an office building to the east, the windows shattered. Near the bridge, two cars were on fire. The militia must have tossed a few of their frag grenades.

The hostiles were located to the south, taking cover behind their vehicles and the concrete barriers of the bridge. Several had infiltrated the outskirts of Main Street and were holed up inside a few businesses. The main force was hunkered down inside Vinson Family Pharmacy across from Friendly’s.

The militia had more men and better firepower, but their fire discipline was poor. They were overconfident and didn’t appear to see the cracks they were leaving in their defenses.

“They keep coming at us,” Truitt said. “They’re relentless. Two more groups are attacking Hummingbird Lane to the southeast and Lemon Road to the southwest. They’re the only egress points into town from the south side. Those are smaller roads, wooded on either side and harder to defend. They must have a map or know the area.”

Fear constricted Liam’s lungs. The attacks were still miles from Hannah. But if they infiltrated the town…

“Who are they?” Bishop asked.

“Hell if I know. Sutter and Chief Sheridan don’t got a clue, either. Just regular people. They’ve got shotguns, pistols, a few semi-automatics.”

“Maybe they just got so hungry they joined forces to attack another town for food and supplies,” Reynoso said. “It’s been happening more and more.”

Perez spat into the snow. “Doesn’t matter who they are. They shoot at me, I shoot back.”

“Where’s Noah?” Liam asked. “Is he in charge? Or Sutter?”

Truitt rolled his eyes. “Who do you think? Sutter’s here directing the primary defense. His new second-in-command, James Luther, has the team on Lemon Road. Sutter sent Chief Sheridan to push back a smaller force of about fifteen attackers on Hummingbird.”

“Where do you need us?” Perez asked.

The radio crackled. “This is Beta Team Two. We’re pinned down here! Requesting immediate assistance!”

“That’s Luther’s team,” Truitt said.

Before he could say anything else, Sutter’s voice came over the radio: “Alpha Team One to Beta Two, you’re on your own. Do not retreat. I repeat, do not let them past you!”

“Copy that,” Luther said before ending the transmission. His voice sounded tense, scared.

“Lemon Road will take them right past the high school shelter,” Liam said tightly.

Two hundred unarmed civilians. Women and children. The middle school which shared the same campus served as the distribution center and contained the remaining food supplies for the entire town—which the militia doled out.

“We can’t let them get that far,” Bishop said. “It’ll be a bloodbath.”

Liam shook his head in dismayed frustration. They had no coordination, no fall back plan. He wasn’t in charge; he had no influence here.

Whatever happened, he would keep himself between the attackers and Molly’s house. If they got anywhere near Tanglewood Drive, he was falling back to protect Hannah. Period. She was his priority.

“We’ll take Lemon Road,” he said. “We’ll reinforce the militia’s position and keep the hostiles the hell out.”

“I sure as hell could use you two,” Truitt said to Reynoso and Perez. “Hayes needs all three of us at Vinson’s ASAP.”

Truitt dug in his coat pocket and tossed a key fob at Bishop, who released his gun long enough to snatch it. “My double-seater I parked my Polaris two blocks back behind Gundy’s Auto Repair. Turn your radios to channel three.”

Liam gestured to Bishop, and they turned and examined their exit strategy. They knelt side by side, straining their ears and eyes, looking for movement or any sign that the hostiles might have slipped past the blockade.

The rest of Fall Creek appeared clear. It looked like a ghost town. No movement, no life.

Hannah, Charlotte, and Milo flashed through his mind. He pushed his concern down deep. The best thing he could do for them was to end this battle.

If the hostiles overran the town, Hannah and everyone else would be in incredible danger. Desperate people consumed by hunger and bloodlust were capable of anything.

His carbine up and pressed against his shoulder, Liam darted behind a laundromat and skirted the building. He kept his back pressed against the wall. Bishop followed, watching their six. Every minute, they paused to watch and listen.

They reached the Polaris with no trouble. They both went for the driver’s seat.

Bishop snorted, shifted his weapon, and held up the key fob. “Twenty bucks says I’m a better driver and you’re the better shot.”

Liam didn’t argue the point. “Cash is almost worthless.”

“But the satisfaction of winning lasts forever.”

“Didn’t know pastors were allowed to gamble.”

Bishop flashed a tight grin. “Extreme circumstances call for extreme measures.”

Liam nodded and angled his chin at the machine. “It’s all yours.”

Bishop climbed onto the machine and scanned the windows of Gundy’s Auto Supply on the other side of the parking lot. “What’s the plan?”

“Kephart parallels Lemon. Just past the four-way stop, it should be a half mile through the woods. We should be able to flank them if not encircle them.”

Bishop raised his brows in surprise. “That’s correct.”

“I’ve been walking the town, studying the maps.”

“Well, color me impressed.” Bishop climbed on and Liam followed. They snapped on their helmets and adjusted their gear, still watching their surroundings. “Let’s get this done.”

Two blocks away, something exploded. Another frag grenade.

“You okay with all this?” Liam asked. “With killing if you have to?”

Bishop was ex-military, but he was a pastor, now. A man of faith, not a killer.

Bishop seemed plenty competent, and he handled his weapons with proficiency, but some soldiers served years and never killed another human being. Julian Sinclair had died, but not by Bishop’s hand.

They were headed into trouble, and Liam needed to be certain who he was dealing with. A crisis of conscience at the wrong moment could be a death sentence.

The big man twisted around and shot him a wry grin, white teeth flashing beneath his beard. Through his helmet visor, his gaze was sharp and focused. “You don’t need to worry about me, friend. Whatever happens next, I’ve got your back.”

3

LIAM

DAY FORTY

Liam tapped the bottom of the loaded magazine to ensure it was properly seated, then brought the M4 to bear on his target and thumbed off the safety.

Laying on his stomach, he zoomed the scope and glassed the area, peering between leafless twigs and branches down the hill toward Lemon Road twenty yards below him. Bishop had hidden himself in a similar hide twenty yards to Liam’s left.

His lower back ached, the packed snow beneath his hips, legs, and chest freezing and uncomfortable. Frigid air bit at his exposed face. His concern for Hannah was a constant pressure in his chest, behind his eyes.

He pushed it all away. The totality of his focus was on his mission.

From his position dug into the hillside, Liam could view the scene to the east and west. The road snaked along the bottom of a shallow ravine, with rolling hills on either side. Occasional houses dotted the woods, tucked into the trees.

To the east, he spotted a dozen hostiles hunched behind three different vehicles—two heavy-duty trucks and another large snowplow.

“Three militia behind the bait shop at your nine o’clock,” Bishop said on their private radio channel.

“Copy.” Liam swiveled left and peered through the scope. He located Luther’s group twenty-five yards to the west just past the intersection of Lemon Road and Hinchman Court.

Three militiamen crouched along the outside wall of a bait shop, its sagging tin roof blanketed with snow. A massive dumpster stood between them and the forest on the other side of the road.

Liam only glimpsed parts of them—the first one sagged on his butt, legs splayed, blood splattered across his thighs. At least one injured, then. Of the second guy, he could only see a pair of combat boots and a slice of camo uniform. The third one knelt, edging his rifle around the corner of the dumpster to take a shot at the woods.

Gunshots echoed in the crisp air. Rounds pinged off the dumpster. The third guy darted back behind cover. Liam couldn’t see his face, but he was tall and thin, like Luther.

The attackers had pinned the militia down. Shots came from the east and the north, on Liam’s side of the road. He scanned the woods below him and to the right and left.

Shadowy movement. A glint of a rifle barrel. Shooters hid among the trees.

A thicket of evergreens obscured them from Liam’s view. He’d have to move to get a clear shot. Adrenaline surging, he slowed his breathing and focused his senses.

Without taking his eyes off the shadows in the trees, he clicked the press-to-talk button. “I count four hostiles in the woods at our eight o’clock.”

“Copy. I see them. I’ll cover you. Get as close as you need to.”

Liam rose, careful not to brush against the pine boughs, each footfall chosen with precision and care. With the steady rat-a-tat of gunfire, he could move undetected even in snow.

He crept up on the hostiles from behind, keeping track of each one in his peripheral vision. He couldn’t get a look at their faces. They wore heavy coats, hunting gear, snow pants, and boots.

When he was ten yards from the closest target, he sought partial cover behind a giant oak tree. He checked his shooting position and steadied the carbine against his shoulder.

There was little wind. Just the trees to aim between. He relocated the first target, tracking him through the underbrush as he slogged through the snow. He was heading west, circling the bait shop within the tree line, trying to get around the dumpster for a kill shot.

Liam waited for a break between tree trunks, for the tango to expose himself. He aimed, exhaled, and squeezed the trigger.

The man jerked and spun, dropping the rifle. Liam hit him again with a shot between the eyes.

He shifted and fired three times at the shadow positioned at his eleven o’clock. One was a head shot.

He spun, re-aiming for the third hostile as rounds impacted to his right. He darted back behind the tree trunk, crouched low, and fired at the man’s legs. The man screamed and went down. Liam finished him off.

He turned in the fourth's direction, scanning to acquire his target. The hostile had spotted him and was raising a hunting rifle in his direction.

A crack sounded. The man slumped before he could squeeze the trigger.

Bishop whistled to alert Liam to his presence and appeared between two birch trees. Liam nodded at him in thanks.

The round had penetrated just below the tango’s right eye, drilled through his brain, and exited out the back of his skull. It was an excellent shot.

The dead guy was a man in his thirties. Nothing special or compelling about him. He was gaunt, his cheekbones—the one still intact—sharp. Even dead, he looked hungry.

Bishop gazed down at the bodies, his mouth moving but making no sound. He closed his eyes.

Liam had no idea what he was doing.

Bishop snapped back to attention. Without a word, he pointed back east where the first group of attackers continued to fire at the militia trapped behind the bait shop.

A round thudded into a spruce tree six yards to their right. Bark sprayed the snow. Pine needles drifted down.

They needed to escape the woods before the friendlies mistook them for the enemy. They were enemies—just not at the moment.

It was a disconcerting thought, and one Liam didn’t care for. He gritted his teeth and signaled for Bishop to move.

Bishop turned and hoofed it back up the ridge, backtracking the way they’d come and heading east to flank the hostiles camped behind the cars.

Liam followed, covering their backs. They left the four dead bodies amongst the trees, their presence a weight on his conscience. They would haunt him later, when he was alone in his bed and questioning everything.

For now, he felt no guilt. He felt nothing at all. Perhaps he would later, but in the heat of battle, the only thing required of him was decisive action.

He slipped from tree to tree, keeping himself hidden behind as much cover as possible. The forest smelled of pine needles, dead leaves, and dormant earth, overlaid with gunpowder and smoke. Tree limbs drooped, fattened with snow.

He darted to a towering oak and edged around the trunk, hurried five feet to the cover of a hemlock, and moved into an area where the trees thinned. A cluster of pines obscured his view.

He sidestepped behind a thick spruce, gaining an unobstructed view of the road below.

Behind the blockade of vehicles, ten hostiles fired at the bait shop. Two men were down—one dead, the other mortally wounded.

They carried hunting rifles and shotguns. One old man held a revolver. They wore coats and civilian clothing, no uniforms or military gear—regular people, driven to desperation by hunger and the brutal cold.

Liam pushed aside his personal misgivings. He was a soldier. He had a job to do.

He squatted and stabilized the carbine against a fork in the tree. He aimed, exhaled, and took out the slack in the trigger, preparing to fire.

“Wait,” Bishop said over the radio.

Liam frowned but didn’t move. He missed his throat mic from his military days. He missed technology, period.

“I recognize one of them,” Bishop said.

Liam hissed a curse. He balanced the carbine and keyed the mic. “What?”

“Mick Sellers. He’s the head of security for the town of Niles. I met him. He helped us when Milo and a bunch of others got sick.”

“He’s not helping now.”

“Something’s not right about this, Liam.”

Liam couldn’t deny it. And yet, these people attacked Fall Creek. They had no choice but to defend themselves with deadly force.

“Will you cover me?” Bishop asked.

Liam stiffened. Unease slithered through him. He didn’t like this at all. “This is not a good idea.”

“Don’t shoot to kill unless you have to. Don’t put yourself at risk, either. I’ll do the risking.”

“Bishop—”

“I’m switching to the main channel.”

Liam scowled but followed suit.

In a low voice, Bishop said, “Beta Team Two, this is Atticus Bishop. Cease fire. You’re shooting at us. We’re clearing the road. Repeat: you’re shooting at friendlies.”

Static hissed from the radio. Then: “Bishop? The priest? What the hell?”

“Officer Hayes and Truitt sent us in on Sutter’s behest. We took out the tangos on your flank, didn’t we? We’ve got these, too. But you’ve gotta stop shooting. Take cover and wait for us.”

A curse over the radio.

“Luther, you’re wounded and outnumbered. You need us.”

A moment of silence, then: “Sutter’s orders are shoot to kill.”

“How’s that working out for you?” Bishop said. “Give us three minutes. Stand down.”

“You better have this.”

“We do.”

Another pause.

Gunfire spat from both sides. A middle-aged Asian man hunched behind a truck let out a cry and fell backward, his Detroit Lions baseball cap knocked off his head. Blood spurted from his neck.

Trepidation twisted his guts to water. Bishop’s hackneyed plan wouldn’t work. The militia wouldn’t back off. They were too arrogant, too obsessed with power and control—

“Beta Team Two standing down,” came Luther’s reluctant voice. “Out.”

The opposing gunfire sputtered and ceased.

The attackers kept firing. Their gunfire was sporadic, coming further and further apart. They were running low on ammo. Three hostiles weren’t even firing anymore; they huddled behind the engine mounts, clinging to their empty weapons like lifelines.

Liam switched channels. “Bishop, don’t do anything stupid—”

The radio clicked in response. Ten yards away, Bishop positioned his huge body behind a thick red oak. There was no tree in this forest that would cover Bishop in his entirety.

“Mick Sellers!” Bishop’s booming voice resounded over the pop-pop of a pistol. “Cease fire! I want to speak to Mick Sellers!”

A half dozen weapons swung toward the tree line.

“Put down your weapons!” Bishop yelled. “You’re surrounded!”

Liam fired several rounds over their heads. The group cowered, bewildered and terrified.

A redheaded guy in his forties sporting a full, bushy beard that reached his chest responded. Several wild shots shredded pine boughs twenty yards up the hill.

Liam shifted his aim and squeezed the trigger in quick succession. Rounds cut divots in the pavement inches from the redhead’s boots. Terrified, the man leapt back, throwing his arms up in surrender.

“Lower your weapon, friend.” Bishop’s voice was hard and firm. No give, no doubt. No fear, either. “It’s Mick we need to talk to.”

The redhead scowled through his bushy beard but obeyed, lowering his hunting rifle to the pavement.

An old man with a revolver stood, grimacing like his knees were popping and his back was doing a number on him. He squinted into the trees. “I’m Mick. Who’s asking?”

“There’s a marksman with his sights on you,” Bishop said. “Any of you move for a weapon, and he won’t hesitate to kill you. Is that understood?”

They glowered, but fear won out. One by one, they lowered their weapons.

Bishop emerged from behind the trunk of the oak. He didn’t drop the AK-47, but he carried it low and non-threatening.

Stunned, Liam watched as the pastor strode onto the road, right into the middle of the angry, armed, and dangerous hostiles.

4

LIAM

DAY FORTY

Alarm torqued through Liam. What the hell was Bishop doing? Liam couldn’t protect him down there. He was walking straight into the lions’ den.

He gritted his teeth and focused through his scope. He would remain hidden in the trees, an unseen but very real threat. If anyone made a move on Bishop, he’d light them up.

He watched the group, searching for furtive glances, a flash of cunning or rage, a sudden movement of hands.

Their faces were gaunt, their expressions bleak, hardened by suffering and hunger.

The redhead kept glancing up the hill, shifting anxiously as if expecting another flurry of gunfire to nail him at any second.

Good. Let them squirm.

Bishop and Mick Sellers faced each other. He wore a hunter-green parka and matching snow pants. The old man had to be in his mid-seventies, but he was still straight-backed, carrying himself with a military bearing.

Mick gestured at two of his people. “Keep your weapons on that bait shop. Anybody so much as sneezes, shoot first. The rest of you, keep your guns down.”

Reluctantly, they nodded. An Indian woman slung her shotgun over her shoulder and moved up beside him. She was petite and plump, with medium-brown skin and fierce eyes. Her black hair curled from beneath a MSU Spartans winter hat.

The redhead stood at Mick’s right side, his bushy eyebrows lowered, his expression furious. A hothead about to lose his cool and do something stupid.

Liam massaged the trigger. He’d be ready for him.

Mick eyed Bishop. “You’re the Fall Creek priest.”

“Pastor,” Bishop corrected. “Atticus Bishop.”

“Ah, yes. I remember. You had the two cops with you.”

“We had a pleasant discussion, as I recall. You escorted us through Niles and gave us some advice for possible places to look for IV kits for our folks who were sick.”

“How did things work out for you?”

“We found what we needed and saved our people. I thought we left each other on good terms, Mick.”

“So did I, son.”

Bishop motioned around him. “What is all this, then? Why are you attacking us?”

“Because you attacked us first, you dumb pissant!” the redhead spat.

Bishop’s expression didn’t change. “No, we didn’t.”

With a snarl of rage, the redhead surged forward, beefy hands balled into fists.

Liam fingered the trigger and zeroed in on the man’s skull. One step closer to Bishop and he was in knife range. The guy wouldn’t get that close.

Bishop didn’t retreat or back down. He stood his ground. “I am not your enemy.”

The man halted, his face contorting. He jabbed a finger at Bishop. “You killed my wife, you stupid bast—”

“Flynn! That’s enough!” Mick’s voice was gritty as sandpaper but authoritative. He threw out his arm and blocked Flynn from charging Bishop.

Flynn attempted to push his arm away, but the old man was stronger than he looked.

“They’re killers!” Flynn cried. “All of them! He deserves to die!”

“Maybe so,” Mick said evenly. “But if you go after him and get killed by that sniper, it’ll be for nothing.”

“I don’t care!” Flynn growled through his teeth.

“Some of us do,” the woman said. “Step back.”

Flynn cursed at them both.

Liam waited. Bishop didn’t move.

Flynn hurled more colorful insults, his burly shoulders shaking with anger, but he stepped back. Liam didn’t ease his finger off the trigger.

“I apologize for my friend,” Mick said. “Raiders murdered his wife a few weeks ago. His head’s in a bad place.”

Bishop went stiff at the mention of the man’s dead wife. Probably thinking of his own losses, just as Liam was thinking of his.

“Tell me why you think your attackers are from Fall Creek,” Bishop said.

“We told you about the armed men ravaging the nearby towns,” Mick said. “How three weeks ago, they came in and attacked Niles.”

“You did.”

“There was almost thirty of them. Well organized and well-armed. They dressed in black and smeared black grease on their faces. They came in guns blazing, riding in trucks and snowmobiles, carrying AR and AK rifles. Anyone gave them any flack, they didn’t hesitate at all. They shot men and women. They hit fast, took what they wanted, and fled before we could muster a defense. They killed seven of our people.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Bishop said. “Truly, I am.”

“Like we told you then, we didn’t know who it was. But a guy who runs IT for Whirlpool got a ham radio working along with some handheld radios. We set up some repeaters to extend our range and started communicating with other townships in the area. Same story, different day. None of us had the numbers to defend against a group that size, but together we did. So we formed the Community Alliance. Not a creative name, I know, but it works. We’re five local towns working together, committed to defend and protect each other.”

“I’m listening,” Bishop said.

“It had a snowball’s chance in hell. With few working vehicles and gas dwindling, how were we even going to get to the besieged towns before the attackers left their trail of devastation? We had to try, though. Last week, the stars aligned, and we drove back an attack on Dowagiac. We shot one of them. The rest of his group left him for dead. We thought about capturing him, trying to get information.”

Mick hesitated and rubbed the white stubble along his jaw. “Hell, we’re accountants, bankers, and schoolteachers, not torturers.” He glanced at the woman beside him. “Ashanti Ganesh, our resident engineer, had the idea to let him follow him back to whatever hole he crawled out of.” He returned his gaze to Bishop. “Two of our guys who can hunt tracked him back to Fall Creek.”

For a long moment, Bishop didn’t move or speak. Liam exhaled a long breath. A hot spark of anger ignited inside him. Fury flared through his veins, sharp and bright.

Sutter’s damned militia. They’d both suspected it but had no evidence to confirm their suspicions. Until now.

Sociopaths like Sutter and Sinclair would think nothing of pillaging others to keep themselves fat and sated—and Fall Creek well under their heel.

Bishop’s radio crackled. “This is Beta Team Two. Bishop, what the hell’s happening over there? Are they neutralized yet? We’ve got a guy bleeding out all over the snow here!”

Bishop unhooked the radio from his belt and kept his gaze on Mick. “Copy. Give me two minutes. We’ll be there.”

“You better be. Out.”

Bishop tucked the radio into his belt and adjusted his grip on his weapon. “A month ago, our superintendent welcomed the Volunteer Militia Brigade of Southwest Michigan from Allegan. Many of us were not in favor, but we’d just endured a horrific massacre. My own…my own…” Bishop’s voice caught. He sucked in a shuddering breath. “My wife and two daughters were killed in the slaughter.”

Mick’s expression softened. “I remember that.”

Bishop shook his head, overcome for a moment. He cleared his throat. “The people were desperate for the promise of safety, so they welcomed them into our town. The militia moved into dozens of our abandoned homes. They’ve done what they promised. They brought the perpetrators of the massacre to justice. They patrol the town. They man the roadblocks.”

Bishop glanced back toward the trees, and Liam, as if seeking a familiar face, his own expression tight with sorrow and regret. He sighed. “And they bring us food, gasoline, medicine, and supplies.”

For a fraction of a second, you could’ve heard a pine needle drop. There was a collective intake of breath from the group. They murmured to each other, voices rising in outrage. Flynn cursed.

Liam zeroed in on his skull but moved his finger off the trigger. He didn’t want to kill these people. Regret settled like a stone in his belly. He’d already dispatched four of them. There was no taking that back.

“Enough!” Mick commanded. The angry murmurs ceased. The old man turned back to Bishop. “Continue.”

“The militia commander, Mattias Sutter, told the leaders of Fall Creek that they were confiscating the goods from abandoned distribution warehouses and supply trucks stuck on the highways. I assure you; we didn’t know what they were doing or how they were getting the goods.”

“You should’ve known!” Flynn said.

Bishop flinched. “You’re not wrong.”

“You’re just as bad! Thieves! Murderers!”

Bishop ran a hand through his afro. He looked unsettled. “I cannot claim complete innocence, only that we didn’t know. In the catastrophic events following the collapse, our attention was divided. It is an oversight that I will regret for the rest of my life.”

“That’s no excuse! You get fat off our food, don’t you? You’re just as guilty!”

Mick placed a hand on Flynn’s arm to settle him. “What about the cop I met? Noah Sheridan?”

Bishop hesitated a fraction of a second too long. “He was kept out of the loop.”

On that count, Liam disagreed. Bishop held more faith in his friend than Liam did. He’d sniffed out Noah Sheridan’s multiple shortcomings the moment he met him.

The woman beside Mick—Ashanti—moved. Pulse accelerating, he put her in his sights. She stomped her feet, shivering.

Bishop continued, “Our original police chief, Chief Briggs, was against the militia from the beginning. He disappeared. The superintendent’s son killed him.”

Mick raised gnarled brows. “Gavin Pike? I’ve heard nasty things about that one. A bad apple.”

“That he was. But I mean the other one. Julian Sinclair.”

“The other cop?” Mick pursed his lips. “Sounds like he was in on it.”

“No doubt.”

“He deserves to die for that,” Flynn growled.

“You have your wish. Julian Sinclair is dead.”

Flynn glowered at them. “One dirty cop is dead. So what? The militia are still alive, most of ‘em, anyway. Their leader is still alive and kickin’. Where’s my wife’s justice? Huh? You think we’ll just walk away? Because we won’t.”

“If you want to live, you will.” Bishop turned to Mick. “How many in your group?”

“We brought who would come. Forty-two.”

“This is Alpha Team,” Sutter’s voice came over the radio. “We’ve retaken the bridge. The attackers broke and fled. We chased them down. Two casualties on our side, fourteen dead scumbags.”

“This is Beta Team One,” Noah replied. “We’ve secured Hummingbird Road. One casualty, looks like eight dead on the other side.”

Mick’s weathered face blanched. A man behind him let out a moan.

“Are they really all dead?” Ashanti whispered. “They can’t be dead.”

“Beta Team Two requesting assistance!” Luther called over a hiss of static. “We’ve got wounded here.”

“I’m dispatching back up,” Sutter said. “Hold on tight!”

“I’m sorry, but your people are dead,” Bishop said. “You’ve already lost. We can give you your lives if you flee now. And I promise you, we will bring the militia to justice. When the time is right, we’d even appreciate your help.”

“We’re not running like cowards!” Flynn said. “We fight or die! I don’t care if I die, as long as I take them down with me!”

Ashanti twisted around and stared down the road, shielding her eyes to watch for the militia’s snowmobiles cresting the hill. Dismay and fear lined her face. “Unlike you, I don’t have a death wish! I’ve got two kids at home waiting for me. We’ve got to go!”

Mick squeezed Flynn’s arm. “It’s over. We’ve lost—for now.”

“Give me your radio contact information,” Bishop said hurriedly. “I promise we are just as eager to get rid of these guys as you are. They’re parasites sucking the life from this entire region—including Fall Creek. Give us a little time, and we’ll contact you.”

“Like hell!” Flynn snarled. “If you think—!”

“We’ll take it,” Ashanti said.

The sound of snowmobile engines splintered the air. They were coming from the west, from Fall Creek.

Bishop gestured at them. “If you’re still here when they come, they’ll kill you, and there won’t be a thing we can do.”

Mick gave a grim nod. He raised his radio to his lips. “Retreat! I repeat, all teams retreat!” He pocketed the radio and motioned to his people. “Let’s go! Run!”

5

LIAM

DAY FORTY

Liam watched as four of Mick’s men ran back toward the trucks. Two others targeted the bait shop to cover them. Ashanti grabbed Flynn and yanked him toward their vehicles. Two trucks started up as the remains of the Community Alliance fled.

Tires squealed and caught in the snow and ice. The vehicles peeled out and hightailed it east, back the way they had come.

Bishop pivoted and darted into the trees toward Liam.

Liam shifted from his shooting position with a wince, his knees popping, back twinging. His boots skidded in the snow as he descended the hill and met up with Bishop just inside the tree line.

Relief flared through him. The worst was over—for now. The adrenaline dump hit him hard, his legs shaky. He inhaled a sharp breath, the cold stinging his throat.

Frost burned his face. He shifted the M4 into a low ready position with fingers he could barely feel. “You shouldn’t have done that. It was dangerous.”

“My conscience was getting at me.”

“A conscience is a liability.”

“No, it’s not. It keeps us from becoming the monsters.”

“You sound like Hannah.”

Bishop gave a tight grin. “Hannah is a smart, perceptive woman.”

Liam shook his head. There was no arguing with that.

“We need to get to the bait shop.”

Liam remained apprehensive. “We’re not out of danger.”

“You think they’ll try something?”

“They could shoot us and claim friendly fire—or that we were victims of the attack.”

“Good point.” Bishop stayed inside the tree line, changed the radio to a private channel, and brought it to his mouth. “Noah? Are you en route with the others? We’re on Lemon Road with Luther.”

“Negative,” Noah responded. “I’ve got three hostages to interrogate.”

Bishop grimaced. The pastor wanted to tell Noah what they’d just discovered; it was written all over his face. He gave a shake of his head in warning.

Bishop dipped his chin in reluctant acknowledgment. “I wish you were here, Chief.”

“You’ll be fine,” Noah said in a clipped, distracted tone. “See you soon.”

Bishop sighed and ended the transmission.

“We can’t trust him,” Liam said. “You know that.”

A shadow passed across Bishop’s face. “I can’t tell you how much I wish that weren’t true. I keep hoping and praying for the best, but…”

“He’s picked his side. And it isn’t ours.”

Bishop didn’t respond for a moment. “We weren’t certain what—or who—we were facing.” His face went ashen. “We killed innocent people.”

“They weren’t innocent.”

Bishop bent double, breathing hard. His breath expelled in crystalized clouds. “I killed a man. Not a soldier, not an enemy insurgent. Just a guy. A husband, a brother, a father.”

Liam felt sickened, too, but he couldn’t wallow in regret, guilt, and recrimination. A soldier lost himself that way.

They’d done what they had to in the moment. They’d acted on the intel available. It was the best a man could do. You had to let go of the rest, or it would eat you alive.

“They attacked our town. If they’d made it to the school campus, they would’ve killed unarmed men, women, and children. What if they’d made it to Tanglewood Drive? They would have killed everyone there. Don’t forget that.”

Bishop’s jaw clenched. He still looked queasy, but he straightened. “You’re right. I know you’re right. Doesn’t make it any less awful.”

Liam couldn’t disagree. He scanned the road, the trees, the bait shop, searching for movement or the glint of a rifle muzzle. A few birds twittered from the cluster of elm trees behind them.

His shoulders tensed, every sense alert, anxiety knotted inside him. But there was nothing. The militia remained well hidden, waiting for their backup to arrive.

“We should have dispatched those militiamen. I could’ve lobbed one of these frag grenades over the dumpster and serviced three enemy combatants in one go.”

Bishop shot him a sharp look.

“You heard the old man. Desoto wasn’t a one-off. They’re all thieves and killers of the worst kind.”

Bishop’s mouth tightened. “I know. We need to get rid of them. Make sure they never come back.”

“Only one way to do that. If we drive them out of Fall Creek, they’ll return. Or they’ll prey on other desperate people. They’ll destroy anything and anyone to get what they want.”

“You think we need to kill them.”

“Don’t you?”

Bishop said nothing for a moment. He looked through the trees toward the road and the approaching snowmobiles.

Liam watched Bishop’s expression, waited for him to flinch, to blanch. Most men didn’t have the stomach for this.

“I do.”

Liam cocked his brows. The pastor surprised him. He didn’t shy away from the truth—or its consequences.

“You’re right again,” Bishop said. “We can’t lock them up in prison. There’s no one to call to deal with this. Until law and order is restored, we don’t have a choice. I may hate it, but it doesn’t make it any less true.”

Bishop ran his hands over the AK-47. “It seems like an insurmountable task. A few people fighting against fifty men with better weapons and more ammo? Like David against Goliath.”

“I don’t know my Bible so well, but didn’t David win?”

Bishop looked at him. A broad smile split his face. “That he did, friend! That he did!”

They waited for the snowmobiles to draw closer. There were five of them—two doubles and three singles. The machines slid to a stop near the bait shop. A pickup truck roared over the hill behind them.

Officers Hayes and Reynoso hopped off a blue Suzuki and removed their helmets. Several militiamen followed suit. Hayes was a heavyset guy in his mid-fifties, his uniform baggy like he’d lost a significant amount of weight.

These days, everyone had. Everyone but the militia.

“They’re good guys,” Bishop said.

“You sure about that?”

“You gotta trust someone sometime, friend.”

“No, I don’t.”

Liam trusted Hannah. That was as far as his scarred heart would stretch. He’d been burned too many times; he knew humanity’s weaknesses only too well.

Bishop started through the trees toward the road. “Rosamond won’t authorize anything with cops around. I know how she thinks. And Sutter follows her lead—so far. Whatever he does, he’ll do in secret. An ambush or an accident. Or he intends to drown us in the river and we’ll just disappear.”

Liam wasn’t so sure. He did a tactical reload, slapping in a fresh magazine, and kept his weapon low but ready. He stayed vigilant as they made their way toward the group of cops and militia gathering in the snowy parking lot.

Dozens of holes punctured the front and sides of the bait shop. Spent shell casings were scattered everywhere, glinting in the snow.

James Luther emerged from behind the bullet-riddled dumpster, dressed in gray camo and carrying an AR-15 outfitted with a bump stock.

He was slim but strong and rugged, with sun-weathered features. Still in his late twenties, his clean-shaven face held a dour, world-weary look, like he had tired of all this and just wanted to go home.

Only the militia were clean-shaven. No one else had the time or energy for it.

A woman strode out behind him. She was in her late twenties, her dun-colored hair pulled into a tight ponytail. She wore a drop leg holster on her thigh and carried a modified AK-47.

Her face was scratched, and she was limping, but appeared mostly unharmed. She shouted at the militia disembarking from the snowmobiles and gestured behind her. “Hoagin is bleeding out! Get him out of here!”

Two men loaded the wounded guy on a makeshift stretcher and moved him toward the bed of the pickup. He moaned in agony. Blood drenched his left leg from the thigh down, a tourniquet wrapped around the wound.

One glance told Liam he wouldn’t make it. One less to kill later.

Luther looked up as Liam and Bishop strode toward them. His face registered surprise at Liam’s presence, but he quickly hid it. “What happened?”

“We killed four and injured several others,” Bishop said. “We chased the rest all the way past the intersection of Lemon and Jones Road. They aren’t coming back any time soon.”

“Sutter ordered us to kill them all. We should send a team after them—”

“They’re long gone,” Bishop said. “They’re not coming back. We saved your tails, didn’t we?”

“Yeah, yeah, you did.” Luther glanced at Liam. “Good shots. We couldn’t get a good angle on them.”

Liam didn’t respond. He clenched his jaw and let Bishop carry the conversation. Restrained fury burned through him. Four more people dead that hadn’t needed to die. People who wouldn’t be dead now, if these pissants hadn’t raided and pillaged their communities.

It took incredible restraint not to open fire on the six militiamen standing right in front of him. He had to be careful. This wasn’t just about him. He had people he needed to protect. Hannah depended on him.

It might seem like justice to unleash on a few murderous scumbags, but if it put Hannah and her family in danger, he’d regret it for the rest of his life.

The militia finished loading their wounded. Two jumped in the back with him. Several others climbed on their snowmobiles and peeled out, heading back toward town.

While Hayes and Reynoso checked the bodies in the woods, the woman swaggered over to them and offered a lazy salute. “Thanks for bailing us out.”

“You’re welcome,” Bishop said stiffly.

“Name’s Katie Kesler. Call me Kesler.” She hooked her thumb at Luther. “I may be a chick, but I can out-shoot these fruitcakes any day of the week.”

“And twice on Sundays,” Luther said without smiling.

“Is the fighting over?” Bishop asked.

“Damn straight!” Kesler grinned, revealing big square teeth. “We slaughtered them. Utterly destroyed ‘em.”

Liam resisted the urge to punch her in the face and break a few of those pretty teeth.

Sutter’s voice came over Luther and Kesler’s radios. “Beta Teams, get the hell back here. We’ve got work to do. And I want a full report on how the hell this happened. Someone’s getting burned for this!”

“Roger that.” Kesler spun on her heels. “It’s too damn cold to stay out here a minute longer, anyway.”

“Sutter wants to talk to you two.” Luther gave an apologetic shrug.

“I bet he does,” Liam muttered.

Bishop shot him a warning look.

Liam understood. They needed to keep up appearances, to play dumb. If you couldn’t attack an enemy head-on, it was prudent to lay low until you were stronger, more prepared, ready.

He wanted to get back to Hannah and ensure everyone was safe. The less Sutter and his men knew of their true intentions, the better.

“No problem,” Bishop said, straight-faced.

Liam was impressed. For a pastor, he was a smooth liar. “We’ll follow you.”

Kesler glanced over her shoulder and flashed them another grin. An innocuous, disarming smile. One that might lead you to believe that there wasn’t a calculating killer lurking behind those shiny white teeth.

She didn’t fool Liam for a second.

6

LIAM

DAY FORTY

The block of Fall Creek north of the bridge looked like a war zone.

Bullet holes peppered the vehicles stalled along the sides of the road and stranded in parking lots. Holes pockmarked the brick façade exteriors of several office buildings.

Spent casings lay everywhere. The air stank of gasoline, gunpowder, and smoke.

Fragmentation grenades had blown out the windows of Friendly’s, Vinson’s Pharmacy, and the Pizza Palace. Fragments of glass, plaster, melted plastic, and twisted metal were scattered across the dirty, trampled snow.

Forty militia milled around, most dressed in black boots and gray camo, all of them armed with AK-47s and other long guns. About half of them wore military-style plate carriers and vests.

Liam and Bishop had followed Reynoso and Hayes to the bridge. Luther and the woman, Kesler, stood near a black police truck with Truitt and Noah.

Three hostages sat huddled in the truck bed, their hands zip-tied behind their backs. One sported a fresh black eye and split lip, and two were wounded—one shot in the right shoulder, another with bloody stumps for fingers.

Liam and Bishop had no sooner approached the truck than Mattias Sutter stormed over.

Sutter was a big imposing brute of a man wearing camo fatigues, his rifle slung across his chest. He was six-foot-three and two-fifty at least, all bulging thighs and arms.

Sutter gestured at the men in the truck bed, his pale bald head shining in the sun. “What the hell is this?”

Noah shrugged. “They gave up their weapons and surrendered.”

“They surrendered?” Sutter’s lip twisted in disgust. “So you ziptied them? They aren’t prisoners of war. They’re monsters who came to steal your children’s food and rape your wives. Treat them that way.”

“You’re the monsters!” the man with the bloody lip spat. “You’re the—”

Sutter spun on his heel, raised his AK-47, and shot the man between the eyes. The gunshot blasted in the still air. The man dropped to the truck bed, already dead.

“Hey!” Bishop shouted.

Noah flinched. Kesler looked at the ground. Luther’s expression tightened.

Reynoso looked sick. Truitt gaped, stunned. He shot a look at Noah as if expecting the chief of police to stop them, to do something.

But Noah did nothing. He allowed it to happen, just as he’d allowed everything else.

The second man gave a despondent howl. Sutter didn’t let him get another sound out. He shifted and shot him, too. He toppled sideways against the man next to him, who cowered and tried to shield himself behind the side of the truck.

“You can’t do that!” Bishop yelled, his face purpling in outrage.

“I just did,” Sutter said. “They killed my men. They die for it. Period.”

“Hey now,” Hayes said, one hand on his holstered service pistol. “We have protocols. We don’t just—”

“We do now.” Before anyone could react, Sutter fired two rounds into the chest of the third hostage, a young guy with a goatee and glasses who looked like he belonged in college. Not anymore.

Luther and Kesler stared at the spray of red across the snow, startled. Truitt opened his mouth to say something, then turned and stomped away. Reynoso followed him, shaking his head in disgust. “This ain’t right, man. It ain’t right.”

Liam struggled to contain his own rage. Sutter and his men were the real murderers, but to call them on it now or to interfere would be dangerous—if not a death sentence.

The militia heavily outnumbered them. Besides, they were already in Sutter’s crosshairs.

Liam was skilled, but he was still human. He couldn’t dispatch forty men without getting himself and Bishop killed, too.

As soon as Reynoso and Truitt left, Sutter turned on Liam. “What the hell were you thinking? Luther tells me you let some of them go.”

“We pulled back,” Liam said. “The ones who ran aren’t a threat.”

“You had no right to decide!” Sutter stalked toward him, furious. “I give the orders, not you!”

“I don’t answer to you.”

His pale blue eyes, sunken in his fleshy face, fixed on Liam. He looked like a big dumb bouncer; he was anything but. Those disconcerting eyes shone with calculating malice—and the cold desire to kill.

Sutter’s hands twitched on his rifle.

That was all the warning Liam needed. Without hesitating, he drew his pistol and aimed it at Sutter’s head.

Gear clattered and clanked as at least ten of Sutter’s men pointed their weapons at Liam.

Bishop stepped back and pressed his rifle to his shoulder, aiming at the men behind Sutter. Officer Hayes had been squatting over a wounded man in the parking lot ten yards away. He leapt to his feet, drawing his service pistol.

Sutter pointed his weapon at Liam’s chest. “That’s how you want to play this game?”

“I’m not playing any games. Are you?”

“I should kill you!”

“Kill me, and you commit suicide.” Tension hummed in the air. Every muscle taut, Liam applied the slightest pressure to the trigger. If Sutter even flinched, he would end him.

Then Sutter’s men would finish Liam off, too. Plus Bishop and the cops.

It was a zero-sum game.

“Stop!” Noah stepped between them, waving his arms. “Put your guns down.”

Neither man moved.

“We won in part thanks to Liam.” Luther was still by the truck, standing over the slain bodies. “Three of us got pinned down, and these two broke us free.”

Kesler kicked at a pile of snow. “They killed four of them. They’re good soldiers. They have useful skills. Especially Coleman. He made a few insane shots.”

“He should join us!” a militiaman called out.

“We could use a pastor, too.” A young black guy with a wisp of a mustache and acne dotting his forehead elbowed the man next to him. “To atone for our sins, amiright?”

A few men laughed.

Liam clenched his jaw. Anger pulsed through him in waves. Revulsion churned in his gut. He felt dirty just being near these animals.

He needed to get the hell out. He wanted a long, hot shower. Or even a cold one.

“Put the gun down, Sutter,” Noah said. “You have no quarrel with Liam Coleman.”

“Like hell,” Sutter growled. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve got two missing soldiers. This joker has something to do with that.”

“We’re on the same side!” Noah said.

Sutter snorted.

“I’m still chief of police. It’s your duty to obey me.”

Sutter’s eyes flashed with hostility, but he hesitated. He wasn’t the type of man to allow an insult to go unavenged, but he wasn’t an idiot.

It was one thing to assassinate a man in the dark, to hide the act with lies and half-truths. It was quite another to kill him in broad daylight in front of witnesses, including cops. Plus, Liam had just saved a few of his men.

This wasn’t the time; Sutter knew it.

“Lower your weapons. Now,” Noah said. “I speak for Rosamond.”

Sutter sneered, but he obeyed. His men followed suit. “Don’t be so sure about that.”

“You have wounded men to tend to,” Noah said evenly. “We’ll deal with your missing men tomorrow, after we’ve re-established the town’s border patrols and bolstered our checkpoints and security protocols.”

Sutter didn’t take his eyes off Liam. “This isn’t over. I think you know that.”

Liam didn’t dignify his threat with a response. He didn’t turn his back on him, either. Sutter was a dangerous man to underestimate.

Sutter shouted to the rest of his men, turned, and stalked toward their waiting snowmobiles. Five militiamen headed to the checkpoint across the bridge. A couple dealt with the bodies, while the rest followed Sutter, likely headed back to Winter Haven.

Bishop whirled on Noah, brows lowered, visibly upset. “You just let him kill three people. What’s wrong with you?”

Noah bristled. “They were enemy combatants. They attacked us. They deserved it.”

“Are you sure? Do you know who they are or why they came?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it does! Who’s in charge, you or Sutter?”

Noah’s expression clouded. “We’re done here.”

“What’s the price of a good cop these days?” Bishop asked darkly.

Noah’s head jerked up. Something behind his eyes flickered, then guttered out. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then enlighten us.”

“Stay out of this, Bishop.”

“Or what?”

Noah shook his head. “I can’t protect you anymore.”

“I never asked you to.”

Noah stared at them as if he didn’t recognize them. He was a tall, good-looking man, still fit and athletic—though his face grew more gaunt each time Liam saw him.

There was something empty in his eyes. Something that chilled Liam to his core. What did it cost a man to go against his principles, everything he’d sworn an oath to, to serve and protect?

Whoever Noah had been before the collapse, he was turning into something else. Or maybe the seeds were always present, planted deep, waiting to sprout into something poisonous.

“This isn’t you, Noah,” Bishop said, pain in his voice as he made a last-ditch effort to reach his friend.

But Noah was beyond reach. His hard gaze shifted to Liam. Something sparked there. Something dark and ugly. “You don’t know me. You don’t know anything.”

Without another word, Noah Sheridan turned and walked away.

7

ROSAMOND

DAY FORTY

Rosamond Sinclair sat in her leather chair behind her luxurious mahogany desk in her office and waited impatiently.

Sutter should have gotten back to her. She’d listened to the echo of distant gunshots for the last hour.

The gunfire had grown sporadic. She hadn’t heard a shot in seventy-five seconds, according to her ruby-studded Cartier wristwatch.

She’d always wanted one. After the EMP, a person could have whatever they wanted.

Like the dutiful soldier that he was, Sutter had brought it back to her. In working order, no less.

There were always perks to any crisis. The collapse, as people called it now, was no exception. If you were smart enough to see an opportunity and cunning, ambitious, and aggressive enough to pursue it.

She stared at her slim fingers. Her plum-purple nail polish was chipped. She’d never had chipped nails before. Her cuticles were always immaculate, as was every part of her, from the crown of her precise blonde bob to her shiny Valentino heels.

She needed everything in her life in order. Everything beautiful. Everything clean and shining and perfect.

Rosamond was a careful, precise woman. Nothing was ever said or done carelessly. Every gesture and mood was calibrated, every detail deliberately chosen.

It was the only thing that kept chaos at bay.

But chaos, it seemed, had invited itself in anyway.

She folded her hands atop her pristine desk. It was supposed to be pristine. She had it dusted daily.

The bright overhead light revealed everything, including dust spots. Fingerprints. A few crumbs from meals she’d snacked on when she couldn’t sleep in the middle of the night—packaged muffins, cookies, powdered donuts, and Little Debbie snack cakes.

Before, the chemical-filled junk had never even tempted her; now she couldn’t stop eating it.

She’d avoided mirrors for days. She didn’t want to see the new wrinkles lining her face. She didn’t want to see her hollowed cheeks or the shadows marring her bloodshot eyes.

The grief threatened to well up again—great sweeping waves that pulled her under, sucking her into a despair that she feared would destroy her.

She shoved it down, sat up straighter. Her shoulders stiff, her posture straight. She took a sip of Cabernet Sauvignon, the bottle half empty.

It didn’t help. The despair was always there, whispering in the back of her mind, pulling at her, taunting her. Your sons are dead. You have lost everything that matters. You have tried and failed. You’ve failed, you’ve failed, you’ve failed.

She was losing her iron control. Fingernail by fingernail, inch by inch. It was slipping away from her.

The framed photograph set on the bookcase drew her gaze. Taken at Warren Dunes, Lake Michigan sparkled in the background. Rosamond was in her thirties, young and beautiful, her arms wrapped around Gavin. Julian stood a little apart from them, looking sullen.

He’d always been moody. Gavin was the smart one, the one who understood her.

Her boys had been blessed. They hadn’t been raised like she had. She’d made sure of it.

Her gaze flickered to the object next to the frame—a Smith & Wesson Model 29 revolver, with its long 8 3/8th barrel displayed in a velvet-lined case. It was a gift from her father for her twenty-fifth birthday, unused but oiled, cleaned, and polished with precision.

Her father had been a brutal, domineering man. He ruled with his fists. He’d been a powerful man. A political man. He still was.

She didn’t think of that anymore. She didn’t think of him. She’d cut him out of her life, no longer acknowledging him or having anything to do with him—though she’d kept the gifts he’d continued to send.

Rosamond had escaped him at eighteen, falling into the arms of Calvin Pike, Gavin Pike’s father. Handsome and charming, jealous and cruel. Life with Cal served as a lesson in pain. He used more than his fists. After Gavin was born, it only intensified.

She fought back. She always fought back. It hadn’t made a difference; it became a game to crush her will.

Rosamond’s will could not be crushed. Not then, not now.

One day, she looked in the mirror at another bruised throat she’d needed to hide with makeup and scarves, and she made a choice.

That night, she fought back with a knife.

After his death, she’d vowed never to allow anyone to control her again.

Rosamond would do the controlling.

She’d told everyone that Cal had run off with another woman. They’d believed her. So did the police. Cal’s heroin habit led them to a suspected organized crime affiliation. From there, she was home free.

Killing was easier than most people thought. People disappeared all the time. Only fifty percent of murderers were ever apprehended. If you were smart about it, if you didn’t lose your head, if you were judicious, prudent, and meticulous in how and who you killed…you could get away with it.

Rosamond didn’t pity herself. That soft, weak woman who’d allowed herself to be beaten and used was dead. As dead and buried as Cal.

She was smart and clever and cunning. She used people’s emotions to manipulate them, just as her father had once done to her.

Some people thought love was a panacea, the ultimate prize of life. Others believed it was a weakness. They were both wrong.

Love was a weapon.

Wielded properly, it could get you almost anything you wanted.

She turned away from the photograph and the polished gun in disgust. What plans she’d had for her sons. The dynasty they’d build. The power, wealth, and influence they’d amass. Fall Creek was only the beginning.

A small-town superintendent could leverage her position into city and county appointments, eventually the state or even beyond.

Her opponents and enemies could be blackmailed or threatened out of the way, compliments of her sons. The sky was the limit.

It was all gone now. Burned to ashes. Stabbed and shot to death with Gavin. Drowned with Julian. Murdered, both of them. Her future murdered with them.

No, not all of it.

Fall Creek was all she had left.

She would die before she lost it, before she ceded an inch of it.

Rosamond took another sip of Cabernet Sauvignon straight from the bottle and swallowed the rich, oaky liquid, hardly tasting it. She set the bottle down too hard. The dull thud echoed in the still, silent room.

She looked at her watch again. Where the hell was Sutter?

Her cousin was her link to the outside world. She hadn’t left her home in Winter Haven in days. Why would she? It was cold and ugly out there. That world had murdered her sons.

She needed Sutter. She needed to know what was happening. The militia better have butchered the intruders, like Sutter promised they would.

She couldn’t afford to lose this place. Not for anything.

She’d sacrificed too much. She had no intention of sacrificing more.

Rosamond squinted against the glare of the lights overhead, harsh and painful against her sleep-deprived eyes. She kept every light on in every room, twenty-four hours a day. It was an extreme waste of precious electricity. She did it anyway.

Because she could. Because it validated everything she was fighting for, everything she’d lost. She still had this. She still had power when no one else did. She still lived in comfort and decadence.

She deserved this. She’d earned this. She owned this.

The hordes out there hadn’t earned it. The ones who longed to murder her in her bed and steal her heat and electricity and warm house, her hot water and coffee and comfortable life.

Death had taken her sons from her, but she would never lose this. She had to keep it together.

She needed to see her sons’ deaths avenged. She needed to maintain her hold on Fall Creek and Winter Haven, to come out on top.

It was her turn now. To get her dues. To win.

8

ROSAMOND

DAY FORTY-ONE

The sudden knock at the door startled her.

Rosamond awoke with a start, not realizing she’d fallen asleep in her office chair. A stress headache pulsed at the back of her skull. The lights were on in the office, even though morning light streamed through the windows.

She swallowed, her mouth dry and gummy, and smoothed her beige Ralph Lauren skirt and suit jacket. She ran her hands through her blonde hair and forced herself to settle her mind.

Then she rose, rounded the massive desk, and moved to the exterior office door. She peered through the peephole, saw Sutter, and unlocked the door. She moved aside as he entered and stomped the snow from his boots. A blast of cold air followed him in.

She shut the door. “You’re late! Where were you?”

“Killing our enemies.”

“Tell me it’s handled.”

“It’s handled. We lost three men. Hoagin bled out before we could get to that sorry excuse for a doctor.”

“Shen Lee is a nurse.”

Sutter ripped off his gloves and blew on his hands. “I don’t give a damn. Did you hear me? I’m down three men. After the loss of Desoto and Benner, that puts us at forty-eight.”

“Plus, the police force.” She returned to her desk and sat down. She pulled the office chair close to the desk, flicked away a wayward crumb, and steepled her fingers on its surface. “Is that not enough? I seem to recall that you assured me that your men are skilled marksmen and fighters. That you were a competent leader. That you and your men could repel a force more than triple your size with ease.”

Sutter made a dismissive sound and glared at her. “We did! We destroyed them, Rosamond. Their ravaged carcasses will feed the scavengers for weeks.”

She examined him, looking for the crack, the weakness, the lie. She had gambled on Sutter’s men being enough. Maybe she was wrong. Perhaps they needed a larger force to protect Winter Haven.

The self-sustainable community was a true sanctuary amidst the destruction and chaos of Michigan, of the entire United States, and beyond.

Anyone who didn’t see its immense value was a complete and utter moron. That was part of the problem.

The crown jewel of Winter Haven would attract others. They would want it for themselves.

And not just ragged rabbles of local townspeople or disorganized gangs, but an organized, capable force that wouldn’t be so easy to repel.

“Who were they?”

He shrugged, his eyes sliding away from hers. “Just a group of hungry people from nearby towns. They’ve run out of food, gas, and supplies. They’re desperate. They want what we have. The story isn’t new.”

“No, it isn’t. But I sense you’re holding back. People from nearby towns? The very towns you’ve been raiding?”

Sutter didn’t answer.

Anger sparked through her. “Do not keep me in the dark, cousin. Don’t forget who’s in charge here. I invited you here. I can just as easily disinvite you.”

He looked at her, his jaw set, pale eyes icy. “Yes, it was in retaliation. It wasn’t unexpected. We’re prepared for something like this.”

“Good. See that you stay that way. And if they come back with reinforcements?”

“They won’t. They’re just regular people. Shopkeepers and office workers. Cubicle slaves. Few of them could even shoot. We killed the ones who could. They’re done. We’re good. You’re good.”

“But?”

He spread his hands wide. “Why the hell are we wasting so many men and resources on that damn town? Fall Creek means nothing. The people mean nothing. They’re expendable. It’s time to expend them.”

Rosamond looked out the window behind her desk. It was a rare beautiful day in February. The sun was shining. Above the trees, the sky was a deep, crisp blue.

Snow blanketed the ground, pristine and unbroken but for a line of deer tracks trailing around the house toward trees whose names she didn’t know.

The inhabitants of Fall Creek were like spoiled, malcontent children. She both despised them and loved them. They were hers, and she was theirs.

“It makes little sense, Rosamond. It’s not logical. Why are you holding on? Just let it go.”

Rosamond didn’t let go of anything, not once it was in her grasp. “You wouldn’t understand.”

He didn’t ask her to elaborate.

Irritation sprouted in her gut. Sutter was not a critical thinker. He was not a politician. He didn’t understand the complexities of life.

He was good for one thing—killing things and making sure things didn’t kill her. She needed him for that.

Gavin had understood. Gavin had always listened to her. A fresh pang of grief struck her chest. She wanted Sutter gone.

“I’m in charge of this town and its well-being. It is my job. I’m like a parent. I know what’s best for them, even when they don’t know it themselves. And like a parent, I care about them.”

He turned to face her. “Who? Who do you care about?”

“The town. Don’t be so obtuse, Mattias.”

He shook his head. “You know that most of them hate you, right?”

“Shut up!” It came out sharper than she intended. Her hands balled into fists, her chipped nails digging into her palms. “If you did your job correctly, they would worship me!”

Mattias didn’t flinch. He didn’t break eye contact.

Rosamond took several deep breaths, calming herself. “Get rid of those parasites causing trouble, and everything and everyone will fall into place. They’ll see that I saved them. It will take time to understand. But they’ll see. I know they’ll see.”

“I’m working on it.”

“Work harder!”

“Like you said, it takes time, Rosamond. They’re armed. The townspeople like Bishop. Liam has friends, too. He’s even gaining prestige among a few of my men. He’s quite the super soldier.”

“I was informed that you were, too,” Rosamond said. “Was I mistaken?”

“You don’t see the streets. The town is on the verge of rebellion and anarchy. Anything could set them off. You don’t want me to kill those people? Then you can’t give them a reason to riot. These things take time. We’re throwing rocks into a pond. We need ripples, not a tidal wave. You above all people know that. Don’t lose your edge.”

Rosamond recoiled. “I’m not the one you should worry about.”

“I have things under control.”

“So do I!” she hissed.

She wanted to slap the dubious look right off his fleshy face. She missed Gavin with an ache beneath her ribs. Some nights, she thought it might kill her.

It made her want to rip someone’s eyes out. To punch and hit and kick and cause pain, to make them hurt as badly as they’d hurt her.

She forced herself to unclench her fists and took a long swig of wine. The bottle was nearly empty. She could feel it working through her veins. When she placed the bottle back on her desk, it hardly made a sound.

Sutter should not underestimate her. He had no idea what she was capable of, what she’d done, and what she was willing to do.

“Don’t disappoint me,” she said. “You do not want to disappoint me.”

9

HANNAH

DAY FORTY-TWO

Hannah Sheridan was home.

It wasn’t like she’d thought it would be. This house—Noah’s Winter Haven house—it didn’t feel like hers. It wasn’t. She feared it would never be.

The house didn’t matter. All that mattered was being with Milo.

She’d made her way back to him. All those hours, days, months, and years she’d endured hell itself in that basement—it was her son who kept her alive.

When she’d escaped into the wilderness with nothing but the clothes on her back, it was Milo who drove her onward; Milo fixed in her mind as she’d suffered, aching and hungry, cold and scared.

Every agonizing step of the way.

And now here he was in the flesh. Eight years old and all messy black hair, soft olive skin, and big dark eyes; all sweetness and warmth and gangly little-boy arms and legs, knees and elbows.

Her beating heart. Her son.

Hannah smiled down at him. “What do you think?”

She’d bundled Milo into his snow pants, boots, winter coat, hat, scarf, and gloves. He also wore the baby carrier that Bishop had brought over a few days ago.

A few teenagers had found it while scavenging one of the abandoned houses on the edge of town, under Reynoso’s direction. Bishop had given him a list of the needs of local families that the militia had blacklisted, and Reynoso had organized a team of bored teens at the suggestion of Annette King.

This family had opted for a ride to the nearest FEMA camp. They’d left most of their baby gear behind—a playpen, bassinet, and battery-operated vibrating bouncer, plus plenty of baby clothes sized newborn through six months.

The carrier was too big for Milo, but with the aid of duct tape, they’d tightened the straps enough that he could wear his baby sister.

The carrier was blue, not pink, as were most of the baby clothes, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Milo insisted that Charlotte’s favorite color was blue to match her eyes.

Milo patted Charlotte’s back. “She’s so tiny. When’s she gonna be big enough to play?”

“Not for a while, but when she is, she’ll follow you around all day, begging you to play with her.”

Milo grinned. “I’ll show her all my LEGO collections and my superhero action figures. She can’t play with Wolverine, though. That’s my favorite. I bet Quinn’ll teach her to draw just like she did with me. How old until I can read her The Stand?”

“Woah! Settle down there. I think we can hold off on Stephen King for a few years. Let’s start off with a nice walk, some cuddle time, and a few baby books.”

“Quinn’s reading The Road to me right now. She says it’s age-appropriate ‘cause there’s a kid character. She also said not to tell you or Dad about the baby-eating part.”

“Uh huh. Quinn and I might need to talk about that.”

“Don’t tell her I tattled.”

“I’ll try not to.”

Milo grinned as he tugged on Charlotte’s little knit gray and green hat, pulling it gently over her ears. He was so careful with her. It warmed Hannah’s heart to watch them together.

At first, she hadn’t pushed the baby on Milo. The sudden appearance of his long-lost mother had already overwhelmed him. Not to mention the world-altering EMP.

with time, Milo had become more interested in his new sister. He relished the role of protective big brother. He trusted easily, loved easily.

Hannah hoped love always came easy for him. Few people kept such big hearts. The world tended to beat it out of them.

In the sixteen days since she’d come home, she and Milo had found their way back to each other. Things were still tentative; they were two hurting people fumbling toward each other in the dark.

But it was happening. It was working. He was opening up to her, letting her in. In return, she loved him with a ferocity that she hadn’t thought possible.

Milo and Charlotte both.

“Ready for that walk?” she asked.

Noah was somewhere working with the militia, as usual. Milo missed him. In the days after the attack, he worked even longer hours as they bolstered the town’s defenses.

Noah had become silent and withdrawn even when he was present. They had less and less to say to each other.

Guilt pricked her. Things were easier when Noah was gone. Not as tense.

“I just have to go pee, first,” Milo announced.

She stared at him in dismay. “What? But I just bundled you up. It’ll take five minutes to get you undressed again.”

“At least ten.” He gave her a sly grin. “Just kidding! That one gets Quinn all the time. She hates it.”

“I bet she does.” She eyed his thick coat. “You got your fanny pack?”

He gestured at his many layers. “Somewhere underneath all this…stuff.”

They kept his last emergency dose of injectable glucocorticoid in a fanny pack that went everywhere with him. The pack also contained extra pills, snacks high in salt and sugar, and an electrolyte drink, since stress affected Milo’s sodium and potassium levels.

His adrenal glands didn’t make enough cortisol on their own. Since cortisol regulated the stress response in the body, lifelong treatment to replace the hormone was critical.

He took hydrocortisone pills on a schedule mimicking the normal twenty-four-hour fluctuation of cortisol levels in the body.

On a day-to-day basis, Milo’s Addison’s disease didn’t negatively affect him. As long as he had his medication, her son was bright, happy, and healthy.

Noah had a five-year stash stored in his bedroom closet. Still, the fear of running out of hydrocortisone or their backup, prednisone, gnawed at the back of her mind.

It was a comfort, but it wasn’t enough. What if this collapse lasted longer than five years? What if they couldn’t find more?

An accident or illness could escalate into an adrenal crisis, which was a life-threatening situation that could lead to kidney failure, shock, coma, and death. Without access to hospitals, trauma centers, and modern medical care, what were his chances?

Milo bit his lower lip. “Something wrong, Mom?”

She knew Milo didn’t like people treating him like he was sick or fragile. She brushed the dark thoughts away—for now. She would concern herself with those troubles tomorrow. For today, she intended to enjoy this moment with her children.

“I’m good. It’s time to walk.”

Ghost had been taking a pleasant nap on Noah’s living room rug. At the mention of a walk, his head shot up, ears pricking.

He loped to his feet and trotted over. He sniffed Milo’s face, snuffling his cheeks and hairline, and then Charlotte’s. The baby opened her eyes wide and let out a startled gurgle.

At four weeks old, she spent more and more time awake and alert. The first two weeks, she’d eaten, pooped, and slept.

Hannah rubbed her eyes. She was tired, like all new mothers. Newborns were exhausting. Charlotte woke up every few hours throughout the night to nurse. Molly had helped Hannah make cloth diapers, but they were a pain to clean even with electricity. There was always something that needed doing.

“Ghost’s head is bigger than Charlotte’s entire body,” Milo said.

“It sure looks that way. Wanna come on that walk, Ghost?”

Ghost chuffed eagerly and made a beeline for the door. The Great Pyrenees loved the outdoors, winter best of all. He’d get a good workout frolicking through the snow.

After the walk, she’d give Milo his medication, make him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich—the kid ate Jif practically every day—and feed Ghost.

They were lucky they had any dog food at all. Bishop had brought over two large twenty-pound bags, accompanied by Reynoso, who’d shrugged and shuffled his feet in embarrassment when she’d thanked him and offered him some homemade cornbread drizzled in honey. Molly had shown her the recipe.

The dog food was running low. They’d have to figure out what to do.

On the two-hundred-mile journey back to Fall Creek, Ghost had hunted squirrels and rabbits. She worried about letting him loose to hunt here in Fall Creek.

Some militiamen looked at him like they’d rather he wasn’t around—or like he’d be good sport to hunt themselves.

Hannah opened the door and released Ghost into the dazzling winter morning. Milo waddled out after him. Hannah exited last, closing the door, locking it, and pocketing the keys.

Ghost dashed into the yard, kicking up puffs of snow with his paws, tongue lolling. Milo watched him, laughing, and threw snowballs for Ghost to catch. He didn’t miss a single one.

This was the best of Michigan winters. The February sun shining, the snow sparkling, the crisp air bracing but refreshing.

Birds chirped in the trees. Several squirrels chased each other through the underbrush.

It wouldn’t last, but that didn’t matter. Hannah took each day, each moment, and wrung every inch of joy that she could.

She held out her bad hand to Milo, and he took it, wrapping his gloved fingers tightly around her crooked ones. She kept her right hand free to reach the loaded Ruger .45 in her pocket.

CiCi had given her the gun before she’d died at the hands of Pike. It was a reliable weapon. It was also a daily reminder of the kindness of strangers. No matter how ugly things became, there was goodness in the world. CiCi had been proof of that.

Beneath her coat, she wore a Western-style belt with a thick silver buckle larger than her fist. Liam had gotten it somewhere—probably from Bishop. He’d punched new holes through the leather with a heated nail so it would fit her slender waist.

He’d shown her how to use the buckle to rack the slide one-handed. The next time she found herself in a dangerous situation, she didn’t have to worry about finding a countertop or sharp edge to rack it.

She’d been practicing her shooting skills, too. Ammo was a precious commodity they couldn’t afford to waste, so Liam had been teaching her with BB and airsoft guns they’d borrowed from Perez.

Her crippled hand wouldn’t keep her from doing the things that mattered. She would never be a sharpshooter, but she was learning how to defend herself and her family.

Her gut tightened as Rosamond Sinclair’s house came into view at the end of the cul-de-sac. Hannah had only glimpsed the woman twice since she’d arrived home.

Two of the fake soldiers, as Quinn liked to call them, were stationed 24/7 outside the superintendent’s house. Others constantly streamed in and out of her office.

As they exited the driveway and turned right toward the main drive, Hannah felt their aggressive stares like a prickle on the back of her neck.

She increased her pace and asked Milo questions about the superhero movies she’d missed. He launched into an enthusiastic, if long-winded explanation of the best Avengers movie and his favorite superhero battles.

Ghost trotted ahead of them, digging his snout into every snowbank, snorting with pure pleasure. He never strayed too far ahead, always keeping Hannah and the children close.

Two snowmobiles approached, their engines chugging, skis spitting snow. The drivers turned their helmeted heads to watch them as they drove by.

Ghost stiffened and let out a low growl.

Movement in the trees to her right caught her attention. More fake soldiers. They were constructing something. The sound of hammers echoed in the stillness.

“Is that a treehouse?” Milo asked.

“I don’t think so.” She didn’t know the name, but it was a raised platform like hunters used—or snipers.

“I want a treehouse. Dad said he’d build me one, but he’s always too busy. I bet we could build one. You and me together. We could do it.”

She appreciated his zeal—and his unerring belief that she could do whatever she put her mind to, deformed hand or not. Most people underestimated her. “When you get home, why don’t you put a plan together? Draw it out on your drawing pad. I’ll put Charlotte down for her nap, get some lunch started, and then we can take a look.”

His eyes shone. “You mean it?”

“Of course. Wood might be scarce, though,” she warned him. “People need every scrap for firewood.”

“We’ll think of something.”

They turned left onto the road that circled Winter Haven. To the right, the frozen river winked between clusters of naked trees and massive houses.

Winter Haven was nestled along the widest section of Fall Creek. It was shaped like an oval, with several cul-de-sacs branching out of the main road.

Two mothers drank from steaming mugs on a front porch as their children played in the yard. Laughter and happy shouts echoed in the air.

Further down the street, she saw a few more children building a snowman. An old woman and a young girl shuffled along the opposite side of the road, holding hands.

Other than Darryl Wiggins and Noah, the militia had kicked most Fall Creek residents out of Winter Haven. These were the families of the militia.

“Can I play with them?” Milo asked.

Hannah drew Milo closer. “No, son. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

The militia were everywhere, bristling with weapons. Several congregated at a house on the corner. More rode by on snowmobiles—another patrol.

Two militiamen stood at the rear of a parked truck and unloaded bales of concertina wire, the large coils edged with knife-sharp razors. They watched Hannah with suspicious expressions.

An uneasy feeling slithered through her. They were preparing for something—something more than defense.

Ghost stopped playing in the snow. He loped to Hannah’s opposite side and remained close, on full alert, his hackles raised.

He didn’t like the militia’s presence any more than she did.

“Hey, you!” a loud male voice shouted behind them. “Stop right there!”

10

HANNAH

DAY FORTY-TWO

A man dressed in gray camo strode toward them with a cocky swagger. He wore a plate carrier, a bandolier bristling with ammo, and carried an AR-15. He had a narrow, horsey face with ruddy skin, his mouth twisted in an ugly sneer.

Hannah tensed. Ghost bounded in front of her and Milo, growling at the approaching man.

The fake soldier halted across the road and gestured at Ghost with the barrel of his gun. “What the hell is that?”

“A dog,” Hannah said.

“You need to have that thing on a leash. And muzzled.”

“He doesn’t need a leash or a muzzle.”

Bandolier smirked. “Well, I say that he does.”

“He’s not bothering anyone.”

“He’s bothering me.”

“Maybe you deserve it!” Milo chimed in.

He narrowed his eyes. “Sounds like your kid needs a muzzle, too.”

Hannah’s pulse raced. She tightened her deformed fingers around Milo’s hand. It hurt, but she didn’t let go. “I don’t think so.”

He took a step toward them, leering.

Ghost snarled a warning.

Alarm flashed across Bandolier’s face, replaced by a look of pure hatred. “That animal needs to be put down.”

Hannah bristled. “We’re taking a walk. We’re going to keep walking now. We’d appreciate it if you mind your own business.”

“Everyone’s business is our business.”

Hannah went rigid. Her breath hitched in her throat, her palms damp inside her gloves, but her voice was firm. “Not mine.”

“Never was much of a dog person, myself.” He shifted, broadening his stance to look more intimidating, the muzzle of his rifle rising.

The guy smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. “There’s been stray dog sightings. They’re getting aggressive now that they don’t got owners to feed them. Some of ‘em even got rabies. Who knows? They might attack a little kid. Sutter ordered us to shoot them on sight.”

Fear shot through her. Inside her coat pocket, her hand closed over the grip of her .45. She felt for the safety, snicked it off, and angled the muzzle toward Bandolier.

If she needed to, she’d shoot through the fabric of her coat.

He stood fifteen feet away. She watched his finger resting on the trigger guard. If that finger moved, she was firing. “No one is hurting this dog. No one.”

Ghost sensed the tension in her body and growled louder, his black jowls peeling back to reveal his teeth.

Bandolier sneered. “Here’s the thing you need to figure out. We’re the ones in charge. We make the rules. Ain’t no one to go crying to if somethin’ doesn’t go your way, or if, say, there was an unfortunate accident. You hearin’ me?”

“Accidents go both ways.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Are you threatening me?”

Hannah refused to dignify him with an answer. “If you hurt anyone in my family, you will not live to regret it. That includes Ghost.”

His rifle rose another few inches. His finger was still on the trigger guard, but he aimed the muzzle at Ghost.

“Don’t you dare hurt my dog!” Milo shouted. “Don’t you dare!”

He yanked on Hannah’s hand like he was ready to charge the man. Her kid was brave, but foolhardy. He didn’t understand the danger. Her heart jackhammering, Hannah pulled him close to her.

“Shut up!” Bandolier snarled, his voice rising. “That thing’s a menace! I’m putting it down!”

A door slammed. An old man in his seventies shuffled down his front steps. Further down the road, a couple opened their door and peered out. The mothers on the porch rose to their feet, their children all watching the altercation in the street, mouths gaping.

“Hey!” the old man yelled. “What’s going on?”

“Leave that dog alone!” a mother shouted. The little kids in the yard started crying.

The loud voices drew two of the militiamen on the corner—one a tall man, the other a short, squat woman.

The woman shielded her eyes. “Vik! Something wrong?”

Bandolier—Vik—hesitated, uncertain. His eyes flicked toward the neighbors, then to his buddies on the corner, then back to the neighbors.

Whatever he’d planned to do, he didn’t want an audience. A lot of dog lovers were among the militia’s family members, some among the militiamen themselves.

The tightness released inside of Hannah’s chest. Relief flooded her. This was her chance. She needed to get out of here without a violent confrontation.

“We’re going now,” she said. “Okay? You win.”

“You aren’t going anywhere—”

“Hey, Vik!” The woman jogged toward them. The name “Kesler” was stitched across her chest. “That’s Chief Sheridan’s family. Stop jerking around and leave ‘em alone! We’ve got work to do.”

“Milo, let’s go.” Hannah tugged on Milo’s hand, turned, and marched back the way they’d come. Her legs shook. Her hand gripped the .45 so tightly that her fingers cramped. “Ghost!”

Ghost balked, reluctant to flee from a threat.

“Ghost! Come!”

The dog relented and trotted to her side.

“Stop!” Vik yelled after them, but it was half-hearted.

Hannah kept going. She didn’t run. She refused to run.

Vik was a bully who liked to throw his weight around, who enjoyed wielding power over anyone he deemed weaker, smaller, or “less” than himself.

Would he have shot Ghost? She wouldn’t put it past him or any of them. They were killers. Anyone capable of killing a human being would kill pets, too.

She kept her focus on the militia—listening hard for any movement or sound behind her. They stared after her, their animosity like a physical force buffeting her back.

A tremor went through her body, like she was standing too close to the edge of a cliff. Her fingers tingled. Things could have gone badly. They had escaped violence by the skin of their teeth. They wouldn’t be so lucky again.

No more walks in Winter Haven.

Noah insisted this was the safest place for them. It wasn’t.

She believed in the goodness of people, but Liam was right. The militia had raided and plundered the surrounding towns. They’d killed innocent people for no reason other than because they could.

The militia were a poison. They were destroying Fall Creek.

They had to be dealt with. Not just dealt with—ended.

11

HANNAH

DAY FORTY-TWO

A sense of foreboding settled over Hannah. She tried to focus on Milo, to act normal so he wouldn’t feel frightened.

“Mom?” Milo asked when they’d rounded the bend and Vik was out of sight.

Only then did Hannah breathe again. “Yeah?”

“When can we go back to Quinn’s house?”

That was a simple request. Hannah liked Quinn and Molly as much as Milo did. “How about tomorrow? Miss Molly has planned another trading day. I bet she’d love some help with that.”

Milo’s eyes got big. “Oh, yeah! We could make more hand warmers or those baking soda shampoos. Those traded fast last time.”

“I bet.”

“Quinn’s grandma is cool.”

“That she is.”

“She made a whole oven that works from the sun.”

“What a great idea. She could show us how to make one, too.”

Milo went quiet for a minute. Their boots crunched through the snow. The sounds of the militia and children playing faded as they drew closer to their cul-de-sac.

Charlotte made cooing sounds and waved her arms. Milo gave her his gloved finger, and she batted at it with a tiny mittened fist. Hannah remained on high alert.

“Mom?”

“Yeah?”

“Dad says that Nana Sinclair is like my grandma.” Milo chewed his lower lip. “It doesn’t feel that way anymore. When we baked cookies, I didn’t like it. My stomach hurt. It felt…weird.”

Hannah stopped and looked down at him. Ghost paused a few feet away and gazed back the way they’d come, hackles still raised. “I believe God gave us intuition. It’s like a bad or uncomfortable feeling that warns us that something is wrong, even if we don’t understand why yet. Does that make sense?”

Milo nodded.

“If Mrs. Sinclair invites you to her house again or anything else, what should you say?”

“I’ll yell ‘No way!’ and come running to you.”

She smiled tightly. “Good answer.”

They reached the house. She unlocked the front door, and Ghost raced in ahead of them, shaking snow all over the foyer. Hannah’s breathing returned to normal. The tension in her shoulders eased a little.

“Thanks a lot, Ghost!” Milo called, affection in his voice. “I’m the one that has to clean up after you!”

Ghost gave an unapologetic bark in response.

Before she entered the house, Hannah glanced toward the end of the street at the two militiamen guarding Superintendent Sinclair’s home. They were looking at her, their expressions stony, hands resting on their guns.

Anxiety twisted her stomach. It was disconcerting to live in enemy territory. Maybe she was protected as Noah’s wife; maybe she wasn’t.

The curtains over the front window of the superintendent’s house fluttered. Hannah couldn’t see clearly into the window from this far away, but she could make out a shape.

An icy shiver of dread zipped down her spine. Someone standing there, watching her. She felt their eyes on her.

It was Rosamond Sinclair. She knew it was. The woman who’d birthed the monster that had terrorized Hannah for five years.

Rosamond Sinclair was a monster. Hannah had no doubt.

She was surrounded by monsters.

The curtain shifted and fell back into place. The shadow behind the glass disappeared.

With a shudder, Hannah hurried into Noah’s house, slammed the door behind her, and pressed her back against the wood. Panic fluttered in her chest.

She squeezed her eyes shut, breathing hard, pushing out the tsunami of memories that threatened to overtake her. The dank smell of the basement, the cold seeping into her bones, the terrible click, click, click of Pike’s lighter.

It was always there. It only took a thought, a smell, a sound, and it would all come flooding back. The grubby mattress, the bars on the single small window, the hundreds of chalk lines marking the concrete wall. Pike’s leering face, that red slash of a mouth. The fear, helplessness, and pain.

She wasn’t there anymore. She wasn’t trapped. She was here—and free.

Hannah forced her eyes open and scanned the room, counting chairs, rugs, curtains, and planks in the floor until the fear released her.

“Mom? Are you okay?”

Hannah took several deep, steadying breaths. “I’m okay.”

In the foyer, Milo knelt in front of Ghost, who sat primly, one white paw raised as the boy wiped down his fur with an old towel they kept by the door.

Milo chattered to Ghost while the dog cocked his head, ears pricked like he was listening to the little boy’s babbling. Still strapped to Milo’s chest, Charlotte gazed up at Ghost’s big furry head in wonder.

Hannah wanted nothing more than to grab her children and flee this awful place. She would rather be anywhere but here—at Molly and Quinn’s, at the shelter, or at her old house with Liam.

Her stomach somersaulted at the thought of Liam.

Sometimes, what you wanted didn’t matter.

Still, she could leave. As long as she could take everything she loved with her, she would leave this place in a heartbeat.

Winter Haven’s electricity and running water held little allure. It wasn’t enough to counterbalance the cost.

She would rather live a thousand lifetimes without hot showers than lose her freedom.

If she left, she could take Charlotte. Noah wouldn’t care. He seldom looked at the child, let alone cared for her.

Could she take Milo?

Would Milo want to come?

He loved his father. For all Noah’s faults, he loved his son. He was a good parent. For five years, they had only had each other. That bond was critical to Milo’s psychological health and well-being.

Could Hannah ask him to leave the one person he loved wholeheartedly, who’d loved and protected him through everything?

As much as she longed to, she wasn’t sure that she could.

Maybe Winter Haven was the safest place for Milo, even if it wasn’t safe for her. No one wanted him dead. No one hated him.

Noah would protect him.

Her heart felt torn in two. Could she bear to leave Milo behind, even for a little while? How could she leave him here, even if leaving was the best choice for herself?

Without bothering to take her boots off, she moved into the foyer, fell to her knees, and gathered Milo and Charlotte into a fierce hug.

Milo giggled. “Oof! What was that for?”

Hannah’s aching heart nearly burst with love and fear, tenderness and doubt. She enfolded her son and her daughter in her arms.

She included her dog—the bravest, smartest canine she’d ever known, and as much a member of her family as anyone. Ghost nosed her cheek and leaned his bulk against her side—the Great Pyr version of a hug.

This. This right here was everything.

12

NOAH

DAY FORTY-THREE

Noah Sheridan stood in front of Rosamond’s office door and realized that he did not want to go inside.

The sun shone bright in the sky and reflected off the snow. Temperatures were in the twenties again—practically warm for Michigan. A day perfect for sledding, skiing, or snow tubing. A day for laughter and hot chocolate.

Noah was in the mood for none of those things.

His hands clenched into fists at his sides. He trembled with anger. Beneath the anger lay a vast and bottomless pit of fear.

Fall Creek had been attacked. They’d driven the invaders off, but the attack had shaken him to his core. He’d believed that fifty militiamen would be enough. That the trade-off for submitting to Sutter’s tyranny meant a promise of absolute safety.

The attack two days ago had disabused him of that notion. Forty-something untrained people had broken through their initial blockades, breached the town, and nearly overrun it.

All it would take was a few bloodthirsty thugs bent on mayhem slipping past the perimeter. They could take everything he cared about in an instant.

It was the fear that drove him to Rosamond’s.

He pounded on the door. No one answered. He pounded louder.

A moment later, the door swung open.

Sutter stood there glaring at him with those disconcerting eyes. “What is it?”

Noah attempted to push past him. Sutter didn’t move.

Rage flashed through him. This was all Sutter’s fault. The attack, the townspeople’s antagonism, Hannah’s distance and indignation—everything.

Noah’s right hand rested on his sidearm. A dark, ugly part of him longed to use it. “I’m here for Rosamond. Move aside.”

Sutter just gave him a nasty grin.

“Let him in,” Rosamond said from behind Sutter.

Sutter frowned but moved his considerable bulk aside.

Noah strode into the room, kicking snow from his boots. He shut the door as warmth and light surrounded him. He tugged off his gloves and hat and stuck them in his coat pockets.

“What do you want?” Rosamond asked.

Noah opened his mouth, then hesitated, startled. Rosamond looked…different. Her blonde hair was mussed and greasy, like she hadn’t washed it in days. She’d applied makeup, but her lipstick bled at the corners. Dark circles rimmed her eyes.

An empty bottle of wine sat on the desk. Several bottles of bourbon and whiskey in various stages of emptiness lined on the bookshelf.

Was it any wonder? She’d lost both of her sons within days. It was a miracle she was even functioning.

Sutter retreated to stand beside Rosamond’s desk. The move wasn’t subtle. He was demonstrating his influence and dominance over Noah. He was attempting to rile him, to provoke him. It was working.

Noah jabbed a finger at him. “You lied to me!”

Sutter folded his arms over his broad chest and gazed unblinking at Noah. “How so?”

“Those people who attacked us—they weren’t strangers, gangs, or thugs. They were our neighbors! People from Niles, St. Joe, Dowagiac, Stevensville.”

“They attacked us,” Sutter said evenly. “They shot and killed my people. They deserve everything that happened to them.”

“They say we’re the ones who’ve been attacking them!”

It was Hannah who’d told him. How furious she’d been, those green eyes shocked, indignant, and betrayed.

That look of betrayal had skewered his soul. She’d looked at him like he was a stranger. Worse than a stranger—the enemy.

Feeding off her anger, her dog had come at him with hackles raised and teeth bared. For a moment, Noah had feared for his life.

She’d called Ghost’s name and he’d retreated to her side, but he didn’t stop growling or glaring at Noah like he wanted to take a significant bite out of him.

“I didn’t know!” he’d stammered, raising both hands in supplication. “I swear!”

“You’re the chief of police. How could you not know?” Hannah asked, suspicion dripping from every word.

Noah had defended himself as best he could, his stomach sinking, a bitter acid in the back of his throat.

He’d promised to find out the truth. It was the only way to end the argument, to get Hannah to stop looking at him like he was a killer himself.

“They claim the militia are the raiders,” he said now. “Murderers.”

Rosamond’s right eye twitched. She said nothing.

Sutter’s expression remained passive. “So what?”

“So what?” Noah sputtered. “SO WHAT?”

“I thought you knew.”

“Knew? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Are we doing this?” Sutter shot Rosamond an incredulous look. When Rosamond said nothing, he sighed. “Where do you think the supplies come from that we bring in? The food you put on your table? The toilet paper you use to wipe your tender butt cheeks? The gas you use to run your trucks and snowmobiles? Do you think all that magically appears out of the sky?”

“The abandoned warehouses—”

“You think anyone would leave a building full of life-saving supplies? Desperate people ransacked every store, every warehouse, every business and pharmacy within the first week. Armed gangs, corrupt cops, or government agencies took over the rest.”

Noah couldn’t get enough oxygen. He felt light-headed. You knew. Of course you knew, a voice whispered inside his head. A voice he hated.

How much easier it had been to not ask. To accept the bounty without questioning where it came from, without examining the evidence in front of his eyes. Until now.

“You—you killed people. Innocent people.”

Sutter scoffed. “No one is innocent.”

“They weren’t guilty, either!”

“You needed your hydrocortisone, didn’t you? Who did you think was going to give it to us? Nothing is free, Chief.” Sutter’s lip curled in derision. “In this world, we make the rules. We get to take what we want. The strong survive. It’s how the world works, how it’s always worked. If you want to live, you need to put aside your whiny morals and get with the program. Or you can sit in your cold, empty house with your empty belly and tell your starving kid why you weren’t man enough to take care of him. It’s as simple as that. Don’t make this any more complicated than it has to be.”

Noah hated that he’d had the same thoughts. His insides roiled with nausea. He couldn’t meet Sutter’s hard eyes; he dropped his gaze to the carpet. “How many people have you killed?”

“What’s your number, Noah? If I say five, you’ll accept it? If I say twenty, you won’t? What does it matter?”

It mattered. It was supposed to matter.

Noah raised his eyes to Rosamond. He wanted to believe that she was innocent in this, that she would never condone it.

Sutter was running the deal; she had been forced to fall into line, just like Noah. They were both submitting against their will.

They had no choice.

“You belong to us,” Sutter said. “We own you.”

A last spark of indignation sputtered in his chest. “Like hell I do! I’m the chief of police! My duty is to the people—”

“Your duty is to me,” Rosamond said, razors in her voice. Her shoulders were stiff, her eyes clear. She pinned Noah with her sharp gaze. “Your duty is to do anything and everything I say. I say jump, you jump. I say do this, you do it. I thought I had already made myself clear. Apparently, I did not. So, let me be clear now. Everything you have is because of me. I gave you that badge you wear so proudly. I gave you that house that keeps you warm at night and shelters you. And I gave you the medication that keeps your son alive.”

Noah glanced at Sutter.

“Don’t look at him!” Rosamond snapped. “Look at me.”

“Think of Milo,” Sutter said. “Think of your son.”

Rosamond was like a mother to him, a grandmother to Milo. He loved her. It wasn’t something he thought about much, but it was true. He owed her. He’d repaid her with absolute loyalty.

A memory flashed through his mind. Rosamond standing next to Milo behind her expansive kitchen island, her arm tightening around his slim shoulders as he tried to squirm free, her iron gaze locked on Noah.

The abject fear he’d felt in that moment. Complete and utter terror. Irrational, he’d told himself later. Rosamond would never hurt Milo.

Now, he wasn’t so sure.

A vise tightened around his chest, panic compressing his ribs. He’d do anything to keep his son safe. Anything.

Rosamond knew it. Sutter knew it.

“We’re the same,” Rosamond said, leaning close. “You and I. We’re the same.”

Noah wanted to argue. He couldn’t. He couldn’t say a thing.

13

QUINN

DAY FORTY-FOUR

Q uinn opened her eyes with a gasp, her heart hammering, her palms damp.

She wiped the sweat from her face with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. The mornings were freezing outside—only marginally warmer inside her bedroom, even with the propane heater stationed beside her dresser—and she’d awoken drenched in sticky sweat.

The nightmares. The one she hated. It was the church. Always the church. She could still hear the screaming, the desperate cries, the agonized groans of the dying.

All she had to do was close her eyes, and she could see the stone walls, the wooden pews, the tapestries, dust and debris everywhere. The psychos with guns advancing, killing without mercy.

Some days were better than others. Some days were worse—like when she saw Juniper and Chloe dying again and again behind her eyelids, when she couldn’t block out Chloe’s desperate little-girl voice calling her name over and over.

She stared unblinking at her ceiling. The pain in her chest wasn’t going away. It would never go away.

In this broken world, loss was a thing you had to learn to live with, like a gimp leg or Hannah’s ruined fingers. Not everyone chose to live with it.

She thought of Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein, the couple down the street she’d stumbled across when checking on the neighbors for Gran. The two of them in that bed, Mr. Bernstein curled around his wife like a comma, the oily black blood spattered across the pillows. The despair that had permeated the bedroom like a sickness.

She didn’t blame anyone for choosing death instead. The way forward was rife with terror, violence, starvation, desperation, and grief. Anyone who didn’t face that future with trepidation was a damn fool and a moron besides.

Quinn would never make that choice. She knew it deep in her bones.

She’d seen the face of the devil, and the devil could go straight to hell.

She wasn’t backing down. She wasn’t giving up. No matter how bad things got, no matter how awful the nightmares.

Her shoulders tensed, her stomach balling into a knot. She might have to live with the loss, but she sure as hell didn’t have to accept the cause—or allow the perpetrator to get away with it.

She’d thought it ended with the death of her mother and the execution of Ray Shultz, Billy Carter, and the rest of their cronies.

It hadn’t.

It wasn’t over.

Bishop hadn’t wanted to tell her at first. She’d seen the reluctance in his expression, his doubt and concern. He didn’t need to worry. Not about her.

Quinn could handle herself. She could handle—would handle—anything life threw at her. Hadn’t she already? The death of Gramps, her narcissistic meth-head mother, the massacre, Desoto’s attack in the shed, even this.

Ray Shultz hadn’t acted alone. He hadn’t made the random decision to shoot up a church on his own. He was cajoled into it.

He’d been a puppet. Her mother, too.

Sure, they made their own decisions. They deserved everything they got. Quinn wasn’t so naïve as to believe that her mother could be innocent.

Her mother’s body crumpled in the snow flared behind her eyes. She shoved it away. Getting emotional over human trash like Octavia Riley was a waste of energy.

Her mother was dead. End of story.

She didn’t want to think about her mother, anyway. There was only one person she was interested in.

The puppet master holding the strings, the one who’d orchestrated the entire thing, hidden in the shadows until her own son had outed her.

Julian Sinclair had confessed her schemes to Bishop before he’d fallen through the ice and drowned. He’d gotten his own hands dirty, but he was dead. Quinn could exact no pound of flesh from him.

Rosamond Sinclair was still very much alive.

Quinn turned her head and stared at the huge, colorful murals she’d painted on the walls, the ceiling, the closet doors—dragons, gremlins, harpies, demons, and monsters—until her eyes blurred.

Monsters existed. She’d always believed that. Monsters like Rosamond.

She hated that woman. Loathed her with a savage rage.

All this pain and suffering was because of Rosamond. The dead and dying people that seared Quinn’s memories and haunted her nightmares. All those fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers crying out for justice, their endless screams trapped inside Quinn’s head.

Chloe and Juniper, dead. Their voices the loudest of all.

Someone should do something about it.

Someone should bring Rosamond Sinclair to justice.

It wasn’t fair that she could wall herself up inside that warm, bright mansion of hers, directing her fake soldiers like her own personal bodyguards.

The blood of innocents spilled at her behest. Blood staining the snow. Blood staining the pews and carpet. Blood on Rosamond’s manicured hands.

She probably thought she’d gotten away with it. No one left to expose her ugly little secrets. No repercussions. No consequences.

Maybe Noah wasn’t willing to do anything, but she would.

There would be consequences. Quinn would make sure of it.

Gran banged on the bedroom door—three solid hits, like she was pounding a nail with her fist. Bam! Bam! Bam!

She was in her seventies, yet still as spry and feisty as a sixty-year-old. “Morning, sleepyhead! We’ve got work to do this fine day!”

Quinn groaned and rubbed her eyes. “What about today makes it fine? We have work to do every single day. The work never ends!”

“Exactly!” Gran crowed through the closed door. “Every day we’re both above ground is a good day in my book. Besides, the sun is shining. I’m not even sure it’s Michigan out there.”

“Maybe Dorothy showed up and we’re in Oz now,” she muttered.

“Only if I get to be the Wicked Witch of the West!” Gran tried her best cackle. It was surprisingly good. She banged on the door again. “Up and at ‘em! Rise and shine!”

Quinn would rise, but that didn’t mean she had to shine. She yawned, shoved back the covers, and planted her feet on the icy floor.

The latest nightmare slowly faded. She pushed it down somewhere deep. If she allowed herself to think about it, she’d be worthless the entire day.

She wouldn’t forget Rosamond Sinclair or what she had coming to her. But like Gran said, life still went on living.

First, survive. Then take care of the rest.

Dawn peeked through the curtains over her bed. The sun went down early in winter, and Gran insisted that they did, too. Most nights, they were in bed before nine and up before seven a.m.

In the old days, folks rose with the sun and retired with it, too. Why stay up and waste perfectly good lamp oil, Gran said. She wasn’t wrong. There was a finite supply of oil, kerosene, and propane, just like everything else.

Today, Quinn needed to pump enough water from the well to supply the household’s cooking, washing, and drinking needs. She’d never realized just how much water she’d used without a second thought.

Now, every precious gallon was dispensed judiciously. It was a royal pain in the butt to bundle up, trundle into the freezing cold with several buckets in hand, and chip snow and ice from the hand pump before she could even get to the water.

After that, she had to go foraging for deadfall beneath the snow to dry out in the shed so they had a fresh supply of wood ready to go. Laundry always had to be done—by hand.

Hunting was on the docket, too. She was hoping to bag some rabbits this time, though she was running low on .22 ammo. Her mouth watered at the thought of fresh, juicy, tender meat.

With a sigh, she dressed in combat boots, black cargo pants with long johns underneath, and threw on two hoodies. She ran her hands through her shoulder-length hair and yanked it into a ponytail.

The vibrant blue dye was fading into a wild bluish-purplish color, her raven strands beginning to shine through. Her black hair and dark eyes were part of her Vietnamese heritage—a gift from her mother that she’d once despised.

It didn’t feel like her mother’s hair anymore, but something precious passed down to her from Gramps. Any part of Gramps that she could keep, she would hold on to with all her heart.

She switched out her lip ring for one of her favorite topaz studs, leaving her eyebrow ring, then stuffed her slingshot and ammo into the front pocket of her sweatshirt and swung her .22 rifle over her shoulder.

There. She was ready for the apocalypse.

As she was about to leave her room, her gaze fell on her drawing pad and charcoal sticks next to her iPod and the solar charger on her dresser. She’d been working on a portrait of Milo to give to Noah but hadn’t gone beyond the initial sketches.

She wanted to draw Hannah’s baby, too. Hannah would appreciate any kind of picture as a keepsake. With most cameras digital these days, photos were yet another casualty of the collapse.

Maybe she’d have time tomorrow.

Another object snagged her gaze. Next to her drawing pad sat the Kindle e-reader full of reference and survival books that Gramps had saved in the Faraday cage.

It was full of important information that even Gran didn’t know—medicinal herbs, edible plants, wilderness first aid, how to survive nuclear fallout, how to build a spring house and a latrine. She needed to read it. Memorize it.

Guilt pricked her. She’d meant to read it every night before she passed out in bed. There was never enough time. Each day seemed to fill itself with enough tasks for a week.

She missed hanging out with Milo all day in Winter Haven. She missed playing card games at night with Noah. Hannah was there now. They didn’t need Quinn anymore.

Hannah had brought the kids and Ghost to visit several times, but Noah never came with them. He was withdrawing, isolating himself.

Quinn hated it. She hated what everyone was saying about him. Noah was better than this. She knew he was.

He just needed to kick himself out of his funk and remember himself: a cop, one of the good guys.

She should visit him. But whenever she set aside some time to do it, something more important came along. Like now.

College might be a relic of the past. High school sure wasn’t happening. Algebra didn’t matter anymore. That future was gone.

But there were still opportunities. She could still be useful. No offense to Gran, but the kitchen wasn’t for her. No freaking way.

What she wanted to do was find Liam Coleman. He was a fighter, a former Delta Force super soldier. He knew fifty ways to kill someone, and he never hesitated to do what needed doing.

Quinn Riley wanted to be a warrior.

14

LIAM

DAY FORTY-FIVE

Liam stood watch in the empty house closest to the crossroad.

His lower back burned like a hot poker pressed against his nerves, but he forced himself to ignore it. He remained alert, constantly scanning the darkness, the quiet houses, the empty street.

Molly and Quinn lived at the end of the road. Hannah’s old house was near the midpoint, with around ten houses on either side.

Tanglewood Drive was a long country road surrounded by wooded rolling hills that abutted the river. Most plots were a few acres, and every home had a well and septic system.

Twenty-two houses were staggered along the cul-de-sac; residents inhabited only fourteen.

Bishop had agreed to leave his home behind Crossway Church and move into one of the empty houses. Michael Duncan and his son Jamal had also joined them, along with Annette King. Jose Reynoso was single and ditched his apartment for one of the smaller homes in exchange for a few home-cooked meals from Molly.

Liam, Bishop, and Reynoso had barricaded the mouth of the street with four non-working SUVs borrowed from the neighbors, staggering them to make it difficult for another vehicle to breach their defenses.

The neighbors could still exit. Most people were out of gas, but a few had working snowmobiles or ATVs.

They’d also constructed hides on either side of the barricade, designating several protected shooting positions at various points throughout the small neighborhood.

They’d set up a rotating watch. Perez and Truitt didn’t live on this street, but they’d offered to take a four-hour shift every other night.

Molly had suggested including some neighbors. Six agreed to help. Liam didn’t trust them. He’d man the watch twenty-four-seven if it were humanly possible.

Quinn had begged to take a shift. She was quick-witted, smart, and ambitious. She took things seriously and didn’t mess around, unlike many teenagers. Still, she was too young. She was pissed about it, but he’d rather have her safe and alive.

Lastly, Liam had buried a few caches with a weapon and ammo at strategic fallback points in the woods behind the houses on both sides of the road.

None of it was enough. He needed more men, more supplies, more ammo.

The little neighborhood wasn’t truly defensible, not with the resources he had on hand. A genuine assault by a hostile force would overrun them.

Which was why the next stage of the plan needed to be enacted ASAP.

The rumble of a snowmobile approaching from the east interrupted his thoughts.

Liam raised the carbine and peered through the scope. It was dark, the moon half-hidden by clouds, the figure cloaked in heavy shadows behind the machine’s twin headlights.

Muscles tensed, Liam flicked off the safety and kept the figure in his sights as he drove up the road, slowing as he neared the turn onto Tanglewood Drive.

The driver paused twenty-five yards away, switched off the engine, and whistled the first few bars of “Happy Birthday.”

Liam’s radio clicked. “It’s me, you buffoon. Don’t shoot me.”

Liam grimaced and lowered the weapon.

He watched as the machine drew even with his hide. Jose Reynoso tugged off his helmet and shivered. “Man, this cold is brutal. I’m beyond ready for spring. And sun. And pretty gals in short skirts.”

“Your shift isn’t until tomorrow.”

Liam glimpsed a flash of white teeth. “I was bored. Can you believe it? Anything exciting happen?”

“No, nothing. All quiet on the western front.”

Reynoso climbed off the machine and pocketed the key fob. He stood below Liam and faced the road, scanning their surroundings. “It’s the eye of the storm. Take a break while we can get it. Crap’s gonna hit the fan soon enough.”

“Sit rep?” Liam asked.

Reynoso had spent the day meeting with key council members and townspeople they thought they could trust—the ones who most wanted the militia gone.

Reynoso blew out a frustrated breath. He was a laid back, steady guy. Not riled him. He seemed irritated now, his jaw tense. “It didn’t go as well as I’d hoped. Let’s put it that way.”

“They aren’t ready to fight.” Liam said it as a statement, not a question—it didn’t surprise him.

“No. They aren’t. They’re happy to ‘support’ us any way they can—” Reynoso used finger quotes, “—but the real work is up to us, as usual.”

“They’re scared,” Liam said. “They’re not soldiers or cops.”

“We need to be careful. Annette King said that Sutter is offering food rewards for informants reporting dissent. Anyone could turn us in or report us.”

“We will be.”

Liam’s radio crackled. “Hey, Wolverine!” Quinn’s voice cut through static. “We’ve got cream of asparagus soup simmering on the stove if you’re hungry. Plus, some homemade bread and more coffee on the percolator.”

His stomach rumbled at the mention of food. “My shift isn’t over until midnight.”

“Then I’ll bring you a thermos,” Quinn said. “Over and out.”

Reynoso narrowed his eyes as Liam clipped the radio to his belt. “When did your shift start?”

Liam didn’t answer. He’d taken over for Bishop seven hours ago. It was almost eight p.m.

“That’s what I thought. Man, you need a break.”

“I’m fine.”

“Didn’t you hear? Quinn’s going to bring me a thermos of coffee. Actual coffee! You know what I’d do for a cup of joe right now?” He didn’t wait for Liam to answer. “Damn near anything, that’s what.”

Liam couldn’t argue with that. And he could use the break. As much as he wanted to endure, his body was protesting. “Guess I shouldn’t stand between you and your caffeine fix.”

“I’m in serious withdrawal, man. You don’t even know.”

Five minutes later, Liam left Reynoso basking in the steam of a hot thermos of precious coffee. Quinn tried to start up a conversation, but he sent her back to Molly’s. He needed to check the neighborhood one more time.

On his return, he took the circuitous route behind the houses to the left of the road. Just past the backyards, he’d strung trip wires with cans filled with stones, nails, and bric-a-brac through the trees.

He stepped in his previous footprints and scanned the snow for anything fresh. With a tactical flashlight, he examined the underbrush for broken twigs or other telltale signs that someone was lurking out here.

He held the flashlight away from his body in case someone took a shot at him. Pausing every minute or two, he listened to the night sounds. An owl hooted. A tiny creature scurried through the underbrush.

Tonight, Tanglewood Drive was quiet and undisturbed. Didn’t mean it would stay that way.

He finished his patrol of the neighborhood and approached Hannah’s house from the rear. He thought of it as Hannah’s house, whether she lived there or not.

A flicker of light shone from the rear kitchen window. He’d have to fix that.

He’d taken the blackout curtains from the bedrooms and rehung them over the front-facing windows so no one could tell if anyone occupied the home.

Tracks crisscrossed the backyard. A small pair of human footprints, followed by giant paw prints.

Liam smiled. The prints were fresh. Hannah and Ghost were here.

15

LIAM

DAY FORTY-FIVE

Ghost greeted Liam with a booming woof when he entered. The dog pressed his snout against the palm of Liam’s hand and sniffed a few times, his plumed tail swishing.

“Hey boy, good to see you.” It was even better to see Hannah, but he didn’t say so.

He flicked off the flashlight and tucked it into a pouch on his belt as he stomped snow from his boots. Ghost followed him through the darkened kitchen into the living room.

Hannah knelt by the fireplace, an oil lantern glowing by her feet. She’d placed fresh logs in the grate and stoked it into a warm blaze. She tucked her hair behind her ears, her cheeks pink from the heat of the fire. She looked spectacular.

She glanced up with a soft smile, her eyes shining. “Sorry. I knew you’d come back eventually and thought you’d appreciate a warm house. It gets so cold without a fire.”

“I do.” He couldn’t help but smile back at her. “It’s your house. You don’t have to make excuses for coming over.”

“Well, yeah, but it’s also yours for as long as you need it. I shouldn’t have barged in.”

“You’re always welcome here. Always.”

She ducked her chin, returned her gaze to the fire, and prodded the logs with the poker. “What time did your shift end?”

“It didn’t. Reynoso showed up and forced me to take a break.”

That smile again. “I wasn’t sure you knew the meaning of ‘break.’”

“Reynoso said about the same thing.” He took in the rest of the living room in a glance. “Where’s Charlotte?”

“Molly said she wanted a turn at babysitting a sweet and pliant child rather than a prickly, stubborn one. Quinn objected strongly, but it was all bark, no bite.”

“Sounds about right.”

She wiped her hands on her jeans, rose to her feet, and turned to face him. “Ghost missed you. We haven’t talked in a while. I mean, like we used to…” Her voice trailed off.

She meant alone. After a month of being with a person day in and day out, you got to know them well. You got used to them. Enjoyed them, wanted them around.

It was different in Fall Creek. There were always other people present. There was Noah.

They hadn’t been alone since that night together on the porch swing. The night he’d wanted to kiss her. Hell, he wanted to kiss her every time he saw her.

He cleared his throat and busied himself with unzipping his coat and removing his outerwear. He unclipped his M4 and leaned it against the couch within easy reach.

“You look tired,” she said.

“It’s the watch shifts. Not enough people to keep watch means longer shifts more often.”

He was trained to endure extreme sleep deprivation. Once, he went over two weeks on four hours of sleep a night. More than once, he went eighty-four hours with no shut eye. The hallucinations set in around the fourth day.

The watch shifts weren’t the trouble.

She squinted and tilted her chin, studying him. “It’s more than that. Something’s bothering you.”

A part of him wanted to look away. She had a disconcerting way of seeing straight through him. It wasn’t a bad thing. There was something to being known by someone. It made you feel less alone in the world.

He grunted. “Just some nightmares.”

It sounded so childish, and yet his nightly terrors were a heinous blend of his worst fears, of horror and pain, torture and regret.

The explosions and rat-a-tat gunfire of combat, the dying screams of his brothers-in-arms. Other times, he was running with the baby cradled to his chest, fleeing monsters that snapped at his heels.

The plane streaking from the sky, silent death bearing down on him as he squatted in front of Lincoln, desperate to get his unresponsive twin on his feet, to free Jessa from the wrecked car, to save them both.

He never could. Over and over, he watched them die. Over and over, the monsters overtook him and snatched the baby in their slobbering jaws.

He’d awaken with a jolt, sitting bolt upright, agonizing shrieks echoing in his ears, the scent of seared flesh in his nostrils, his arms empty.

He felt the emptiness most acutely. An absence like a black hole, with its own weight, its own enormous heaviness.

“Tell me,” Hannah said.

He sat on the sofa, ignoring the painful twinge in his back, and bowed his head. There was nothing hidden between them.

He’d already confessed the truth of his worst failure to Hannah—how he’d lost Lincoln and Jessa in one awful night, how he’d placed his infant nephew in the arms of strangers and walked away. He’d abandoned Jessa’s parents and the baby to whatever fate awaited them.

That she still accepted him, looking at him with compassion and warmth and not judgment—it had done wonders for his spirit.

It wasn’t enough. He wanted it to be enough with all his heart, but regret and shame still stalked his dreams and haunted his waking moments.

He loved little Charlotte Rose as if she were his own child. Yet every time he looked at her in that crooked little knit cap, he thought of his nephew.

Liam was a man of action, not words. Words couldn’t make it better, couldn’t make up for his deficiencies. Forgiveness didn’t count in the equation.

He didn’t want to talk about it, not even with Hannah. It was too painful.

“It’s my back,” he said instead. It wasn’t the whole truth, but it wasn’t a lie, either. “Makes it hard to get proper rest.”

For a moment, she looked skeptical, about to call his bluff. From her expression, she knew that he wasn’t telling her everything, but she didn’t push him.

She pursed her lips. “I’m ready to listen when you want to talk about the nightmares. As for the physical pain, what can I do?”

“It’s not that bad. I can handle it.”

“Yes, it is. You wince every time you turn a certain way.”

He shot her a sharp look, surprised.

“You think you’re hiding it, but your mouth tightens when it hurts you. You move differently. I can see it.”

Once again, he found himself taken aback at how astute she was, how perceptive.

Most people missed so much. Addicted to their phones, they barely saw what was right in front of their faces. Phones were obsolete now, but the majority were as oblivious as ever, even as the danger crept in around them.

Hannah was different. She paid attention.

With his crushed discs, it didn’t take much to throw his back out. He’d developed coping methods over the years—rubbing his spine against a doorframe to pop his discs back in place or curling into a fetal ball and rolling back and forth across a hard floor. He usually bounced right back. Keeping himself fit helped. The most effective method was another pair of hands—but he’d rarely had that option.

This last time had been different. When he’d fallen down the embankment and slammed his spine against the trunk of the pine tree, he’d believed he’d reached the end of the line, doomed to freeze to death in a blizzard.

“An army buddy of mine had a similar issue,” he said, unsure if he should even suggest it. “His wife would do handstands on his back. You have any acrobatic skills?”

She flashed a wry smile. “I was the music major lugging a guitar case across campus, not the gymnast doing flips on the lawn. But I bet I could try something.”

He tried to hide his enthusiasm. “Why not? Anything’s worth a shot.”

16

LIAM

DAY FORTY-FIVE

For the next twenty minutes, Hannah walked barefoot across Liam’s back while he lay prone on the floor in front of the fireplace. Her ministrations loosened the tightness and eased the pain. She knew just where to push and prod with her heels.

Ghost got into it and followed her, barking in amusement as he trampled Liam’s legs and butt. The dog was as heavy as an ox, his claws digging through Liam’s clothes, but he didn’t complain.

Hannah suggested they move to the sofa so she could give him a deep tissue massage. No way was he saying no to that.

The logs in the fireplace popped and whistled and settled onto their bed of coals. Small flames leapt for the flue and vanished in midair.

Ghost went and sat by the front window. His muzzle poked between the blackout curtains so he could monitor the street.

Hannah’s hands were strong and supple. She used her knuckles and the sides and palm of her injured hand to press and push at his knotted muscles and tight discs. With her right hand, she massaged his lower back as he leaned forward, his forearms resting on the sofa arm.

He tried to stay focused on her words and not the warmth radiating through his back and shoulders at her faintest touch—or the surge of heat in his belly.

“How many people have signed up to fight?” Hannah asked.

“Not many.”

“Did they get cold feet?”

“Most of them.”

“What about the Community Alliance? Didn’t they promise to help when the time came?”

“So Mick Sellers said.”

Hannah kneaded his lower back. “You don’t trust them.”

“No.”

“You don’t trust anyone,” she said with a hint of amusement in her voice.

“Hard life lessons.”

“We may need them, even if we don’t trust them.”

She spoke a truth he’d rather not confront. “They’re civilians.”

“They may not be soldiers, but they have as much reason to despise the militia as we do. That puts them on our side by default. They’re motivated. They have a cause. Something worth believing in. That counts for something.”

She was right. It did. He still didn’t trust them.

She leaned in close, her breath on his neck, warm and soft, barely a tickle.

“You’re planning something yourself.”

No accusation in her voice, no suspicion. She said it like a statement, a fact she already knew but spoke aloud so they were both on the same page.

He grunted, non-committal. “I have some ideas.”

“You can’t do this on your own. There’s almost fifty of them, and twice as many guns. You’re only one person.”

“Watch me.”

Her knuckles ground into his spine, loosening knot after knot. He relaxed into her touch. It wasn’t a good idea. He couldn’t help it.

“You don’t have to be alone in this, Liam. You’re not alone.”

Sometimes, he felt less alone, like when he was with Hannah.

He’d chosen to take this on, to shoulder the responsibility for Fall Creek, the weight of his vow a tremendous burden. All those lives in his hands. All those people, dependent on him.

Hannah’s fingers fell away from him. He turned to look at her.

His back felt better . He knew it wouldn’t stay that way, but that didn’t matter. “That helped. Thank you.”

“Of course. Anytime you need it, I’m here.”

She glanced at her injured hand, self-conscious. He knew she thought of it as her “bad” hand.

He never thought of it that way. Every inch of her was beautiful. He wanted to hold her. Pull her into his arms, tilt her chin toward his, and kiss her like she deserved.

“How is Winter Haven?” he asked to distract himself—and because he worried constantly about her presence there.

He didn’t trust Noah to keep her safe. He didn’t trust Noah at all, for anything.

“It’s like a police state. Soldiers on every corner. All those guns. They look at us like we don’t belong, like we’re the intruders, and they can’t wait to get rid of us.”

“You’re going back.”

She didn’t look at him. “I’m supposed to. I have to.”

She didn’t say “I want to.” That was something.

“You, Charlotte, and Milo shouldn’t be in Winter Haven. It’s too dangerous.”

She didn’t argue with him. She didn’t concede, either.

“Things are about to get worse. When I start this, things will get worse for everyone.”

They sat side-by-side on the couch, only twelve inches between them. Hardly any space at all, and yet an endless gulf he could not cross.

Her hands drifted to her lap. “I know.”

“But you can’t leave,” he answered for her.

“I have Milo.”

He didn’t speak for a moment. He noted that she said nothing about Noah.

Her jaw tensed. “It’s complicated. Even if—even if I could…”

“We could get Milo out, too.”

“I knew you would say that. It’s not as easy as removing someone physically when their heart and loyalty lies somewhere else. He would believe I was stealing him from his father. He wouldn’t understand. If I took him, he would hate me. I couldn’t bear that.” She looked at him, her eyes glossy in the firelight, pain twisting her expression. “I can bear a lot of things, Liam. But not that.”

His heart ached for her. He wanted things black and white. Right and wrong. Actionable intelligence he could do something about.

Real life was messy and complicated.

“Everything will come to a head. And soon.”

She nodded.

“It’ll be ugly and violent. There will be collateral damage.”

She didn’t flinch. “Just a little more time, Liam. Give me a little time.”

He’d give her the moon if she asked for it. “I’ll do what I can.”

He didn’t bring up Noah. She had to make that decision herself. He saw it in her eyes—the sadness, the growing disillusion. She knew who her husband was; what he was becoming.

Noah’s own actions would condemn him. Liam could only try to keep Hannah and Milo protected from the inevitable fallout.

“I should go. Charlotte will be hungry again soon.” Hannah pulled herself to her feet and reached for her coat folded across the arm of the sofa. Ghost leapt to his feet and trotted for the door.

She paused at the front door, biting her lower lip. “I’ve been thinking about family a lot. My family, my parents and my brother, Oliver. Dave Farris has a ham radio with a huge tower. He invited me over tomorrow morning to see if we can make contact.” She pulled her hat over her ears and wrestled with her gloves, avoiding his eyes. “If you’d like to come…”

Any excuse to see her again. “I would.”

She rewarded him with a radiant smile.

Liam didn’t want her to leave. As soon as that door closed behind her, the house would feel empty and lonely again. But he had work to do.

Fall Creek wouldn’t save itself.

17

ROSAMOND

DAY FORTY-FIVE

Rosamond steepled her fingers on her desk. Her back was straight, her posture perfect, her shoulder blades aligned along an invisible string.

She’d repaired her chipped nail polish. Frequent washings chapped her hands. Last night, she’d spent an hour scrubbing, scouring, and polishing her desk. Each time she caught a stray dust mote or a finger smudge, she would begin the process anew.

Chin up, jaw set, she stared across the desk at the restless middle-aged soldier in her office. He’d once been brawny and muscular—a wrestler or even a body-builder—but the decades had not been kind. Gray sprinkled his receding hairline. His barrel chest sagged into a sizable gut that strained his uniform.

He looked like a man who belonged behind a desk—giving orders rather than following them, enjoying the comforts of middle management rather than the hungry young buck working the streets in the freezing cold.

And yet, she’d watched him from her expansive front windows as he stood guard at the end of her driveway, hunched and shivering, stomping his feet to keep warm, cursing when his cigarette winked out in the cutting wind.

She’d learned his name—Lyle Tomlin—and requested his presence after a late-night shift change. Sutter had retired early. She was confident that he wouldn’t interfere or learn of her little late-night conversation.

Rosamond rose gracefully, moved around the desk, and approached the bar table decked out with various alcoholic beverages. “Pick your poison, Lyle.”

“Bacardi, if you have it,” he said through chattering teeth. “On the rocks.”

“I do.” She collected ice from the mini-fridge and poured his drink and one for herself in crystal glasses. She didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable drinking alone. “A fine choice.”

She handed him the glass, making eye contact and holding it as she smiled.

His pupils dilated. His mouth parted.

Her smile widened. She hadn’t lost her touch. He wasn’t that much older than herself. While he’d let himself go, she had maintained her good looks.

She found his balding pate and beer belly repulsive, but she was an expert at concealing her emotions. She flashed a coquettish smile before returning to her desk.

Leaning back, she brought the Bacardi to her lips, relishing the burn as the rum slid down her throat. “I was wondering how you’re doing, Lyle.”

He looked at her, confused. “Fine, Superintendent.”

“Please. You’re a colleague. Call me Rosamond.”

He nodded. “Rosamond.”

“Periodically, I request feedback reports from my men. I want to ensure that you’re well taken care of, that you’re comfortable, and that your skills and assets are properly utilized.”

He stiffened and shot a surreptitious glance at the door, as if he feared being overheard.

“No one else is here, Lyle. It’s just you and me. What you say to me remains private. I won’t share it with anyone, including Sutter.”

He didn’t relax. She’d have to approach him with care. “I was…surprised at his choice of James Luther as his second in command. Luther seems young and green. I would have chosen someone with more…experience.”

Lyle gulped his drink. “I’m sure he has his reasons.”

“I’m sure,” she murmured. She stood and returned to the bar. “I’m parched. How about another?”

She refilled his cup, standing a little closer than she needed to.

“How are you enjoying Winter Haven?” she asked once she’d gotten a third and then a fourth drink into him.

He was loosening up. She saw it in his relaxed posture, in the way he talked, the increasingly unguarded way he looked at her, his hungry eyes scanning her body.

Instead of sitting behind her desk, she leaned against the front, glass in hand, her narrow pencil skirt accentuating her slim form. She was never so obvious or uncouth as to use smutty clothing to seduce a man. She didn’t need to.

Seduction—manipulation—was all in the imagination. In what you didn’t see, what you didn’t say.

“Winter Haven is fine,” Lyle said. “It’s great. You’ve been very generous.”

She swirled the ice in her cup. She was still on her second glass, though she was certain Lyle didn’t realize that. “But?”

He took a long swallow. “Not to be ungracious, but my wife, two teenage sons, and I are crammed into one bedroom of a six-bedroom house. It’s…crowded.”

She nodded. “You need your privacy. You need your own space.”

“It’d be nice. My family is accustomed to a certain lifestyle. I was prepared when SHTF, but it’s been devastating for them.”

“I’m sure. It’s an adjustment for all of us.” She dipped her free hand into her skirt pocket and withdrew a pack of Lucky cigarettes.

“Do you smoke?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

His eyes lit up. He stretched out a greedy hand before catching himself. “Yes, I do. They’ve been harder and harder to come by.”

“I’m sorry that it’s not your preferred brand…”

“No, no, it’s fine. It’s fine.” He snatched the cigarette from her, tucked it between his fingers, and dug around in the top lapel of his coat for a lighter. “Sutter’s rationing them. We must turn over what we find.”

She’d been the one to order Sutter to hoard cigars, cigarettes, and anything weed-related. It wouldn’t be long before they’d be more valuable than gold for barter. Giving them to the hired help was a waste of resources.

She didn’t tell him that.

Instead, she gave a sympathetic tsk. “You work hard. A few smokes a day isn’t too much to ask.”

He lit the cigarette. “Tell me about it.”

She waited as he enjoyed his vice, a pleasant half-smile plastered to her face. Bits of ash drifted to her lush, pristine carpet. She nearly gagged on the smoke.

Rosamond despised smoking. She hadn’t tolerated Gavin’s filthy habit; he never smoked those disgusting clove cigarettes in her house or in her presence.

She swallowed her gag reflex and smoothed her features. Time to get down to business. She had a need for a certain item—this dimwitted fool could deliver it.

“I’m loyal to those who are loyal to me, Lyle. I reward those who prove their value.”

He puffed away. “Anything. Just say the word.”

“I find myself in need of a working satellite phone.”

“Sutter mentioned something about that last week. If you ask him—”

“I don’t want to ask him. In fact, I’d rather he knew nothing about this.”

She didn’t take her eyes from his face, watching for any micro-expression, a flicker of hesitation, doubt, or deceit. She saw none, only greed, ambition, resentment.

He grinned. The hungry look of a man who wanted more than he deserved. “I can work with that.”

She tapped her glass with one manicured finger and maintained her placid expression, hiding her glee. She’d pegged him correctly.

Despite recent setbacks, despite her losses, despite her suspicions that those closest to her were untrustworthy—she would still come out on top.

Doubt festered in her mind. Mattias Sutter was her cousin, but she had no qualms about discarding him if he failed her. She’d thought fifty armed men could control this town, but she’d underestimated her adversary. She was not perfect, but she was adaptable.

The militia had fixed a problem. This new problem—Liam Coleman and his ilk—were proving to be a larger, more complex issue.

She had a plan, but it was not without risks. She’d been reluctant to call upon her resources before now. An ally more powerful than herself posed its own perils.

But if she lost Winter Haven, it was all for naught.

She could not lose Winter Haven.

Lyle finished the cigarette and dropped it into his glass. The embers winked out.

“Get me that sat phone, and I will see that you and your family want for nothing. A Winter Haven house of your own to start with sounds acceptable, doesn’t it?”

His beady eyes gleamed. “Absolutely.”

“The sooner the better, Lyle.”

With their business concluded, she couldn’t be rid of him fast enough. She straightened, set her half-full glass on the pristine desk, and sashayed toward the door. “Have a wonderful evening.”

Disappointment crossed his face.

She forced a flirty smile, hiding her disgust. “Say hello to your wife for me.”

Lyle departed without another word. He wasn’t so stupid or drunk that he didn’t recognize a dismissal.

Rosamond turned to the window. The bright light inside reflected off the glass, obscuring the night scenery outside.

She gazed at her reflection, smoothing her blonde bob. Her breath fogged the glass. She touched the creases beneath her eyes and frowned.

Anxiety torqued through her. She needed to remove the disgusting smoke stench from the upholstery, shampoo the carpet, and Lysol the room.

She missed her daily maid service. A local woman on the verge of starvation would be willing to do it for a can of beans. Maybe even less.

But she couldn’t trust one of them in her house, rifling through her things, touching everything with their dirty, unwashed hands, seeing what they shouldn’t see, hearing what they shouldn’t hear.

No. She couldn’t trust anyone. Without her sons, she was on her own.

18

LIAM

DAY FORTY-SIX

“Glad you could make it!” Dave Farris gave Hannah and Liam hearty handshakes. In his early sixties, Dave’s hair was graying at the temples, his face weathered, his eyes kind.

Dave owned fifteen rural acres and Fall Creek Inn. As a council member, the superintendent had given him one of the Winter Haven houses, which she’d snatched back in the “great purge,” as Quinn called it.

Only the militia, their families, and her faithful minions remained. And Hannah.

“Follow me to my humble abode.”

They trudged up the shoveled path toward the house. Liam strode up the hill. His back felt better than it had in weeks, if not years. Hannah had worked her magic.

“How’s the inn doing, Dave?” Hannah asked.

Since the inn had a working generator, Dave had taken in over forty families without access to fireplaces or wood stoves to heat their own homes, all on his own dime. They helped with cleaning and upkeep but couldn’t pay him.

“We’ve rationed power to heat only,” Dave said. “And we’re keeping the temp low, sixty-four degrees, to conserve as much energy as possible. No lights. People use battery and solar-operated flashlights and camping lanterns. The water works, but it’s freezing cold. Even with so many restrictions, we’ll run out of fuel in four to five days, tops.”

“I hear the militia still has plenty,” Liam said.

“Yeah, well, they have plenty of everything. And they’re not sharing. Not anymore.”

Four to five days. Those families had nowhere to go. They would freeze to death without fuel for the generator.

Yet another reason to take out the militia—and soon.

Hannah patted Dave’s arm. “It’s a good thing, what you’re doing. Taking in people when you don’t have to. That fuel would have lasted a long time if you’d saved it for yourself.”

Dave shrugged, his cheeks reddening. “My parents raised me this way. Neighbors take care of each other. Look out for those in need. It’s the Catholic in me. It’s either the dumbest or best thing I’ve ever done. I haven’t decided yet.”

Hannah’s lips twitched. “I know which one.”

Liam kept his thoughts to himself. If survival was one’s only concern, sharing any resources—for any reason, for anyone—was the wrong move. Foolish, short-sighted, ludicrous.

And yet. He respected a man who put others first, even at a significant cost to himself.

Dave Farris wasn’t a soldier; it didn’t make him less courageous. In his own way, he was a sheepdog. The ones who stood between the wolves and the sheep, who put themselves on the line, first, last, and always.

They passed two sheds and a pole barn. A cardinal flapped across the yard to land on a birdfeeder, a pop of bright red against a landscape of white. The sky was a soft, muffled gray, fog drifting among the trees.

Hannah pointed to snow-covered arbors. “What were you growing?”

“Some grapes, but they kept withering on the vine. I’ve got some cherry trees, and we grow asparagus, lettuce, and tomatoes in the summer. The Stover family grows strawberries, peaches, and apples. The Hadleys, Kroger-Myers, and Morrisons have cows, goats, and chickens. Chuck Wallace owns a winery and thirty acres of vineyards. We’ve got grapes everywhere. Lucky this is wine country,” Dave said. “How long can a person live off grapes?”

“As long as we need to,” Liam quipped. “Better than eating maggots or sucking rocks.”

“That it is.”

“We need to contact the farmers now,” Hannah said. “We can form a co-op. They won’t have their harvesting and planting machinery, but we have a town full of people willing to work a day’s labor to put a few meals on the table for their families.”

“We have machines,” Dave said. “Anything with a diesel engine can run on alternative fuels. We need to look at making biodiesel—or find someone who can. Start with Dominique West in St. Joe. She used to do Civil War reenactments. This girl knows blacksmithing, welding, and makes her own moonshine with her brother. I want her to make some to sell at the inn.”

“Great idea,” Hannah said, her voice rising in enthusiasm. “So we’ll have tractors. And use diesel trucks to travel as soon as the weather warms up. We can expand Molly’s little trading post to include not just Fall Creek, but the surrounding farmers and nearby towns. The fishermen and hunters can trade their meat for milk, eggs, fruit and vegetables, or needed services like haircuts.”

Dave ran a hand through his scruffy, too-long hair. “I like where your mind’s at. So far, people have been thinking small. Themselves, their families. Their own street, if they have like-minded neighbors. All this damned snow has kept us separated, isolated. But we need to be thinking bigger.”

“The YMCA in Niles is a good place. Or what about the Berrien County Fairgrounds? They’ve got all those huge white buildings where people could set up stalls and tables. And it’s centrally located in Oronoko township.”

Dave clapped his hands. “Perfect!”

Liam couldn’t take his gaze off Hannah. Her eyes shone with energy, motivation, and hope. She’d been exhausted from caring for a newborn, but her weariness seemed to vanish.

She nodded eagerly, bouncing on her toes. “It’ll take a tremendous amount of effort, but we can make this work. We can survive here. Actually live.”

A thread of hope tugged at his own chest. To listen to them talk, it sounded like it might work. Despite the odds, despite the chaos and enemies lurking at the gates, they would create something worthwhile. Something good.

Deep down, he wanted it as much as they did. He couldn’t speak it aloud yet. It was too fragile. Too easily broken.

“I’ll get together with Molly and we’ll set up a time with you,” Hannah said. “Let’s visit the farmers and start planning. It might not seem like much, but it’s a start.”

Dave grinned. “I’m in. Just say the word.”

“There’s still the militia,” Liam said. “You saw what they did to Bishop’s food pantry. They don’t want any competition.”

“We’ll start small,” Hannah promised. “We’ll be careful.”

Liam grunted, unconvinced.

They reached the house, and Dave led them around to an office tacked onto the backside of the garage. He gestured at the huge antenna towering forty feet into the gray sky. “This is where the magic happens!”

They entered Dave’s office, a large room filled with shelves of ham equipment—a radio and transceiver, scanners, two-way handhelds, a few desktop computers, and knots of power cables everywhere. A small generator hummed in the background.

The air was chilly but not freezing. Hannah unzipped her coat and removed her gloves and hat.

Liam remained by the door, M4 in hand, positioned to see the south-facing window by the door and the eastern window.

“Thank you so much for this, Dave,” Hannah said.

“I want to be useful, you know? This body is getting old and full of aches and pains. This vicious cold makes my joints feel like icicles about to crack.”

Hannah smied.“You look good, though.”

Dave’s cheeks crinkled. “Nothing like a compliment from a pretty woman to brighten a man’s day.” He settled himself into a comfortable-looking gaming chair. “Now tell me who we’re looking for.”

“My parents live on thirty acres just outside of Brevort in the U.P.,” Hannah said. “They don’t have a ham radio, but their neighbor, Stanley Barnes, does. He’s lived on that road for forty years. If he’s still there…if my parents and Oliver are still there…”

Dave scribbled some notes on a piece of paper beside his microphone. “Gotcha. That’s something. We can work with that. Might take some time, though. I’ve got a contact in Traverse City and another on Mackinac Island. Operators help each other out. We’ll pull a needle out of a haystack. I’ve found fifty friends and family members so far. People can’t get to each other, but it means something to hear a familiar voice, to know they’re safe.”

Hannah nodded, her eyes shiny. She bit her bottom lip like she was trying not to cry. She turned away and surreptitiously wiped at her eyes.

An ache stabbed Liam’s chest: grief for Hannah’s loss, and his own. His twin, Lincoln, and his sister-in-law, Jessa, had been dead less than two months.

Time was expanding like an accordion. Six weeks ago, the planet was still spinning as it always had. Liam had been a recluse, working his homestead in northern Michigan, lonely and isolated. He’d turned his back on the world.

It took the collapse of everything—and the deaths of the people he loved most—to jerk him kicking and screaming back to the land of the living.

If only he’d woken the hell up sooner.

He tore his gaze from Hannah and rubbed his jawline, his beard prickling his fingers. The loss had bored a hole through the center of his heart. It would never completely heal, but the pain was lessening. Every day, a little less than the day before.

Because of Hannah. Because of Charlotte and Milo and Ghost.

Lincoln and Jessa had meant everything to him. When they had died, he’d thought he’d lost everything that mattered—everything that ever could matter.

How wrong he’d been.

He swallowed the knot thickening in his throat. “What’s happening with the outside world?”

Dave shrugged. “Who knows? All the official channels just repeat the same crap about the state of emergency and directions to the regional FEMA centers for ‘temporary’ shelter. Temporary? Yeah, right. The government is keeping us all in the dark. Rumors and hearsay fill the airwaves.

“Someone says it was Middle-Eastern terrorists who attacked us, and that we’ve nuked Iran and obliterated half their country. Some say the Middle East has been wiped off the map, and Russia’s threatening to hit us with their fifty-megaton warhead in retaliation. Others claim they’ve heard that China has invaded parts of California and has plans to turn the U.S. into serf slave states. Or that Iran had sleeper cells in our own government, and now they’re forcing government officials to turn against us.”

“Wow,” Hannah said.

“In an information vacuum, everybody clings to rumors like they’re the word of God Himself, I guess. It’s crazy out there. Towns and cities devastated. Bodies piling up in the streets. Little kids and old people freezing in their homes. Neighbors reduced to stealing and robbing each other to feed their own starving kids. Thousands dead. Tens of thousands. We may never know how many we’ve lost. Forty percent of the contacts I was checking in with daily two months ago are now MIA.”

Hannah’s face drained of color. Liam knew how bad it must be out there, but hearing it spoken aloud was sobering.

“In some places, especially rural areas, it’s like all government has disappeared. But in New York, Boston, and D.C., martial law is in effect. The rioting is so bad that people are confined to their homes, with huge fines if they leave. Millions of people have fled their neighborhoods and gone to the FEMA camps. Those camps are like massive cities, from what I’ve heard—and as depressing as hell. Everything regulated, thousands of hopeless and scared people crammed together. I’m sure they’re a lifeline for folks with nowhere else to go. They’d be my last option, though.”

“Mine too,” Hannah said.

“I’ve heard some concerning reports of clashes between the National Guard and large gangs in Illinois. They’re taking over towns and controlling resources.”

“Like what the militia is doing?” Hannah asked.

“On a much larger scale. ‘Gang’ might not be the right word. More like the mafia. Or a cartel. They’re out of Chicago, where they consolidated their forces, spreading out and claiming territory. One of my contacts reported that they’ve got their hands on some military-grade weapons, like M2 Browning .50 caliber machine guns, SAW light machine guns, and even shoulder-fired missiles.”

Liam and Hannah exchanged troubled glances. They made the militia look like children playing with sticks and stones.

Chicago was only two hours from Fall Creek by vehicle, a route of around a hundred miles which curved south around Lake Michigan, passing through northern sections of Indiana before heading up into southern Michigan.

He would know. He’d made the arduous journey after escaping Chicago. Jessa’s parents had been headed for Tuscola, a tiny Amish town in Douglas County. Concern gnawed at him. Were they safe? Or were they in the path of this new threat?

“Keep us updated on that, would you?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“Is there any good news?” Hannah asked.

Dave pursed his lips. “Well, an operator confirmed a rumor I’d heard a few times. There’s a National Guard unit near here. They’ve been stationed at the Cook Nuclear Power Plant in Stevensville for several weeks now.”

Liam had memorized the geography based on his maps of Michigan. Stevensville was a small town bordering Lake Michigan, about fourteen miles northwest of Fall Creek.

“There’s a large diesel tanker stationed there to keep the emergency generators going. The plant successfully completed the emergency shutdown, but the generators power the spent fuel pool cooling system. Those are critical. The essential workers parked their RVs in the parking lot and brought their families on campus. The National Guard protect the fuel and the engineers, keeping them stocked up on food and supplies, too. Guess the government cares enough to try to avoid a nuclear core meltdown.”

“Like we need to worry about fallout radiation on top of everything else.” Hannah shook her head. “I didn’t think about the EMP affecting the nuclear reactors.”

Dave grinned. “On the bright side, Nuclear plants could be the power generators to restart the quickest. Maybe we’ll get power back first.”

“It’s nice to have some National Guard nearby, at least,” Hannah said.

“I hope so, but maybe not.” Dave turned serious. “My buddy, whose brother is a representative in Lansing, told me that the state governments—what remains of them—are turning against each other. There aren’t enough resources, and no one’s interested in sharing. Some are recalling the National Guard to defend their own borders, including Illinois and Michigan.”

Hannah sighed. “Great. Not only is the government failing us, they might become a threat, too.”

“That’s the thing,” Liam said. “Everyone wants what we have. Everyone.”

19

QUINN

DAY FORTY-SEVEN

Q uinn drove down Main Street in the Orange Julius, her grandfather’s orange 1978 Ford F150 Super Cab. She didn’t have her license. Luckily, that didn’t matter anymore.

The sun was shining. The adults trudged along the snowy sidewalks, their shoulders hunched, bags and children clutched close to their bodies.

Their expressions were bleak, heads down like beaten dogs prepared for the next blow. They cast furtive glances at the fake soldiers who proliferated on every corner like a fungus.

Several kids milled around, looking grubby and hungry. Their little faces were already gaunt. A few carried cardboard signs or followed adults with their hands out, asking for food. No one had any to spare.

Quinn stared in shock. She’d read a hundred apocalyptic and dystopian novels. Those were books.

Even if you knew it was coming, even if you expected it, it was still horrifying to see with your own eyes. People were starving in Fall Creek. Kids.

Her chest squeezed, her stomach hurting. She’d had a hearty bowl of oatmeal and Gran’s canned peaches for breakfast. What had those kids had? A few crackers, if they were lucky?

She needed to talk to Gran. They needed to do something, but what? They couldn’t feed the entire town. Their supplies would be depleted in weeks. Then they would all starve.

But she couldn’t just watch people she knew—little kids—wither away, either.

It had only been six weeks. What would it be like in a month? If Fall Creek couldn’t make it through the winter…she didn’t want to think about that.

They would make it. They had to.

Spring would come, and southwest Michigan’s abundant crops would sprout from the fertile earth. Fall Creek was surrounded by orchards, vineyards, and farmland: grapes, cherries, apples, asparagus, strawberries, blueberries, raspberries, corn; the list went on.

Gran had plenty of seeds for lettuce, cucumbers, zucchini, potatoes, tomatoes, and a dozen other edible foods they could grow, harvest, and can.

Water wouldn’t be a major issue. Michigan boasted one of the longest freshwater coastlines in the world. A person was never more than six miles from a freshwater source. Fish were plentiful in the lakes and rivers—though under all the ice, they were hard to get.

There was light at the end of this dark tunnel. They just had to break free of the militia and outlast the winter.

The Orange Julius shook and rattled, the engine ticking, the gas tank on empty.

The gas station only served the militia, the police, and Rosamond. They weren’t sharing. Last she’d heard, they were almost out, too.

This was her last trip in a vehicle. From now on, transportation consisted of snowmobile and ATV until the fuel for those ran out, too. Then people would travel by foot or bike.

She’d attached zip ties to her bicycle wheels to increase traction in the slush, snow, and ice. One zip tie for every spoke, with connectors on the outside edge to help them grip while turning. It worked, but she’d still rather drive.

During a break in her endless list of tasks, she’d gotten ahold of Bishop on the radio, who told her that Liam had just left for the hardware store. It had been closed for the first month, but the owner, Corinne Marshall, had recently reopened with limited amounts on purchases.

The militia seemed interested in food and medicine and had left the store alone. So had the town.

Besides the hardware store, the mechanic’s shop was open, where Tina Gundy and Jamal Duncan fixed whatever electronics they could in trade for goods and toiletries.

Some people had nothing to trade; Tina and Jamal helped them in exchange for a handwritten IOU for a future favor.

People flocked to Tresses Hair Salon, too. Without electricity for heat, electric razors, or straighteners, people got their hair cut wearing coats and gloves. The militia didn’t mess with her. They needed haircuts, too. It was the same with the barbershop.

Bishop reopened services at Crossway Church. She had no intention of going inside that building again, no matter how much she liked Bishop.

Bishop said people needed something to believe in, to hold on to. The worse things got, the more important faith became. Maybe he was right; that didn’t change her mind.

Quinn pulled into a parking space along the curb. A group of teenage boys clustered in front of the barbershop eyed the truck with greedy expressions.

She flipped them off with a smile. Most of them scowled, but one grinned and returned the favor.

His name was Jonas Marshall. His parents owned the hardware store. He was a senior at Fall Creek High, back when school was still a thing.

A running back on the varsity football team, he strutted through the hallway like he owned it, one of those uber-jocks who peaked at eighteen and never got over it. Handsome, tall and lanky, with highlighted hair that swooped over his blue eyes.

Without football and cheerleaders, she had no clue what he was doing to pass the time. Loitering, apparently.

Quinn left her .22 resting across the passenger seat. She’d been hunting almost every day and brought home three cottontail rabbits yesterday. Unfortunately, she’d also run out of ammo. She planned to get some more at Gran’s next trading event.

She hopped out of the truck, locked the door, and pocketed the keys. The line for the community distribution center snaked down the street and wound around the corner. They looked even more miserable than everyone else.

How many on the blacklist couldn’t get food at all? According to the rumors, the militia added to the list daily.

It didn’t take much. If you even looked at the militia wrong, they axed you.

“Nice wheels!” one of the loitering boys shouted after her. “Wanna take me for a ride?”

Two militiamen across the street stared at her, hands on their semi-automatics. Her pulse quickened. Normally, she would’ve shouted an insult right back, but she knew better than to draw attention to herself.

She gritted her teeth, turned her back on both the boys and the militia, and hurried into the hardware store. Gray daylight streamed through the grimy, unwashed windows. Further into the store, murky shadows puddled between the rows of building materials, hand tools, and plumbing supplies. She wrinkled her nose. The air smelled like paint—and unwashed bodies.

She found Liam surrounded by nails, bolts, and screws. He seemed to take up the entire aisle with his imposing presence. Tall, broad-shouldered, and handsome, his features rough and craggy beneath his chestnut beard. Every inch of him radiated power, competence, and strength.

He was perusing a box filled with long, thick nails that looked like spikes. They had to be at least six inches long. Liam could probably bend them with his bare hands.

She leaned against the nearest shelf. “Hey, Wolverine. Bet you can build a wicked treehouse with those.”

He glanced at her, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Something like that.”

If she ever got this grim soldier to smile, she’d count that as a major win. “You got a few minutes to chat after your shopping spree?”

“A few.”

Quinn waited for him while he gathered his supplies: more nails, a few saw blades, rolls of thin wire, PVC and copper piping, and other sundry items.

She picked up a handful of nuts, bolts, and wing nuts and weighed them in her palm. She could build some heavy-duty ammunition with these. The weight and sharp edges would tear holes in any target.

They wouldn’t be any good for hunting, but for self-defense, absolutely. She’d call them bone crushers.

Slingshots worked with a variety of ammo, even odd-shaped projectiles. Before the collapse, she’d watched YouTube videos on creating different ammunition. A slingshot could shoot anything.

She picked out one of the long six-inch nails and examined it. Handmade flechettes, or darts, could be used to great effect.

She could flatten the tip with a big enough hammer. Gramps had a knife sharpener he’d kept with his tools. She didn’t have a grinder, but she could get the pointed tip flat and sharp enough to resemble an arrow—and efficiently rip through flesh.

She could imitate dart fletching with Scotch Tape. Strings of paracord might work, too. She needed something to hook the flechette onto the bands, though. Maybe she could superglue a cable tie an inch or two back from the point, or use a wing nut.

She’d figure it out. The slingshot couldn’t take down large prey, but once she’d made these flechettes, that would change.

After she picked her selections, she paid for her items with two cans of Campbell’s tomato bisque soup and a pair of her homemade hand warmers.

When he was ready to go, Liam paid for his stuff in cash. Corinne Marshall, who was manning the counter, took it with a relunctant frown. “Soon, we won’t be able to do much more than wipe our butts with paper money, if it’s not worthless already.”

“Hey, toilet paper ain’t worthless,” the man in line behind them said. “I’d give my big screen TV for a roll of the stuff right about now.”

Corinne smiled tiredly and waved the bills at him. Her clothes were wrinkled and hung off her thin frame. She looked like she’d lost twenty pounds since the last time Quinn had seen her. “Feel like a trade, then?”

Liam unzipped his pack and pulled out a triple-lined industrial-strength garbage bag to store his purchases and slung it over his shoulder. He exited the hardware store, Quinn right on his heels.

Outside, someone shouted.

Liam stopped abruptly. She almost smacked into him face-first.

Her blood quickened in alarm. Something was happening. It wasn’t good.

Heart hammering, she walked around him, but he pushed her back with one arm. She peered around his side.

Six fake soldiers had gathered on the corner across the street. They were hassling the group of teenage boys. Or the teens were hassling them; it was difficult to tell.

Whoever started it, the militiamen were pissed. One of them shoved a boy so hard that he stumbled and fell. The back of his head struck the slushy asphalt with a dull thud.

“Hey!” Jonas Marshall shouted. “Leave him alone!”

The other boy groaned. He sat up, gingergly touched the back of his head, and stared at his bloody fingers. He took his time climbing to his feet, one of his friends helping him up.

“You’re just bullies in fancy uniforms!” Jonas spat, getting right up in one of the fake soldiers’ faces. “Screw you! Screw all of you!”

“What’d you say to me?” The man wore a bandolier across his chest. His long, horsey face bloomed bright red. With a sneer, he pushed Jonas. “You threatening me?”

Jonas backpedaled several feet. For a second, it looked like he would back down. Instead, he withdrew an empty glass bottle from the messenger bag at his side and hurled it at the militiaman.

The bottle struck the man in the chest and fell to the snow without breaking.

Quinn had thought little of Jonas Marshall, but her admiration was growing by the second.

Two more teenage boys picked up snowballs and hurled them at the militia, shouting insults.

“We should get them on our side,” Quinn whispered. “Ask them to fight with us.”

Liam shook his head. “The people who posture and yell the loudest are often the biggest cowards. Watch when the real fighting starts. Those guys will be cowering in their mama’s basements.”

Quinn hid her surprise. They were passionately anti-militia and weren’t afraid to express it, unlike everybody else. “You really think they’ll cut and run? They don’t look scared.”

“I do. And they’re not scared enough. We need to go while we still can.”

The six militiamen formed a line and closed ranks. One—a short, stocky woman—keyed her radio and requested immediate backup. The others raised their weapons and pointed them at the boys.

“Get back!” shouted Bandolier. “Move! Now!”

“Drop that!” another one yelled. “We’ll shoot, you little pissants!”

Trepidation tightened in her chest. Things were going downhill fast. Where were the cops? And where the hell was Noah when you needed him? “We should do something.”

“No, we should not.” He yanked her beneath the hardware store’s awning and pushed her behind the stone column.

She knew that Liam couldn’t afford more of the militia’s attention. He already had a target on his back. Much as she wanted to intervene, she didn’t want to make things worse for him.

“Enough, Vik!” One of the fake soldiers stepped forward and motioned at the others. “Don’t kill anyone if you can help it.” He scanned Main Street. lookig apprehensive. “Not here.”

Quinn recognized him. James Luther. The cordial one who’d robbed Gran half-blind and acted like he deserved a blue ribbon for talking Desoto out of killing a teenage girl—right after Desoto murdered three people.

Luther thought of himself as a good guy. That made him a bigger fool than all of them put together. He was just as dangerous. He might apologize while he placed a gun against your head, but he’d still pull the trigger.

Her jaw clenched. Anger flushed through her. She hated him almost as much as she’d hated Desoto. Almost as much as she hated Rosamond Sinclair.

Almost.

The three teens didn’t back down. They picked up more clods of ice.

Several people watched the altercation through the windows of the hardware store. Across the street, the door to the barbershop opened, and two men stepped out. The barber still held a pair of cutting shears; shaving cream filmed the other man’s face.

“Leave them alone!” the barber shouted.

The man with shaving cream was Robert Vinson, the local pharmacist. He bent and picked up a hunting rifle that must have been resting by the front door. “Let those boys be!”

Luther’s gaze flicked to the growing audience, his expression wary.

“We’re the ones with the guns!” Vik said. “Put a few holes in ‘em, and they’ll calm down real quick.”

“They’re just kids!” yelled a woman across the street.

“We have our orders, Vik,” Luther said.

Two more fake soldiers rounded the corner about thirty yards up the street. They raised their weapons and broke into a jog.

Quinn’s pulse raced. She slipped her hand into her pocket, nudged aside her hand warmers, and closed her fingers around her slingshot handle.

Just in case.

20

QUINN

DAY FORTY-SEVEN

It happened fast.

Jonas strode forward and launched an ice-encrusted snowball. It struck Vik in the face. Blood dribbled from a nasty cut across his cheek.

The teens jeered. Half the crowd joined in. The other half remained dead silent, shrinking back like they were attempting to disappear into the woodwork.

With a slurred curse, Vik wiped the bloodied ice crystals from his face. He stalked into the street with his weapon raised. “You’ll die for that, you punk!”

Jonas’s eyes widened. He took a hesitant step backward and tripped over the snow-covered curb.

He fell onto his back. Vik loomed over him, the muzzle of his AK-47 feet from Jonas’s chest, his finger on the trigger. His eyes were hard, his face twisting in disgust and scorn. “We should exterminate all of you vermin, starting right now!”

A woman screamed.

Fear shot through Quinn, sharp and cold. Her head buzzed with static, her mouth full of cotton.

“Do not fire!” Luther shouted, but Vik was beyond listening.

“Stand down!” Luther ordered.

“Like hell! This little P.O.S. dies right now—”

Quinn never even felt Liam move. One second, he was at her side. The next, he was crouched behind the thick stone column that propped up the metal awning. He edged the muzzle of his Glock around the corner of the column and aimed at Vik.

A gunshot cracked the air.

Vik staggered. He dropped his weapon and clutched his left shoulder with both hands. Blood spurted through his gloved fingers.

“My next shot drills a hole through his skull,” Liam said flatly. “Lower your weapons.”

With a curse, Luther spun around. “Coleman? Is that you?”

Vik sank to his butt in the middle of the street. His face went sheet white. “I’m shot! That nutjob just shot me!”

Two fake soldiers—one a skinny guy with a goatee, the other a young Hispanic woman—pivoted toward Liam, weapons up, their expressions livid.

The woman jumped off the curb and edged left to circle behind Liam and expose his flank.

Quinn’s heart shuddered inside her chest. Everything was a blur of panic, adrenaline, terror. One thought slammed through the fear—she had to help Liam.

With trembling fingers, she swept her slingshot out of her pocket and swung to face the oncoming threat, pulling the bands taut as she drew to her anchor point at her cheek. She canted the fork at a forty-five-degree angle, her finger and thumb pinching the ammo ball inside the pouch.

The woman was twenty feet away, the man a little further. Both easy shots. Shots she’d made hundreds of times in her backyard with paper targets. Paper targets—not humans.

She didn’t have time to hesitate or second-guess herself. She reached her max draw length and released.

The three-eighths-inch steel ball accelerated toward the woman at two hundred feet per second. It struck her square in the forehead.

The woman jerked, dropping her rifle.

Swiftly, Quinn slipped another round into the pouch, aimed, and sent it hurtling at the second militiaman, who’d just turned his head to glance in surprise at his partner.

The steel ball slammed into his ear with a dull thunk. He cried out and clapped one hand over his ear, his AR-15 wavering. He took a wobbling step and fell.

With any luck, she’d ruptured his eardrum and damaged his balance—permanently.

Two militia fired at the stone column in quick succession. Boom-boom! Boom-boom! The shots exploded like thunderclaps. Bits of stone flew off in every direction.

Screams splintered the air. People ducked low. Others fled toward shelter.

Quinn dropped to the ground. Still gripping the slingshot, she flattened herself against the ground. Snow in her face, her hair, her eyelashes. Her ears rang, her heart racing.

The noise was deafening. A round zipped past, so close it displaced the air over her head. Panic clutched at her. Was Liam shooting back, or had the pharmacist joined in? It was impossible to tell which direction the bullets were coming from.

“Stop!” Luther shouted over the cacophony. “Do not shoot! That’s an order!”

By some miracle, his men heard him. They ceased fire. The echo of the gunshots rang loud in the sudden stillness. Long seconds passed, the air crackling with tension.

Quinn told her body to move. At first, it refused. She forced herself to raise her head, propped herself onto her elbows, and pulled another round taut to her cheek.

The woman slumped on the curb, probing a purple knot on her forehead the size of an egg. The skinny guy looked dazed. He leaned unsteadily against a light post.

“I didn’t kill any of your men!” Liam shouted from behind the column. “I should have.”

On his back in the middle of the street, Jonas pulled himself backward on his elbows, whimpering like a little boy, Vik’s blood splattered across his face and clothes.

“Enough!” On the opposite side of the road, Dave Farris stepped into the street, a pistol gripped in both hands. He stood thirty feet away, perpendicular to the militia.

Between Liam, Robert Vinson, and Dave, they had the militia flanked on three sides.

“Unless you’re looking to up the body count, I suggest you move on,” Dave said. “The boys have learned their lesson. We’ll make sure they don’t forget it.”

The pharmacist gestured with his hunting rifle. “You heard him. You’ve got one of your own bleeding out. The nurse is at the high school. He can [atch your people up, even the bleeder, if you hurry. You’re running out of time.”

Liam said nothing. She could sense the militia’s attention zeroed in on him. He was the one they were most worried about.

Luther cursed. His posture deflated. “We’re done here.”

No one moved. Not the townspeople, not the militia.

Quinn didn’t breathe, her heart roaring in her ears. Everything balanced on a knife edge. They were going to leave or open fire and slaughter everyone in sight.

“I said, we’re done!” Luther yelled. “This soldier is the guy who saved me, Kesler, and Hoagin. No one shoots him. You got a problem? Take it up with Sutter. Let’s go!”

The others grumbled, but they obeyed. They helped the three injured militia to their feet and headed for their snowmobiles and ATVs.

“Get that kid out of here,” Liam growled.

Jonas’s two friends rushed forward, grabbed him, and helped him to his feet. Corinne Marshall, who’d been huddled inside the hardware store, darted out and ushered them back toward the sidewalk. She shielded them with her body as best she could. Another man joined her.

The militia woman shot a murderous glance back at Quinn, the purple knot on her forehead like a bulbous third eye. “The next time I see you…”

Quinn pushed herself to her feet, her legs like jelly. She brushed dirty snow from her pants and coat with shaking hands. She never took her eyes off the woman. “Looking forward to it.”

21

QUINN

DAY FORTY-SEVEN

Luther and his goons roared off on their snowmobiles. An eerie silence descended over Main Street. People glanced at each other warily, still trying to comprehend what the hell had just happened.

Quinn felt dazed, shaken, her ears still ringing from the gunshots. It had all happened so fast. She took a breath, steeling herself, willing herself to stop shaking.

Liam stepped out from behind the stone column and dipped his chin at the two men who’d come to their aid.

Dave Farris and Robert Vinson nodded.

The pharmacist shook his head. “Thanks for saving one of our dumb kids. You best be careful, though. They won’t forget this.”

“I won’t, either,” Liam said.

“How about that shave now?” Vinson spun on his heels and headed back into the barber shop with the rifle slung over his shoulder. The barber followed him.

Everyone melted into the shadows. The Marshalls and the teenage hooligans retreated to the hardware store. Dave headed toward his truck. Within seconds, Main Street emptied.

“You okay?” Liam asked her.

“Fine.” She’d almost peed her pants, but she wasn’t about to tell him that. Instead, she offered him a ride back to Tanglewood Drive. But when she tried to start the Orange Julius, it was dead.

Frustration welled in her chest. What a steaming load of bull crap. She was certain she’d had enough fumes in the tank to get back home.

She resisted the urge to kick the tire. This was Gramps’ truck. She loved the rickety old beast as much as he had.

“I’ll get a jerrycan of gas,” Liam said.

“From where? No one has any left.”

“Bishop has a little. We need to get this truck back to your house. It’s too valuable to leave here. I’ll walk you home, then Bishop and I will get it for you.”

She bristled at the insinuation that she needed a babysitter. She still wanted to talk to him. The walk home would give her that chance. “Fine. Whatever.”

He slung the bulging garbage bag over his shoulder, his pistol unholstered, and started walking toward the bridge. She fell into step beside him. Her legs were still unsteady, her palms damp, her breathing shallow.

Liam kept checking behind him and swiveling his head from side to side.

“Searching for Big Foot?” she quipped, keeping her voice light.

“You never know. Best be prepared for anything. Always monitor your surroundings. It’s called situational awareness.”

She tucked that nugget away in a corner of her brain. The man was a treasure trove of tactical and survival skills. She wanted to know everything he knew—and then some.

“You keep looking at me funny,” he said, his gaze straight ahead.

“So? Maybe you’re funny-looking.”

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you that’s rude?”

“Actually, I was raised by wolves.”

Liam smirked. “That makes a lot of sense.”

“Thank you.”

They walked for several minutes in silence until they’d left Main Street behind and turned onto a side street lined with trees.

Every few hundred feet, Liam stopped to double-check their six. Quinn waited in the tree line until he returned, and they proceeded on.

She was glad he was here. The altercation at the hardware store had unnerved her. How fast it had escalated. How helpless and scared she’d felt. She hated feeling that way.

“You have something on your mind?” he asked. “A question?”

“Glad you asked. I have a million questions.”

“Start with one.”

“You told me not to get involved.”

“And?”

“And then you got involved.”

“Those rules don’t apply to me.”

“Uh huh. That’s a load of baloney.”

He shrugged.

“So…why?”

“You won’t like my answer.”

“Try me.”

“Vik was going to kill that boy. I saw it in his eyes. It went from a situation I could ignore to one I couldn’t. I chose not to ignore it.”

“Jonas was being stupid. They all were.”

“He was. These days, stupid can get you killed. Remember that.”

She kicked at a snowbank and mulled the words over in her head, trying to get it right. Any way she said it sounded silly. Screw it. She just needed to come out with it. “I want you to train me to fight.”

“That’s not a question.”

“Will you train me?”

He paused, holding up his hand, and they both fell silent. He listened for a minute, turning in a slow circle, examining their surroundings.

The trees swayed in the breeze. Birds chirped and twittered. A soft thud as powdered snow fell from a tree branch.

Several houses were tucked back from the road. No one was outside. Nothing moved.

He motioned that it was clear, and they started walking again. “I can teach you self-defense, like I’ve been teaching Hannah.”

“I want to fight,” Quinn said. “Not like those stupid boys. Not with glass bottles and snowballs and slingshots, but for real.”

“Aren’t you sixteen?”

“So what? Boys that young and younger fought in the Civil War.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Those were boys. You’re a girl.”

“I fail to see how a pair of boobs will negatively affect my ability to pull a trigger. If it’s strength you’re worried about, I’m strong. I can get stronger.”

Liam was quiet for a minute. Their boots crunched through the snow. “You’re too young.”

“I’m old enough.”

“It’s too risky.”

She threw up her hands in exasperation. “In case you haven’t noticed, visiting the hardware store is a life-endangering mission these days. I can do it. I want to do it. I’m not afraid.”

“You should be.”

“Okay, fine.” She hesitated for a fraction of a second. “I get scared. I’m scared. Isn’t everyone? Only fools and politicians aren’t scared of war. That won’t stop me from fighting, though. I can fight scared. I’ve done it.”

She glanced at the slot of missing flesh in his left ear, a lasting reminder of Desoto’s blade. Her chest tightened at the memory—his thick fingers encircling her throat, the painful, intense pressure, her frantic thoughts growing thick and dark.

Her pulse quickened. “In the shed, I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t prepared. I didn’t know how to stop them from hurting me. But I want to. I know how to hunt. With my slingshot, I can nail the bullseye nine times out of ten at one hundred feet.”

“You’re good with that slingshot. I’ll give you that.”

“It’s not good enough. I need to be better. I want to fight for Fall Creek. For Gran and Milo and everyone else who can’t fight for themselves. I need to.”

He halted and turned to look at her, his expression stony. He was so tough and hard, no give in him at all. “No.”

Her stomach plummeted. She met his gaze without flinching. “Why not?”

“I’m not training you to fight. Not until you turn eighteen. Maybe not even then.”

Resentment flared through her. “That’s bullcrap and you know it.”

“I can’t be responsible for you.”

“You’re not!”

“Exactly.” He glared at her, his jaw clenched, his eyes steely. “Look, you want self-defense, I can help. But you’re not marching into battle with me or anyone else. You’re too damn young.”

She raised her chin. “I’m going to change your mind.”

“Doubt it.”

Disappointment curdled her insides. She pushed it aside. No way was she giving up. She glared right back at him. “Watch me.”

22

HANNAH

DAY FORTY-EIGHT

“This is a great idea,” Hannah said.

Molly beamed with pride. “Wish I could say it was mine. Heck, let’s just pretend it was.”

Hannah, Milo, and Quinn watched Molly install a solar light in the shed’s ceiling.

The shed had no electricity and remained dark unless the door was open, which also let in wind, snow, and cold. You needed a lantern or a flashlight to see anything, even during the day.

The light wasn’t a bulb, but a plastic two-liter pop bottle filled with water and a bit of bleach to keep algae from forming inside the bottle.

Bishop had sawed a small hole in the roof, stuck the bottle halfway in the hole, and sealed the exposed edges. Sunlight entered through the top of the bottle, refracted in the water, and brightened the entire room. It was a clever contraption.

Molly had insisted on scaling the ladder and finishing the rest herself, so Hannah insisted on steadying said ladder and remaining present just in case.

Milo held the hand-crank flashlight while Quinn stacked fresh cut firewood. Charlotte had just awakened from her late morning nap. Strapped into her carrier, she hummed and gurgled to herself.

While Molly worked, Quinn talked. She told them about the hardware store, how Liam and a few of the townspeople prevented a terrible act of violence.

“Things are getting bad,” Hannah said.

“And not just with the fake soldiers,” Quinn said. “You should have seen those kids, Gran. It was like a third world country right here in Michigan. The looks on their faces. Like their eyes were blank—there was nothing there but hunger.”

“I imagine the US will become like Romania in the nineties,” Gran said. “I remember the news stories. Thousands of homeless orphans roaming the streets, pickpocketing, selling themselves, begging—anything for their next meal. Their parents didn’t make it. Or they couldn’t feed their children and were forced to abandon some to save the others. The older ones got pushed out of the nest to fend for themselves. Those that survived banded together.”

Quinn looked horrified. “Like Lord of the Flies in real life.”

“It’s happening as we speak. Families starving in their homes, with no one to pay attention. No one to document it or do anything about it.”

Quinn grunted and piled another stack of wood atop the pile. She rubbed her lip ring absently. “We can do something. We should do something.”

“You can’t save the world, girl,” Molly said.

“Says you! Don’t forget I know about all those secret donations to Bishop’s food pantry. I even delivered some of them. Nice try, Gran.”

Molly finished caulking around the bottle’s edges without answering.

“Half of Fall Creek is on the blacklist. I talked with Caroline Lytton down the street. They haven’t gotten food in a week. We could help them.”

“And run out of our own supplies in weeks instead of years. Or, we give food to our neighbors out of kindness, only we’ve revealed what we have. When our neighbors get desperate, they come and steal from us, or worse.”

Quinn frowned. “I know, I know. You’ve warned me a hundred times. I’m not stupid. I get it.”

“That doesn’t make what’s happening any easier to swallow,” Hannah said.

Quinn shot her a grateful look. “We could do it through Bishop again. He’s trustworthy. We could get him the food at night in secret, and he could bring it into town. No reason anyone has to know it came from us.”

Molly climbed down the ladder, wobbling with every step. Hannah tried to help her; the old woman shooed her away.

She turned to face her granddaughter with a scowl. “Fine. You win. But only once. And only if Bishop hides that it’s from us.”

“Deal!” Milo said.

Molly fisted her hands on her hips and stared up at the solar bulb. Bright light filled the shed. Not bad for a pop bottle wedged in the roof.

“There’s fifty-five watts of power from the sun, free of charge,” she said with satisfaction.

“So simple, yet so clever,” Hannah said. “People can use this on their houses, too. In bathrooms, laundry rooms, hallways, any room without windows or natural light. Anything that helps them conserve batteries or fuel is valuable.”

Molly nodded. “Truth be told, I got the idea from the survival books on that Kindle Quinn still hasn’t read.”

Quinn scowled and lugged another load of firewood into the shed, dropping the split logs on top of a pile as high as her chest. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m busy.”

Molly clucked her tongue. “I won’t be around forever, girl. It’s knowledge that’ll get you through this.”

Quinn’s scowl deepened. “Please. We all know you’re gonna live until you’re one hundred and twenty just so you can keep tormenting me.”

Molly gave her an evil grin. “I confess, that is my heart’s desire.”

“I’d like to read your survival books,” Hannah said. “We have a lot to learn. People will be interested in these lights, too.”

“Good point,” Molly said. “I’m inclined to trade information more than supplies. The more people know, the more they can help themselves.”

“I’ve got lots of construction paper,” Milo said. “We could cut them like index cards and write instructions. We could give them away at trading day.”

Quinn rolled her eyes. “That will take forever and a day. Where’s a copy machine when you need one?”

“Good thing your hands work as well as your mouth,” Molly quipped.

“I’ll get hand cramps.”

Milo tugged on her coat sleeve. “Please? It’ll be fun. We can listen to ‘Hey Jude’ and ‘Yellow Submarine’ while we work!”

“Don’t you ever want to listen to anything other than the Beatles? How about some Elvis?”

“How about Queen?” Milo launched into a loud, enthusiastic rendition of ‘We Are the Champions.’

Quinn clamped her hands over her ears in mock horror. “Not again! Okay, okay, you win. Let’s give poor Gran some peace. With you around, she’s gonna appreciate going deaf.”

“Not deaf yet, young lady!” Molly snapped.

Milo pulled Quinn out of the shed, singing “‘…we'll keep on fighting 'til the end’” at the top of his lungs.

“Take your meds!” Hannah called.

Milo waved a hand in acknowledgement as he gazed up at Quinn with abject adoration. Everything she said, he believed. Everything she did, he wanted to do, too.

Most teenagers would get frustrated with a constant tag-a-long, but not Quinn. She treated him with affection, like a beloved brother. In return, Milo had blossomed under her care and attention.

Hannah’s heart swelled with gratitude. For Quinn. For Molly, Bishop, Reynoso and Perez, Annette and Dave. For all the good people in this little town working so hard to make it through to the other side of this thing—if there was an other side.

23

HANNAH

DAY FORTY-EIGHT

“Q uinn’s a good kid,” Hannah said. “You must be proud.”

Molly set her jaw. “I’m not naïve. A mother like hers, most kids would end up on a gurney, needle marks in their arms or slashes on their wrists. But not this one. She is who she is despite her upbringing, not because of it. She’s forged her own path. That girl is something fierce.”

“I can see it.”

“If only you could keep ‘em young forever.” Molly sighed and wiped her hands on her jeans. “I know what she wants. It’s written all over her face every time she looks at Liam.”

“She wants to be like him.”

“That girl wants to BE him. She wants to be a soldier, a warrior. She’s gonna ask him, if she hasn’t already.”

Quinn was young but as smart as a whip—and tough. From what Noah and Molly had told her, the girl had already suffered enough trauma for several lifetimes. And yet, she’d endured it with her dignity and spirit intact.

Hannah chewed on her lower lip. “What do you think about that?”

“Before the collapse, we tried to protect our children, to shield them from the ugly out there. But it wasn’t just out there, it’s in here.” She tapped her chest. “It’s in all of us, all the time. It was a false hope before the collapse. And now? Saying we’re protecting them while keeping them from bettering the world? From finding their own way? It’s not helping them. We do it to make ourselves feel better. Not them.”

Hannah raised her eyebrows, surprised. Molly’s words made a dark sort of sense. It was a parent’s natural inclination to shelter their child as much as possible. Hell, a part of her never wanted to let Milo or Charlotte out of her sight again.

But a life worth living required risk. Otherwise, you were trapped inside a cage of your own making, like a dog too broken to notice that the crate door was wide open.

Hannah knew about cages.

Molly sighed. “We best be checking on those kids. I bet they’re napping alongside that humongous dog of yours.”

With a wince, she reached for her cane leaning against the woodpile. Hannah took the Mossberg and tucked it under her arm. She followed Molly out of the shed, closed the doors, and locked the padlock using both hands.

She’d been working ceaselessly to strengthen her bad hand and was already regaining some mobility. She could curl her deformed fingers around a knife handle and carry or hold most items.

With the palm or the side of her hand as a stabilizer, she used her thumb and pointer finger to do most of the work—dressing Charlotte, stirring a pot of stew, working the coffeemaker, making a fire, turning the pages of a book.

They trudged through the snow toward the house. Molly squinted against the sun. “Woman to woman, if you put in a good word for my granddaughter, I’d be much obliged.”

“I can try. Liam is his own man.”

She offered Molly her arm, even though she knew the woman well enough to expect a snarky refusal.

Molly waved her off. “Warn him, though. Once she starts, she doesn’t give up. She’s as stubborn as a mule.”

Hannah gave a wry smile. “He’ll like that. Liam loves stubborn women.”

Molly laughed. “Ha! I could tell that from a mile away without my glasses. He’s a bit set in his ways, isn’t he?”

“His way usually ends up being the right way.”

Molly pressed her lips together. “Mmm hmm.”

“He knows his stuff.”

“I bet.”

Heat flushed Hannah’s throat. “He’s a good man. That’s all I’m saying.”

Molly gave her a sly smirk.

“I’m still married,” Hannah said.

“So was I. Never stopped me from appreciating the opposite gender. It’s like admiring a work of art. And that Liam Coleman is a damn fine work of art.”

Hannah tried and failed to hide her blush.

“Just sayin’,” Molly said with a grin. “I notice things.”

They entered the house through the back door, kicked the snow off their boots, and removed their coats. The kitchen was warm and cozy, the fire blazing in the woodstove.

Sheafs of construction paper and colored pencils were scattered across the kitchen table, along with an opened jar of peanut butter with a spoon sticking out the top—Milo’s afternoon snack.

The kids moved into the living room to play with Ghost and the cats before settling down to work on their project. Thor and Odin crawled all over them, begging for attention. Loki perched on Quinn’s belly, Valkyrie sitting at their feet, delicately licking a front paw. Hel, the mean one, was resting on top of the fridge per usual, surveying her domain.

Molly pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down. She leaned her cane against her leg and folded her arms on the table. Hannah sat across from her.

She looked at Hannah intently. Her gaze burned into Hannah until she relented and looked up. “Out with it.”

“Things change, honey. People change. And often not for the better.”

“I know.”

“There are two kinds of people. Those who rise to the occasion when tough times come, and those who don’t. Sometimes, people don’t come out the other side stronger. They give in to their fear and weakness and become something else, something worse.”

Hannah’s eyes burned. She dropped her gaze to the table and stared at the worn grains in the wood, the tiny indents and scuffs from years of family dinners. Her gaze shifted to Milo’s emergency fanny pack resting beside the jar of peanut butter.

She knew what Molly meant. She meant Noah. Noah who’d become small and weak—and dangerous. What you failed to do defined you as much as what you did.

“You aren’t beholden to a person like that, honey.”

“Even if it’s someone important to you?”

“Even then,” Molly said in a low voice. “Even if it’s someone you love.”

Hannah turned and glanced back at Milo. He’d scooted next to Quinn on the living room floor, sharing the iPod earbuds, their heads resting against Ghost’s soft belly while the Great Pyr snored noisily.

Hannah’s chest ached—not for herself, but for her little family crumbling to pieces before it had a chance to knit itself back together. Her heart whispered a truth she knew, but couldn’t yet say aloud.

24

HANNAH

DAY FORTY-EIGHT

By the time Hannah and the children returned to Winter Haven, it was dark.

She’d left Ghost with Liam for the night. It killed her to do it, but in Winter Haven, she couldn’t even let him outside to do his business without worrying about the militia hurting him.

Ghost was not a dog who could be cooped up. He was made to be outside, built for roaming wide open spaces and protecting his flock.

Like her, he’d spent years on a chain, confined, trapped. She refused to lock him up ever again.

Hannah entered the house with her key and made her way inside, Milo half asleep beside her.

She set down the baby carrier in front of the sofa. Charlotte stirred, and she rocked her gently. The house was warm, the room bright with lights on in the kitchen and living room.

Noah was stoking the fire in the fireplace. He greeted Milo with a hug. He didn’t hug Hannah. She didn’t ask for one.

They’d eaten at Molly’s. Hannah got Milo into his pajamas, his teeth brushed, and sang him a few songs. Noah popped in the bedroom to say goodnight.

Five minutes later, Milo was asleep. Hannah went back into the living room to check on Charlotte. Noah was waiting for her.

“Milo shouldn’t be out this late,” Noah said, recrimination lacing his voice. “It’s dangerous.”

Guilt pricked her. She hadn’t meant to get home after dark. “We were at Molly’s. Bishop dropped us off.”

She tugged off her gloves, careful with her bad hand, and folded them in her coat pockets. She unzipped her coat but didn’t take it off. “At the checkpoint into Winter Haven, the guards said residents only allowed inside the community perimeter.”

One militiaman—Luther—had allowed Bishop to drop her off at the door. Still, he was quite clear; it wouldn’t happen again.

“They decided today,” Noah said tersely.

“So…Quinn won’t be able to visit Milo anymore?”

Noah glanced at her, then away. His mouth tightened. “It’s for the safety of everyone. Fall Creek is too unstable right now. Once things settle down, we’ll reevaluate.”

“How long do you think that will be?”

He gave a noncommittal shrug and didn’t answer. He’d lost weight in the weeks since she’d returned. His cheekbones were sharper. The shadows beneath his eyes were a deep, bruised color. His complexion had a gray cast to it, like he was unwell.

He turned to face her. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. It’s not safe for you to leave here anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“Winter Haven. It’s too dangerous to go traipsing back and forth all the time. The townspeople are ready to riot. They attacked several militiamen yesterday. Guys who were just trying to keep order. Did you know that?”

“From my understanding, they instigated it.”

He shot her a dark look. “Fall Creek is no longer safe. You need to stay here.”

“It’s not safe here, either.”

He made a dismissive sound in the back of his throat. “I mean it, Hannah. You and Milo are not to leave Winter Haven for any reason.”

All this time, she’d felt conflicted, torn between her friends on Tanglewood Drive and Winter Haven, where her son lived in the care of her husband.

The decision had already been made.

She couldn’t live in another version of a cage. She wouldn’t. Never again.

“That won’t work,” she said.

He moved into the kitchen, bustling around the cabinets, studiously avoiding her gaze. “I got ahold of some more pancake mix. I think the entire country is out of whipped cream, but we can make it work. What do you think? After everything that’s happened the last few days, I think Milo deserves his favorite treat for breakfast tomorrow. Us, too.”

She faced the island, not ten feet from him. “I think I need to leave.”

Noah froze. His back to her, one hand on the cabinet handle, the other planted on the countertop. His shoulders went rigid.

“I need to leave,” she said, stronger now. “I’m leaving.”

He turned around. The cabinet door behind him hung open. Boxes of pastas lined the shelves—macaroni and cheese, ramen noodles, spaghetti.

Sour acid burned the back of her throat, her stomach queasy. She’d eaten that food. Enjoyed it.

Where had it come from? From a pantry in a house in Niles or Stevensville? From a family with hungry children? Were they still alive, or had they fought for their family’s future, only to bleed out in the snow, gunned down by the militia?

She had to get out.

“I can’t stay in Winter Haven. Not with the militia. Not with Rosamond Sinclair sitting in her mansion five houses down the street. I’m leaving.”

Noah stood as still as stone. Everything about him went tight, shuttered. “Where are you planning to go?”

She hesitated. “To our old house.”

“You mean to Liam.”

“I mean to my house. Liam is not the reason.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“This isn’t about him.”

“Then what is it about?”

She straightened her shoulders. “You. Us. Them.” She waved her good hand. “The militia ruling this town. What they’ve done. You allowing it to happen.”

Noah’s eyes darkened. “I’m protecting you! I’m protecting us! You’re safe—”

“It’s not enough.”

He stared at her blankly. “What do you mean—”

“It’s not enough!”

“How isn’t it good enough?” he sputtered. “Safety is what they promised. Safety is what they’re giving us. Milo has to be safe! You need to be safe!”

“Safe isn’t everything. You can’t have it all. That’s not how life works! There’s no such thing as absolute safety. None. Anyone who promises you that is a snake oil salesman, or worse.”

Noah shook his head, his jaw clenched, like if he believed it hard enough, it would be true.

She stretched her bad hand toward him. “Take a good look.”

His eyes shifted away, his gaze darting around the room, landing anywhere but on her misshapen, deformed fingers.

“Look!”

The silence lengthened.

Finally, he dragged his gaze to hers and lowered his eyes to her hand. He had the decency to look ashamed. “I’m sorry. It hurts me to see something that causes you pain.”

“This is real,” she said. “Pain is a part of living. Loss is a part of living. Risk—tempered with intelligence and wisdom—is a part of living. I won’t numb myself or shut myself off from the world for the illusion of safety. I will not trade myself for a promise that’s not even real. I will not.”

“It is real! They will protect us—”

“That’s B.S. and you know it. Those people are opportunistic leeches. Sociopaths praying on the less fortunate. They’ll smile to your face for as long as they can use you. Will any of them lay down their lives for you? For Milo?”

Noah swallowed. He couldn’t meet her burning eyes.

“Liam will,” she said fiercely. “Bishop will. Molly and Quinn will. Those are the friends I choose. People of honor. People who take care of each other, not just when it benefits them, but when it costs them. Especially when it costs them.”

“Liam again,” Noah said in disgust.

Frustration flared through her. He wasn’t even listening. He wasn’t getting it. “There are things worth more than safety, Noah. There are ideals worth dying for.”

“That’s not the way the world works! We don’t have the luxury of ideals. Not after the collapse. And what about when it’s our child? You would risk Milo’s death for your morals? Your beliefs?”

“My beliefs are who I am,” Hannah said. “Nothing worth having in this life is ever easy—or free.”

“So, you’re willing to die just to be ‘free’ of the militia? The people who keep us fed, warm, and alive?”

“The people who rob and slaughter innocents, you mean.”

Noah grimaced. “They’re doing what they have to do.”

She went still. Her pulse thudded in her ears. She placed both hands on the countertop to steady herself. “You told me it outraged you. You told me you would put a stop to it.”

He paused, choosing his words carefully. “We’re all doing what we have to do. This is the world, now. This is the way it is. You just need to accept it.”

“No,” Hannah said. “I won’t.”

25

HANNAH

DAY FORTY-EIGHT

Hannah stared at Noah, stunned.

She’d suspected that Noah had known all along; that he’d chosen to be blind. He’d believed in Rosamond and the militia—not because of his faith in their goodness, but because otherwise, he himself would be a part of something evil.

But to hear him say it like this, to admit it aloud…

Something in her closed, a door in her heart slamming shut. If any part of her remained open to him—for old time’s sake, for Milo, for everything they’d been through—it was gone.

“You sanctioned the murder of your neighbors,” she whispered.

“I did no such thing!”

“That’s exactly what you did. What you’re doing.”

He threw up his hands. “There is only so much food. So much fuel. If it’s a choice between starving and stealing, then we will steal.”

“And the murders?”

Noah’s eyes flashed with guilt and anger. His face flushed. “Those people shouldn’t have fought back! They were warned! They should’ve just backed off! They’d still be alive. That was their choice!”

“Do you hear yourself? You sound like every despot and mass murderer ever. You can’t justify this. There is no justification.”

“Sure, get on your high horse, Hannah! Easy for you to say. You’re not in charge of an entire town. You have no one to answer to. You’ve only been responsible for yourself!”

She bit her lower lip. Another low blow. She didn’t dignify it with a response. This conversation was pointless. She could see that now.

She’d tried to get Noah to see the truth, thinking he’d change, he’d act. That was her mistake. He did see it. He knew it and accepted it, even embraced it.

That was the true horror of it.

The vast house felt too small, the walls closing in, the air stale and deprived of oxygen.

“If it’s between losing my son and losing my soul,” Noah said. “I choose my soul.”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t have to be either-or.”

“For me, it is.”

“Fight for them both.”

He headed toward her, moving around the island. He held out both hands, beseeching her. “Hannah, please.”

She took a step back toward the foyer. If Ghost were here, he’d already be between them, a growling, snarling buffer. How she wished she’d brought him.

“I’m doing this for Milo. It’s all for Milo.”

“Milo wouldn’t want you to do this. He wouldn’t want people to die for his sake.”

“He wants to live! Every decision I’ve ever made is for him! I think about Milo with every breath I take.”

“So do I.”

“It sure doesn’t sound like it,” he said bitterly.

His indictment stung. It was the worst accusation he could throw at her, and he knew it. Shame flared in his eyes, but he didn’t take it back.

She didn’t expect him to. It was the only weapon he had left. The only thing he could still use to hurt her.

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it? Then why are you doing this? You’re going to leave him—again?”

Hannah winced. Guilt skewered her. “I’m not leaving him. I’m taking him with me.”

“Like hell you are.” Noah’s expression hardened. He strode through the living room, circling around her. He stood in the hallway between the living room and bedrooms—Milo’s bedroom—and blocked her path.

This was what she’d feared. That Noah would refuse to see reason, that he’d refuse to see what she was trying to do, what she needed to do.

“Winter Haven is a dangerous place. It’s not good for him. It’s not good for anyone.”

“You aren’t taking him from me!”

“It’s not from you, Noah! You’re still his father. You’ll always be his father. But you’re not doing what’s best for him.”

“Neither are you!”

“Yes,” she said with more conviction than she felt. “I am.”

His neck muscles corded. His fists clenched. “Leave if you want, but Milo belongs with me. I’m his father.”

Unless she took him at gunpoint, Noah wasn’t giving him up. She saw it in his determined, unwavering gaze. It was the one thing he would never bend on—never.

If she brought violence into the equation, it would only traumatize Milo and help nothing. She had to wait. She had to be patient, even though it was the last thing in the world that she wanted.

Hannah focused on the plan. The plan to destroy the militia and free Fall Creek—all of it. She didn’t want Noah dead; she wanted freedom for herself, her children, and her friends.

They would not live under oppression.

This would end.

Liam would help her. They would get Milo out.

She expelled a slow breath, tried to ignore the sharp pain in her chest at the thought of walking out of this house, of leaving her son, even if it was only for a little while.

The words were barbed wire in her throat. “Milo can stay.”

Noah relaxed. He smiled as if the entire conversation hadn’t happened, as if he could erase it all by willing it so. “So can you. Stay, Hannah. Stay with me.”

“I’ve already packed a bag. It’s in the bedroom. I’d like to kiss Milo goodnight. I’ll take the snowmobile and bring it back to the checkpoint in the morning.”

Noah blanched. An array of emotions crossed his face: anger, shock, and wounded pride. He saw how determined she was. It was finally sinking in—what this meant for them, for him.

His face crumpled. His eyes went shiny and frantic. “Hannah. I love you. Don’t go.”

“I’m leaving you, Noah.”

He rubbed his wedding ring with a trembling hand. “No. No! Don’t say that.”

“I’m sorry.”

In that moment, the years fell away from his face. She saw him as she had when he was young and eager, full of sweet promises, his gaze ardent and needy. “I can’t do this without you!”

“It’s not enough.”

A frenzied desperation shone in his eyes. “I’m sorry! I’ll change! I’ll do whatever you want. Please! You want me to challenge Rosamond? I’ll do it! You want me to sacrifice myself and fight the militia? I’ll do it! Just tell me what to do!”

He pled for absolution, begging forgiveness for sins she could not absolve.

She pitied him, but not enough. Not enough.

“I hope you’ll change, Noah. But not for me. That has to come from you.”

He stood there, utterly devastated. His shoulders hunched inward like she had struck him, something lost and forlorn in his face.

“You can’t do this to me,” he whispered. “Please don’t do this to me.”

Remorse ate at her. A grief as strong as the tides. She hadn’t wished for this. She hadn’t wanted it.

Hannah looked down at Charlotte in her carrier. The baby was sleeping, her tiny round face and rosebud lips as perfect as a doll’s. A fringe of dark hair peeked beneath Liam’s crooked knit cap.

She remembered her reasons. Charlotte and Milo were everything. To give them a future, Hannah was willing to fight, to die.

“This is because of Liam, isn’t it?” Noah asked, petulance mingling with his despair.

Hannah looked up and met his gaze. Her eyes were dry. “Goodbye, Noah.”

26

NOAH

DAY FORTY-EIGHT

Noah staggered out of the house. It was after eleven. Milo was sleeping. A dim part of him whispered that he shouldn’t leave his son alone—he’d never left him before—but his despair drove him on.

He had to get out.

He shrugged on his coat but didn’t bother with gloves or a hat. The night was cold and crisp, the moon smothered in clouds. The chilly air stung his exposed face, hands, and neck. He didn’t care.

Noah shut the front door and stumbled down the porch steps, his boots sliding in the slushy snow. He’d grabbed a flashlight to light his way. The beam wavered, the trees on either side of the driveway seeming to leap out at him, their barren branches scraping the black sky.

His eyes burned. His chest was too tight.

Fragmented thoughts ricocheted through his head. He couldn’t think straight. How could this be happening? After everything. After everything he’d done, all the years of sacrifice and pain and heartache. How could this be the end?

He stopped in the middle of the road. The flashlight shook in his hands. He inhaled sharply, the cold air searing his lungs as a stew of heartbreak, jealousy, and anger roiling through him.

His wedding ring glinted.

How cruel was the universe? To steal his wife, then bring her miraculously back to life, only for her to betray him.

He flung his head back, blinking hard. There were no stars. No stars existed in the entire universe. His entire world was collapsing inward on itself like a black hole.

He wrenched the ring from his finger. Five years, and he’d never taken it off. Not to shower, not to repaint Milo’s bedroom, not for anything.

It was worthless. Less than worthless. He never wanted to see it again.

With a pained growl, he flung it into the woods. It didn’t make a sound. In the darkness, he didn’t see it land.

It was over. His life with Hannah—his dreams of a family, of a future forged together—it died like a guttering flame.

Noah stumbled on. He couldn’t go home, not right now. The house already smelled like Hannah; it was infused with her presence. She was gone, but the shape of her was still there.

An image flashed through his mind—her face when she’d told him it was over, the memory like a sledgehammer to his chest.

Noah shuffled down the street. An owl hooted. Snow drowned everything, swallowing up mailboxes, stalled cars, and street signs.

Rosamond’s guards sat in a truck at the end of her driveway. She had turned all the lights on in every room. Every window glowed bright yellow.

It was almost garish—so much light. Even the other Winter Haven houses only used precious electricity in a room or two at a time. Not Rosamond. She gloried in her excess. She refused to apologize for it.

Less than two months ago, everyone had wasted electricity, water, food. A lifetime ago.

Everything was different. He was different. He didn’t recognize himself; he didn’t want to.

Noah turned into Rosamond’s driveway. The guards in the trucks sat up. One rolled down his window and flicked a cigarette butt into the snow. He leaned out, pistol in hand, and eyed Noah up and down. His name was Lyle Tomlin.

The guy’s eyes flickered in recognition. “Chief Sheridan.”

Noah didn’t respond. He didn’t trust his voice.

“You okay, Chief? You don’t look so hot.”

He nodded and kept walking, back stiff, flashlight aimed at the ground, his other hand stuffed in his coat pocket.

The guards stayed in their truck.

The night closed all around him, threatening, menacing. His boots scraped across ice like shards of glass. He shivered.

At Rosamond’s front door, he hesitated. A flicker of clarity burned through his wretched misery. What was he doing here? What was he thinking? He should get back to Milo—

Rosamond opened the door. She wore in a thick wool sweater, black leggings, and wool socks. Wet blonde hair curled at the nape of her neck. She must have just taken a shower.

She held a radio in one hand. “Lyle reported that you were here.” Her eyes narrowed, taking in his distraught expression and disheveled appearance. “What happened?”

“Hannah,” he croaked. His voice was foreign in his own ears. “She left me.”

Rosamond’s expression didn’t change. She took a step back, opened the door wide, and gestured for him to come in.

He obliged. He didn’t bother to take off his boots. Warmth hit him. The delicious scent of cinnamon rolls filled his nostrils.

“I was just making a midnight snack.” Rosamond moved toward the kitchen. She turned to face him. Her eyes were red and rimmed in shadows, but they were clear. “Come in, sit down. Tell me what happened.”

Her motherly tone brooked no argument. He told her everything. How Hannah had left him. Abandoned him. Rejected him.

Hannah, the ghost who’d haunted him, who’d stolen every ounce of joy, who’d stunted his ability to move on, to have a life, another relationship—anything. She’d destroyed him. She’d ruined him.

“Hannah is not who I thought she was. You were right.”

Rosamond leaned across the smooth marble island and placed a manicured hand on his arm. “Don’t blame yourself, son. You’ve been blameless from the beginning.”

“I did everything I could. I’ve tried everything. Nothing works. She’s already decided!”

“You’ve done everything right. She can’t see what’s in front of her, Noah. That is her loss. And Milo’s.”

“But why? I don’t understand.”

“I can’t tell you why she would so willingly turn her back on her beautiful family…but I have an idea.”

Noah looked up at her with blurred eyes. “What?”

“Liam Coleman.”

A surge of jealous outrage blasted through him, hot as a furnace.

Rosamond clucked her tongue. “He came waltzing in, saw a young, unstable woman in a vulnerable position, and took full advantage of it. He’s twisted her, Noah. Brainwashed her. He took what didn’t belong to him. That’s what he does. Takes things that belong to other men.”

“This is his fault. Hannah would never do this on her own.”

“Of course she wouldn’t,” Rosamond said soothingly. “Not the Hannah we used to know, at any rate.”

A seething hatred stabbed him. Jealousy, black and ugly. Had Hannah already kissed him? Had she betrayed Noah before she’d even arrived in Fall Creek?

Liam had known full well that she was married. He’d stolen her anyway. He had no right. No right to anything or anyone in this town. He was the outsider. The intruder.

“And what if he wasn’t here?” Rosamond asked as if reading his thoughts.

“The townspeople wouldn’t be riled up. The militia wouldn’t be at everyone’s throats. Fall Creek would be fine.”

“You’d have your wife back.”

“I’d have Hannah,” Noah whispered brokenly. “We’d be together. We’d be happy.”

Some distant part of his brain registered that Rosamond had said nothing about her own desire for revenge. A tiny warning bell clanged in his head, but he ignored it. There was no room for anything but his anger, his spite and bitterness, his desolation.

He wanted to hate Liam Coleman. He wanted him dead.

Rosamond gave him a sympathetic smile. “You can do what Sutter can’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“You can get close. You can do what needs to be done.”

He thought he’d recoil. He didn’t. Dark fury boiled through him. His hands shook with it, fingers curling into fists. He would do anything to put his family back together. Anything.

“Put us first, Noah. Haven’t I always been here for you? Haven’t I always taken care of you and Milo?”

A memory flickered, tried to wriggle to the surface of his mind. It was buried too deep, shrouded in darkness. It winked out as fast as it had appeared.

“You’re not alone, Noah. No matter how much you feel like it right now. I’m right here. I’m here to help you in any way that I can. Just like I always have.”

“I appreciate that. I do.”

“We’re the only ones who matter,” Rosamond said. “We’re together in this. You and me. You’re the only one who understands. The only one who’s always understood. We’re building a sanctuary from the storm—and one man is trying to tear it all down. We’re trying to create a haven for Milo, for every child in this town, and this…imposter…has put all that in jeopardy.”

“He has.” He stared at his naked ring finger. The tears dried on his cheeks. His skin felt tight, like it no longer belonged to him. “Milo is my priority.”

“And Fall Creek,” Rosamond prodded.

“And Fall Creek.”

“Liam Coleman is a threat to everything we stand for.” Rosamond leaned in, her expression intense, her gaze never leaving his. “Get close, Noah. Get close and do what needs to be done.”

He rubbed his finger. It didn’t feel right or natural. It felt bare and ugly, as barren as his tormented soul. “I don’t know. I’m—I’m the law—”

“The law is what we make it. You know that. We’re forging a new reality. We’re remaking the future.”

He didn’t argue. How could he? Her words made a terrible sense. Everything she said rang with a truth he’d once feared but was learning to embrace.

Julian had argued the same thing, he thought with a pang. Noah had loved him, but he’d gotten what he deserved. He’d gone too far.

You’re going too far, a voice whispered in his mind.

He blinked and shoved the thought out of his head. What had morality gotten him? A code of ethics? Busting his butt trying to do the right thing fourteen hours a day while his wife fell in love with another man?

Screw that. Screw it all.

Rosamond was right. In this new world they were building, they created their own rules. There was poetry in that. A certain primal satisfaction.

Rosamond closed her hand over his, comforting him. He felt less alone. In the end, it was Rosamond who always understood him.

She squeezed his hand. “Do this, son, and it all ends. You get everything back.”

He saw Hannah watching Liam in his mind’s eye. Saw her face lighting up.

His throat burned with bitter acid. He let it burn, let it hurt.

He said, “I’ll do it.”

27

LIAM

DAY FORTY-NINE

Liam found an adequate hide beneath a downed spruce that had fallen at an angle against another tree.

He climbed beneath the log, cut a few small branches out of the way, and unrolled the foam mat from his pack. He placed the pack in front of him, laid the carbine across it, and peered through the ACOG scope.

Liam preferred a 30.06 for sniping, as it had better range and punch, but he’d work with what he had.

The late afternoon sun slanted through the barren trees. Squirrels and chipmunks darted through the brittle underbrush. The snow sucked the sounds out of everyday life; everything seemed muted, distant. He exhaled icy breaths.

Despite the chill, visibility was clear with no wind. A good day for a sniper.

He wore light-colored clothing, a dirtied linen bedsheet borrowed from Molly draped over his legs, back, shoulders, and head in a makeshift ghillie suit and had used Quinn’s painting sticks, called “pastels,” to gray his face and streak his hair with gray, white, and brown.

He’d picked a curved section of road and set up his ambush just past the elbow-shaped bend. From his position, he had an unobstructed line of sight to the road. A fallen log and two large spruce trees sheltered him.

A battle was coming. An ugly, bloody fight with high casualties.

His goal was to thin the numbers using guerilla tactics. The more militia he could eliminate now, the better the town’s chances of success when the time came to fight.

Once he started, he needed to act swiftly. When the militia realized they were under attack, they would up their guard. They’d be alert and trigger-happy, not careless and bored as they were now.

It would become harder to get close, to ambush and assassinate.

Today, he would take out as many as he could in one fell swoop. Get in, get dirty, get the hell out.

He’d spent every day since his arrival in Fall Creek preparing for it. Before he’d left Winter Haven, he’d memorized the patrol schedules and shift changes.

The militia’s pillaging trips were harder to pin down. They went out at random times with random numbers of men. Their destinations were likely just as arbitrary, though they usually returned within a five-to six-hour window.

He had been waiting for an opportunity. Last night, Hannah had noticed a dozen militia milling around several vehicles, gearing up for another raid. She’d alerted him.

It wasn’t difficult to pick up their tracks after the dusting of snow the night before. Few vehicles were driving the roads these days, even fewer traveling with snowmobiles.

They’d cleared specific roads of abandoned vehicles, pushing them to the shoulder or into a single lane. They traveled via Old 31 to the north, Old 31 or 139 to the south, or took Deans Hill Road north to 140 to head east. This time, they’d hit Deans Hill Road.

Liam slowed his breathing, willing his heart rate to decrease. He moved his toes in his boots, flexed his fingers, and focused through the reticles of the scope on a small wrist-width branch he’d laid in the center of the road earlier. He took an icy breath, exhaled, and waited.

He no longer had a skilled team at his back. No air support, no artillery. He had only his wits and his training to aid him. But then, Operators were used to that.

He was alone. No one else would fight.

Bishop would’ve come, but Liam needed him to monitor things in Fall Creek and watch out for Hannah. Reynoso and Perez, too, but they were cops and had to be careful while Noah Sheridan remained their boss.

Quinn would’ve jumped at the chance, but he wasn’t about to bring a child into a battle. She kept begging him to fight, but he couldn’t say yes. If anything happened to her on his watch, he’d never forgive himself.

Most of the townspeople wanted the militia gone, but they weren’t willing to kill for it yet. They weren’t willing to put their own lives on the line. It was a typical human response.

Liam understood that. He didn’t like it, but he understood it.

He was the sheepdog. He was the man set apart. It was up to him.

A low rumble echoed in the stillness. An engine. Multiple engines. They headed his way.

His heart rate kicked up a notch. Tensing, he watched the avenue of approach through his scope. He visualized the convoy as Hannah had described it—three trucks, with a snowmobile scouting in front. Anywhere from four to ten hostiles to contend with.

The engines drowned out the birdsong. They were moments away. Thirty seconds. Fifteen.

He withdrew his Gerber and hovered it over the taut cord beside him, waiting to spring the trap.

His pulse thudded in his ears, his mouth dry. He took a breath to calm his heart rate, to steady himself. Time slowed down. He saw everything frame by frame.

A snowmobile appeared, zipping around the corner. The driver wore black, a rifle slung over his shoulder. Liam cut the cord.

The sapling sprang free, pulling the wire wrapped around the thicker elm taut, and the wire stretched across the road at chest height like a clothesline.

The snowmobiler hit the wire at fifty miles an hour. A loud twang splintered the air. The razor wire instantly decapitated him.

The machine roared off the road and veered into a line of thin birch trees. It crashed through the first few, slammed off a larger trunk, tipping sideways as it smashed headfirst into a fallen log.

The snowmobile came to a jarring halt upside-down, the rider’s mangled remains caught beneath it. Black smoke boiled up from the crumpled metal.

Liam dropped the knife, grabbed the carbine, and shifted his attention to the road. The snowmobiles were scouts. The convoy trailed a quarter mile behind. He waited, muscles tensed, ready.

The first truck roared around the bend—a rusty 1970s Chevy C30. The back of the truck was loaded down with stolen gear. Two militiamen perched in the bed, wearing body armor and holding AR-10 rifles.

They should’ve been alert for trouble, but they were comfortable, cocksure and complacent, not expecting an ambush in their own territory. They were about to pay a steep price for their mistake.

28

LIAM

DAY FORTY-NINE

The Chevy’s driver caught sight of the crashed machine ahead of him and tried to brake, the tires slewing. It was too late.

The front bumper passed over the branch that Liam had planted as his marker. The front left wheel struck the branch and jerked it out of position.

A wire tied to the branch was attached to an M67 fragmentation grenade tucked inside a metal can affixed to the side of the road—a move taken from the Vietnam war playbook.

A frag grenade didn’t explode in an impressive fireball like in the movies. It was less spectacular, but far more deadly, with a kill radius of five meters and a casualty radius up to fifteen meters.

When the wire yanked the grenade from the can, 6.5 ounces of high explosive material detonated. Shrapnel tore through the truck. The windows shattered. The tangos in back screamed as scorched metal chunks ripped through their bodies, penetrating their unprotected bellies, backs, thighs, and chests.

One man stood, a shocked expression on his maimed face. Shrapnel had punctured his cheeks and chin.

The second man remained seated, shrieking as he clutched at the shredded remains of his lower leg.

Liam took advantage of the confusion caused by the blast. He focused through his optics, took out the slack in the trigger, and fired double taps into both men. The shrieking stopped.

The second truck—a gray F-150—rumbled into sight. The driver slammed his brakes; the truck swerved sideways and smashed into the back of the busted Chevy. The back was loaded with supplies; Liam saw no guards.

The wounded driver of the first truck—a woman—was screaming into her radio. “Reaper Team to Base! We’re under attack! We need you!”

Liam squeezed the trigger. She wouldn’t be radioing in any more warnings.

With the butt of the carbine squeezed between his right shoulder and cheek, Liam shifted gears, moving to the right as he depressed the trigger and unleashed a volley at the Ford F-150.

The driver ducked, hands over his head, but it didn’t matter. The heavy rounds sliced through the thin metal of the driver’s door. His body jerked as bullets riddled his flesh.

Gunfire blasted. Bullets smashed into the trees above and to either side of him. Bark and pine needles rained down on his head.

The third truck had stopped around the bend, just the fender in sight, the driver diving from the passenger side as the two guards in the back tumbled to the ground and took cover behind it. All three were firing on Liam’s position.

Constant gunfire blasted his eardrums. The continuous barrage of near automatic fire was deafening. More rounds shredded the pine boughs all around him. A puff of dirt kicked up two yards below his position.

Fresh adrenaline spiked through him. Liam leaned into the M4, fired four more shots, and felt the bolt lock back on an empty chamber.

He grabbed the knife he’d dropped earlier, sheathed it, and scrambled backward. He kept behind the trees for cover. In moments, he was up and moving.

Earlier in the day, he’d established a few alternative positions and pre-deployed a weapon and additional ammunition, making sure he could access his gear, fire upon the enemy, and remain hidden.

He did a tactical reload as he headed further east around the bend toward the militia hidden behind the third truck.

The gunfire didn’t follow him. Their ears ringing from the barrage of rifle fire and disoriented from the blast, the remaining militia couldn’t pinpoint the enemy fire. They were still firing on his initial position, not realizing that he was about to flank them.

He reached his second position and dropped beneath a thin screen of leafless underbrush. He set up his carbine with a decent field of fire.

Three hostiles crouched along the far side of the truck. A glimpse of movement near the engine block—one head. The other two crept up around the rear fender.

The muzzle of an AR peeked over the hood, and one of them fired off a few random shots. None landed anywhere near Liam.

He felt the seconds ticking away in his blood. A reaction force could arrive soon—he needed to hurry.

He rose to his feet, ran behind a nearby berm, and bladed his body behind a thick oak trunk. The M4 hung on its sling as he palmed his final frag grenade and peered through the leafless trees. He plotted his throw, determining if it was feasible. It was.

Liam yanked the pin and lobbed the grenade. It hurtled through the air, nicking a few twigs, and bounced to a stop against a blackberry bush a few yards behind the truck.

He dropped to the ground behind the berm. A hostile let out a curse that sounded more like a yelp of terror. Before any of them could flee, the grenade detonated with a bang and a cloud of smoke.

Liam crawled up the berm, remaining low, and examined the damage. He peered beneath the truck. The grenade had done its gruesome work. Two of the hostiles writhed on the ground, the third still on his feet.

Liam aimed, exhaled, and popped off three shots. Two nailed the guy in the right leg. With a cry, he fell to the ground. Within a few seconds, Liam had serviced all three of them.

He paused a moment, breathing in the cold air, the smell of cordite and stinking smoke strong in his nostrils. Spent brass were scattered in the snow all around him.

The woods were silent—the birds scared dumb by the deafening firefight. His own ears were ringing.

He glanced at his watch. Only three minutes had passed since the wounded militia woman had radioed for help.

Liam had anticipated a reactionary force and planned for it. The ambush site was located three miles north of Fall Creek. About a mile down the road, the reaction force would discover trouble.

He’d planted two-by-fours featuring eight-inch nails hammered through one end across the road, pointy end up, and covered with snow, twigs, and pine needles.

With their vehicles disabled, it would be a long slog back to Winter Haven on foot. Snowmobiles would get through unscathed. For them, he’d strung a few more wires across the road.

Late afternoon had given way to evening. The shadows lengthened, making it harder to see in the twilight. Time to go.

Liam stood, his legs weak from the adrenaline dump, his lower spine on fire, and leaned against a tree. He ejected the magazine. Only two rounds left. He didn’t have a fresh mag to reload for his M4, and only one magazine remained for his Glock. He was out of grenades.

Luckily, the militia had just fixed that problem for him.

He strode onto the road, cautious and alert, and stripped the dead militia of anything of value.

He seized their radios, throat mics, and earpieces for improved communication, and slung four AR rifles over his shoulder. He stuffed three pistols into his pack, including a Heckler & Koch Mark 23 with integrated suppressor and laser aiming module and two .45 magazines to go with it.

Liam emptied the ammo in their chest rigs—more needed 5.56, some .308, and a few nine mil magazines, along with one more frag grenade.

He didn’t think about the lives he’d snuffed out. Their parents, brothers and sisters, wives or children. They stole and murdered and terrorized, no better than the enemies he’d dispatched in Iraq, Iran, and Syria.

He didn’t spare a second thought for the carnage he’d wrought.

There were many things he lost sleep over, but not this.

Leaving eight corpses behind, he turned and hoofed it through the woods, setting a steady pace as he headed back to Fall Creek.

29

ROSAMOND

DAY FORTY-NINE

“What the hell just happened?” Rosamond’s cheeks flushed red, a vein pulsing on her forehead. “How do you lose eight men?”

Sutter faced her across the mahogany desk. His pale eyes blazed with anger. “There were traps. Ambushes. They’re turning against us.”

“Who?”

“Fall Creek. The people.”

She went rigid. “The people we’ve been feeding and housing, at great cost to ourselves?”

Noah cleared his throat. He was standing at the back of the office near the door, restless and fidgeting. “We don’t know that for certain—”

“We do! Do your damn job for once, Chief Sheridan.” Sutter spat the words like a curse. “Coleman is leading them. A group of insurgents—and the damn townspeople are protecting them! We’ve interrogated a dozen already. No one will name names. Yet.”

Fury roiled through her, consumed her. She slammed her fists against the desk. “After all I’ve done for them! Everything I’ve given them!”

Sutter loomed over her desk, towering over her. She refused to shrink from him. “It’s time, Rosamond. You know it’s time.”

Rosamond closed her eyes. She knew what he meant. What he’d been asking for from the beginning. She’d resisted out of the kindness of her heart, out of her magnanimous generosity. There was no kindness left in her. She opened her eyes. “Yes.”

“Time for what?” Noah asked.

Sutter stared at her. “Say it.”

“We are done helping the spoiled, ungrateful residents of Fall Creek,” Rosamond said. “We will not feed them. We will not give them shelter or firewood or gasoline to heat their houses, and we will no longer defend them.”

Noah stared at her, aghast.

“The militia will fall back to Winter Haven,” Sutter said. “We’re abandoning the roadblocks and ceasing patrols. Fall Creek is on its own.”

“They can’t defend themselves!” Noah cried. “They’re mostly women, children, and elderly. They’re tired and hungry. How are they going to eat?”

“Not our problem anymore.” It pained her to say it. She had loved this town like a mother.

“You brought in the militia to keep Fall Creek safe!”

“Things change,” she said coldly. “You know that better than anyone.”

He recoiled. “That wasn’t the deal.”

“Fall Creek is an inconsequential blip on the map,” Sutter said with a sneer. “Winter Haven is the crown jewel, the Eden that men will fight, bleed, and die for. We’ve wasted far too many resources on a miserable little place that doesn’t matter, that’s dying of starvation anyway. We have to concentrate on what does matter.”

“Winter Haven is the future,” Rosamond said. “It belongs to us.”

“There are women and children—” Noah tried again, weak and pathetic.

“Have you heard nothing I said?”

“When the gangs come, they’ll be overrun—”

“Then they can die!”

Noah stared at her, mouth agape, stunned.

“They’ve made their choice. We’re doing what’s right for us.” She strode around the desk, Sutter moving out of the way as she passed him and approached Noah. She softened and put a hand on his shoulder. “They’ve turned against us. After everything I’ve done for them. Everything I sacrificed for them, gave to them! This is how they repay me? Hating me? Murdering the very men who protected them?”

“It’s not all of them, it’s just a few—”

“Do you see anyone turning in the insurgents? Do you hear any outcries? Or do you hear silence? Their complicity. They murdered my boys, Noah. They took everything from me.”

“This cannot go unanswered,” Sutter said. “As we speak, my men are stacking the bodies of their friends and brothers in that makeshift morgue of yours. They need to pay for what they’ve done. Not just the culprits—the town. All of them.”

“Kill whoever you want to.” Rosamond turned from Noah and glanced out the window. “Burn it down for all I care.”

She wanted to smash the window, to break it into a thousand pieces. She wanted to crush and destroy, to make someone—anyone—suffer as she had suffered.

Noah’s mouth opened like he was going to protest. Instead, he nodded in resignation. “I need to get back to Milo.”

“Go then!” Sutter motioned at the door. “You’re the police chief of nothing, now. We don’t need you anymore.”

“Mattias!” Rosamond chided. “You don’t mean that.”

“It’s fine,” Noah said dully. “I’m fine.”

“Remember what I’ve asked of you,” she said. “Remember what you promised me.”

“I remember.” His voice was flat. His eyes, too.

Without another word, he turned, opened the door, and slipped through. He closed it behind him.

They listened to the rumble of the truck in the driveway as Noah drove back to his big bright house, to his small son snuggled safe and warm in his bed.

Jealousy burned through her. Noah had his child. How lucky he was. How blessed. And he didn’t even appreciate it, not like she did.

Sutter sank into one of the leather chairs. After a beat of silence, he spoke. “You can’t trust him.”

She couldn’t trust anyone, not really. Not even the man sitting across from her.

“Why do you even care about him? We don’t need him anymore. He can burn with the town.”

“He was Julian’s best friend. Surely you can understand that. He’s like family to me.”

Sutter rolled his eyes. “Please, Rosamond. Remember who you’re talking to.”

Sutter only understood business. Money. Pleasure. Comfort. Everything was a transaction to him. He couldn’t understand that she cared. She simply made sure to never care too much.

If there was one thing that she’d learned, it was the need to control emotional connections. Feelings were finite. Attachments were only valuable when they were beneficial.

She sighed. “Noah still has a role to play in this. He can still help us. He’ll kill Coleman—where you failed.”

Rankled at her insult, Sutter’s mouth thinned. “He has friends in that town. Bishop. His wife. Some of the cops. He won’t be loyal to you.”

“Then I guess you must make sure he is.”

“What about the baby?”

Rosamond flinched. “What about it?”

“She’s your grandkid, isn’t she?”

Her lip curled in scorn. “No!”

Sutter leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head. “No?”

Revulsion filled her. “That…thing has nothing to do with me, nothing to do with Gavin! Do you hear me?”

Sutter blinked. “Sure thing, boss.”

She clenched her jaw until it hurt, grinding her teeth like glass. No one would ever understand the immensity of her loss. “Besides, it’s a girl. Girls are the weaker sex. A female could never replace my son.”

Sutter just stared at her.

Rosamond steepled her fingers on top of her desk, breathing hard, struggling to keep control. “If you have further business, get to it. Otherwise, get the hell out of my office.”

“Who do you want protected? If not the baby, then who? Milo?”

This was her strength. She would cross any line necessary to achieve her objectives. She would go where others feared to tread.

If Noah betrayed her, she would kill him. She would destroy anything that he’d ever loved. Including Hannah Sheridan. And his son.

She didn’t hesitate. “No one is exempt.”

“And Noah? How do you propose that we ensure his loyalty?”

She met Sutter’s hard gaze. “We’ve given Noah everything, haven’t we? We can take it away, too.”

Sutter smiled. “Perfect.”

30

LIAM

DAY FIFTY-ONE

Bishop pointed at the hand-written paper in the center of the table. “This isn’t good.”

“It was expected,” Liam said. “It was only a matter of time.”

Liam, Bishop, Perez, and Reynoso sat in a booth at the back of the bar at the Fall Creek Inn. They’d arrived an hour before opening at Dave Farris’s request. They were enjoying the last of a bottle of bourbon.

Dave was low on everything. The militia had kept him stocked for a while—they enjoyed stopping in for a cold beer as much as the next guy—until Dave made the blacklist by standing up for the Marshall boy at the hardware store.

Folks still came in for a bit of warmth and company. Even if they didn’t have a box of pasta or a can of beans to trade, Dave didn’t turn them away. He said he didn’t have the heart for it—not when it was his neighbors, his friends, his town.

No one else was at the bar. The other booths were empty. Early morning light streamed through the grimy windows. Fall Creek was quiet, the streets devoid of the usual militia patrols.

Liam sat with his back to the wall, facing the rest of the room. He noted the exits, his proximity to the bar and the other booths, and the shotgun Dave kept behind the bar. His Glock was unholstered and resting on his knee beneath the table.

Hayes and Truitt were keeping watch outside, but Liam was ready for anything. He didn’t enjoy feeling this exposed. He hadn’t touched the alcohol; he needed to remain sharp and alert.

He’d attacked the militia convoy the day before yesterday. This morning, Fall Creek had awakened to flapping red papers tacked on electric poles, trees, and front doors all over town.

The superintendent had canceled town halls and council meetings. This was now how Fall Creek’s tyrant spread her messages.

The gist of the flyer was simple. Due to the “terrorist attacks,” the militia would no longer protect Fall Creek. They owned Winter Haven. Trespassers would be shot on sight.

Liam was surprised there wasn’t a bounty on his head like the Wild West days. Maybe that was next.

At least Hannah was out of Winter Haven. She’d returned to Tanglewood Drive a few nights ago—without Milo.

Liam didn’t want anyone staying at Hannah’s old house, since it was the first place the militia would attack. He’d driven off Sutter’s spies scoping out the street.

Instead, Hannah and Ghost had moved into the spare bedroom at Molly and Quinn’s place. He was glad she was with them. Liam had bedded down at one of the nearby empty houses, where he could monitor things.

Hannah was safer outside of Winter Haven. He wished Milo were out of there, but if Noah was good for one thing, it was taking care of his son. They would get Milo as soon as they could.

He didn’t consider the ramifications of Hannah’s choice to leave Noah. He couldn’t allow himself any distractions.

First, he needed to deal with the militia.

Dave pulled up a stool, a dishtowel slung over his shoulder. He wore a Detroit Tigers baseball cap pulled low over his receding hairline.

He eyed the red flyer with distaste. “Maybe this isn’t such a bad thing.”

“How is that?” Reynoso asked.

“They can have Winter Haven. We keep Fall Creek. Maybe now they’ll leave us alone.”

“You really think they’ll leave us alone?” Reynoso asked, incredulous. “They’ll accept that we killed eight of their men? Remember who these people are. They’re looters, thieves, and killers. They’ll want revenge.”

Perez tucked her short black hair behind her ears. Her hair was greasy, and she wore no makeup. Her eyes hardened. “Knowing Sutter, he’ll take it out on the town first.”

Bishop rubbed his temples. “I want peace as much as you do, Dave, but they’re right. The militia won’t stop just because they have Winter Haven all to themselves. We’re still in danger. This entire region is at risk.”

“We need to hit them hard,” Perez said. “Hard enough to end this.”

“You mean that?” Liam asked.

“Hell yes, I do.”

Reynoso exchanged a look with Perez. “We made an oath to protect and serve. Our job is to protect the town from all threats, including those from within. We’ll do what we have to do.”

“Whatever we do, we have to be careful,” Bishop said. “And not just of the militia. Noah Sheridan is compromised—”

“We know.” Reynoso grimaced. “It sucks. But it is what it is.” He glanced at Liam. “We aren’t him.”

Liam nodded. He didn’t trust the Fall Creek cops, though they’d been solid—Reynoso, Perez, Truitt, and Hayes in particular.

Bishop trusted them. That was something.

“Then what do we do?” Dave asked. “Fall Creek is vulnerable. Hell, we were attacked a week ago. Another town could come after us. If the militia aren’t protecting us, we’re sitting ducks.”

Liam shifted in his seat. He kept his gaze on the front doors. “Our priority is defense. Both against a militia attack from within and threats from the outside—gangs, desperate groups, whoever. We set up perimeter defenses and a night watch. We man the roadblocks, make sure everyone has radios for communication.”

“It’ll stretch us thinner than we already are.” Reynoso sighed and swirled the liquid in his glass. He looked sunken, bent by exhaustion and worry. The man was burning candles at both ends. “We need more volunteers.”

“Volunteers seem in short supply,” Liam said.

“I’ll work on getting volunteers.” Perez poked Reynoso in his bicep. “I’m more of a people person than this big ox.”

Reynoso swallowed the rest of his drink and poured himself another glass. “Good luck with that.”

“They want their kids safe, they must help,” Perez said. “It’s not like asking them to run into battle. It’s protecting themselves and their people. Anyway, I don’t plan on giving them a choice.”

Reynoso’s radio crackled. “Four Civilians headed into the bar,” Truitt said. “Heads up.”

“Copy that,” Reynoso said.

A minute later, the bell over the door rang. Two women and two men shuffled in, stomping their feet and shivering. Dave rose and settled them in a booth near the front. He supplied drinks for his guests and returned to the booth.

Reynoso palmed his glass. “Say Perez gets enough volunteers to man the roadblocks and set up a ragtag watch. Winter Haven is in the middle of Fall Creek. We’ve still got the militia holed up like a fox in the henhouse. Liam took ‘em by surprise once. I doubt we’ll get so lucky again.”

“We need to figure it out soon,” Dave said. “Half our people are starving; the other half will be soon. The longer this drags out, the stronger their position and the weaker we become.”

“They have us outgunned, with an endless supply of ammo,” Liam said. “What we need is the militia’s weapons depot. We get ahold of that, and maybe we can even the odds.”

He unzipped the go-bag at his feet with his left hand—his right still holding the pistol beneath the table—and pulled out his map. He spread it flat between them and pointed at Winter Haven, a tiny oval tucked between the river to the northeast and the school campus a half-mile to the southwest. “The weapons depot.”

“It could be any of those fifty-one houses,” Perez said. “We can’t hit them all.”

“We need to sneak in and recon the area,” Liam said.

“They’re buttoned up tight back there,” Reynoso said. “Snipers, patrols, the works.”

“We’ve got three additional visitors,” Hayes said over the radio.

A minute later, the bell over the door jangled. Three townspeople entered, bundled in coats, boots, and scarves. Two held red flyers in their gloved hands. Their gazes raked Liam and the others, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

Dave hopped off his stool and trotted toward them. He situated them at the bar at the other end of the room. Liam, Bishop, and the others lowered their voices and leaned in close.

Liam scanned the room, slow and measured, scrutinizing the guests, studying faces, and gauging body language. Watching for any threats, not trusting anyone for a second.

One man—a gnarled old guy in his early seventies—kept turning around on his barstool and shooting Liam hostile glares. He could be a problem.

“We need volunteers for more than just security,” Reynoso said. “We need to build ourselves a small army.”

Perez set down her empty glass and spun it on the tabletop. “We ask for help from that Community Alliance group. We let them live when we didn’t have to. They owe us.”

“They can help us,” Bishop said. “We need more men. They have men.”

Liam shook his head, skeptical. “They don’t care whether they kill the militia or us—to them, we’re all the enemy.”

“I’ve been in contact with Mick,” Bishop said. “I’m working on establishing regular communication and trust. They’re skittish still, but I think I can win them over. But they lost a lot of men in the attack. They’re low on both weapons and ammo, too.”

Liam didn’t trust them. It went against his instincts to join forces with men who blamed Fall Creek for their woes as much as the militia.

He had zero desire to fight alongside men he couldn’t trust—who might stab them in the back the second they’d beaten the militia. “Still a bad idea.”

Bishop blew out a frustrated breath. “We’re out of good ideas. That’s the problem.”

The old man glanced back at Liam again, scowling. He swiveled on the barstool, planted his feet, and stood.

Liam tensed, watching the guy’s hands.

Here came trouble.

31

LIAM

DAY FIFTY-ONE

The old man at the bar tottered toward them, pointing a shaky finger at Liam. “You! You did this. You’re the reason for all our problems!”

“That’s not true, Albert,” Bishop said. “Please calm down.”

“Calm down? Calm down? My farm off Range Road got robbed last night. They made off with five of my chickens, my chainsaw, and the last of my gas cans. Once my machine goes dry, how I am going to get into town? How am I gonna refill my generator to keep my wife from freezing? Who’s going to protect us now, huh?”

Perez slipped out of the booth and rose to her feet.

“We are, Albert,” Bishop said. “All of us. We’ll protect ourselves and take care of each other. You can count on that.”

Everyone was watching, their expressions strained. Tension crackled through the room.

Liam gritted his teeth. He just wanted to get out of there. He’d rather be walking the woods alone, back at the house with Hannah, or rocking little Charlotte to sleep, smelling baby powder and lavender lotion.

Anywhere but here.

A middle-aged man with a stubby mustache and pockmarked skin spun on his barstool. His overgrown hair was a mess. A distinct unwashed odor emanated from his direction. The man’s hands were visible, fisted at his sides. “There’s a word for what you are. Terrorist.”

The burly guy behind him had one hand on his beer, his left hand hidden in his lap. Scowling, he stood next to his friend and slammed his beer on the bar counter. “We’re all starving because of you!”

Liam tightened his grip on the Glock. Adrenaline spiked through him, his senses on high alert. Across from him, Reynoso and Perez tensed up.

“Liam,” Bishop said, his voice low, laced with warning.

He reminded himself that these people weren’t the bad guys. They were deluded, afraid, desperate. The sheep, not the wolves.

The townspeople weren’t ready for this, for him and what he stood for, what he was willing to do.

They were trapped in the old ways of thinking—endless talking and politics, all the unpalatable violence hidden behind the scenes, out of sight.

They still did not understand what it took to survive.

He eased out of the booth, tucking the Glock into his waistband at the small of his back, and stood. He would restrain himself. But the second any of them pulled a weapon, all bets were off. Consequences be damned.

“I’m not here to fight with you,” he said slow and clear. “Doesn’t mean I won’t.”

Both men shoved back their stools and stalked toward Liam, their stances aggressive, eyes flashing with pent-up fear and frustration.

Reynoso and Perez didn’t move. They watched, ready to step in if needed.

Stubby Mustache got up in his face. “We should turn you in!” he snarled. “Bet that would fix things!”

“It won’t fix anything. And you know it. Now back off.”

“We’ll see about that, won’t we?” Stubby Mustache didn’t back off. He shifted his feet and tensed his shoulders, telegraphing his intentions.

Liam nodded and smiled, raising both hands in a conciliatory gesture to mess with the guy’s expectations. He jerked forward, put his foot behind the guy’s ankle and shoved him in the face with an open palm. The man fell backward, his head thwacking hard against the floor.

The guy rolled on the floor, stunned and groaning. A few people gasped.

The old man, Albert, looked taken aback. He hadn’t expected his buddy to go down so fast. The burly guy scowled, fists clenched, ready to take a swing at Liam himself.

“Stop!” A woman rose from the booth near the door. She was in her forties, with short brown hair tucked behind her ears and purple glasses perched on her nose. It was Corinne Marshall, the owner of the hardware store.

“You’re acting like children, Dwayne Lawson and Kale Burrows!” Corinne said. “And Albert Edlin, you’ve said your piece. Now let me say mine. Four days ago, this man saved my boy’s life. The militia almost killed Jonas. Would have, if not for him. Liam Coleman risked his life and limb for a dumb kid. No one else, just him. A stranger. You people have known Jonas your entire lives. Would any of you have done what this man did?”

None of the men answered. They stared at her in dumb surprise.

Corinne crossed her arms over her chest with a huff. “That’s what I thought. Shut your pieholes and let these people put their lives on the line to protect you and yours.”

Dave bent down and helped the guy on the floor to his feet. He pointed toward the door. “No fighting in my establishment. You got an issue with a soldier protecting our town? March right out and don’t bother coming back.”

“Didn’t mean no disrespect,” Chester muttered. The guy with the mustache—Tim Reynolds—rubbed the back of his head with a wince but said nothing. The big burly one backed off, his eyes cast toward the floor.

Sufficiently cowed, the men slunk back to their barstools to nurse their miseries.

Liam eased back into the booth. He didn’t relax, but his pulse steadied. He breathed easier.

The moment was over.

“Thanks, Corinne.” Bishop flashed a broad grin through his beard. “You saved our skin.”

Corinne rolled her eyes and made her way to their booth. A slight bulge at her hip revealed her concealed carry pistol. Though she looked unassuming, Liam suspected she was anything but.

She adjusted her glasses. “I’m sure you folks can handle yourselves. I didn’t want to see those stubborn idiots get their heads bashed in. They’re not bad guys. Don’t hold this against them.”

“We won’t,” Bishop said.

Liam gave a noncommittal grunt.

She turned to Liam, her eyes softening. “You have my eternal gratitude. My husband and I made our son answer for his reckless behavior. He’s learned his lesson. He almost didn’t get a chance to learn. We won’t forget that. If there’s anything me or my family can do for you, say the word.”

Liam’s throat thickened against his will. “Will do,” he said gruffly.

She handed him a torn piece of paper—red, the bottom half of a flyer. A list of twenty-one names was hastily scribbled in pen.

“What’s this?”

“I’m a veteran. So is my husband, Wayne. We have enough on our plates just trying to survive and rebuild after the collapse. There’s no place for tyrants. Michiganders don’t take crap like this. No way.”

She tapped the paper in front of him. “A lot of us have been talking amongst ourselves. And unlike those boneheads back there, we understand a solution requires more than talking. If you need people to help you, these are the ones you want. Count my husband and me among them.”

Liam folded and pocketed the paper. “Thank you.”

“Anything,” Corinne said. “I mean it.”

“Good to see you, Corinne,” Perez said. “I’ve got a feeling we’ll be chatting again soon.”

Bishop shot Liam a sly grin as Corinne walked back to her table. “See? Fall Creek isn’t a lost cause, friend. Don’t give up on us yet.”

Liam rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s a start. I’ll give you that.”

32

NOAH

DAY FIFTY-TWO

“I don’t understand,” Milo said. “Where’s Mom?”

Noah stiffened. Morning light flooded through the oversized picture windows. He stood in the kitchen at the enormous island, busy whipping up a batch of pancakes with an eggless mix.

He scooped a ladleful of batter and poured it onto the sizzling griddle. Some days, Noah was so grateful for electricity that it physically hurt.

Milo needed a treat—his favorite meal of pancakes smothered in peanut butter and whipped cream for breakfast. The jar of Jif peanut butter stood beside the stainless-steel mixing bowl. Whipped cream was impossible to find anymore, but he’d gotten a bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips to make up for it.

Milo needed a lot of things, some of which Noah couldn’t give him anymore. The thought infuriated him. He mixed harder, until his bicep burned.

His son perched on a stool on the other side of the island, the counter a mess of colored pencils, crayons, and markers. Milo had been busy drawing his latest superhero fascination—Wolverine—on colored sheets of construction paper.

Now he looked at Noah expectantly, waiting for an answer that made sense.

There were no answers that made sense. The world was crumbling beneath him, and he had no idea what to do about it, or how to explain any of it to his eight-year-old son.

Milo had been asking after Hannah since she’d left four days ago. Noah was out of lame excuses.

He glanced at his bare ring finger, the lightened circle of skin. Yesterday was Valentine’s Day—yet another knife to his heart. Not that they could have celebrated.

“Mom—” The word curdled in his throat. “Your mother…she had to go.”

“Where?”

“She’s staying somewhere else. At our old house.”

“Why?”

Noah had been raised in a contentious household, his embittered parents at each other’s throats, often pitting their child in the middle. He’d sworn he’d never do the same.

He swallowed his rancor and resentment, acrid though it was, and forced a smile. A facsimile of a smile. “She needs some space. She’s been through a lot.”

He added a dash of salt to the batter. Salt was still plentiful, but what about when it wasn’t? Salt was a necessity for food preservation, for the human body to survive. He pushed that thought out of his mind.

Milo chewed on the end of a marker, frowning. “When is she coming back?”

Never. She left you, and she’s never coming back. You will never be whole again. “I don’t know.”

“Can’t we visit her? I bet she wants us to come see her. I can play with Ghost and help her and Miss Molly with all their preps. We could hang out with Quinn. Can we go right now?”

“I have to work.”

“After work?”

“Not today.”

Milo set the marker down and leaned forward, his face eager and hopeful. “Tomorrow, then?”

Hannah had asked him—begged him—to bring Milo to visit her. She’d wanted to see Milo every day, offering to care for him while Noah worked.

Hannah could no longer enter Winter Haven, but Noah could leave. He could take Milo to her if he wished.

He didn’t want to. It was petty and uncharitable, but he couldn’t help it. The thought of seeing her sent daggers through his bitter, shrunken heart.

Instead, he’d asked the wife of a militiaman next door to watch Milo. Darryl Wiggins, the former banker who lived across the street and appeared to do zero actual work, had agreed to be the backup, in exchange for a few bottles of whiskey.

“Not tomorrow.”

Milo’s face fell.

“What about Quinn?” he asked after a beat of silence. He moved his drawings around and pulled out a detailed sketch of Wolverine. It was Quinn’s work—and very good. “Why do I have to go to that strange lady’s house? If I can’t be with Mom, I wanna be with Quinn.”

“You won’t be able to see Quinn for a while. I’m sorry.”

He stared at the drawing. “That’s not fair.”

“Life’s not fair.”

“Why can’t she come here like she used to?”

“Those are the rules. We have to follow the rules.”

Yesterday, Quinn had been volunteering at the high school shelter when he’d dropped by to check on things. Grinning, she’d pulled a Monopoly Deal card game out of her coat pocket and invited him and Milo to her grandmother’s place for dinner.

He recalled her face when he’d turned her down—the confusion, disappointment, and hurt that she hadn’t been able to hide.

He liked the girl, he did. But he couldn’t have Milo spending more time with her and Molly. Their seditious ideals were dangerous. They might put Milo in danger. He couldn’t risk it.

Noah poured another spoonful of batter. He steadied his hand to keep it from shaking. “It’s not safe for you out there.”

Milo narrowed his eyes. “Why not?”

“Bad things have been happening. People have been hurting each other. People have died.”

“You said Nana Sinclair and the militia would keep us safe.”

“They are keeping Winter Haven safe.”

“What about the rest of the town? What about Mom, Quinn, Miss Molly and everyone else?”

“Them too,” Noah lied. “But nowhere is as safe as here.”

“Then Mom isn’t safe like us.”

“Your mother is old enough to make her own choices,” he said tersely. “You’re not.”

Milo looked at the drawing. He traced Wolverine’s head with his finger. The superhero’s face resembled Liam Coleman’s.

“Does Mom want me with her? Did she want me to come?”

Noah went still. For a long moment, he had no clue what to say. Jealousy ate at him. A dark resentment slithered through his veins.

He didn’t know how Milo would respond if he told the truth or who his son would choose. That made him even angrier. “No, son. She didn’t.”

His little shoulders slumped. “Oh.”

Noah ignored the stab of guilt and glanced at the clock. “Breakfast is almost ready. Time to take your pill.”

Milo said nothing.

Noah flipped the pancakes, then took the fanny pack from the kitchen counter, unzipped it, and pulled out a hydrocortisone pill. He had years of medication stashed away, but the pack contained their last emergency injection. Despite the militia’s searches, they hadn’t come across another one.

He turned on the tap and filled a glass with cold water. He stared at the water gushing from the faucet. How simple a thing, yet how precious. The heat that flowed through the air vents. The lights that clicked on with a flick of a switch.

Everyone had taken these conveniences for granted; now they were invaluable commodities. Resources that people were fighting over, killing over.

He would not give up such a prized asset. This house—Winter Haven—kept his son alive.

It was worth whatever he or anyone else had to do to keep it. It was worth every ounce of spilled blood.

He didn’t care what Hannah, Bishop, or Liam Coleman thought. They were deluded. They were wrong. Noah was in the right.

He switched off the faucet and handed Milo the water glass and his pill. Milo swallowed it and set the cup beside his drawings.

Noah studied his son, checking to make sure his skin wasn’t too pale, that he looked robust and healthy. “How have you been feeling? Any dizziness? Upset stomach?”

His son gave a sullen shrug. Noah had upset him.

Noah hid his own irritation as he scooped up several sizzling pancakes with the spatula and slapped them on Milo’s plate. The delicious aroma of the sweet, fluffy cakes made his mouth water. He slathered them with gooey peanut butter and shoved the plate toward Milo.

Milo stared at the food, his eyes shiny. He didn’t pick up his fork. He didn’t eat.

A flash of resentment shot through him. Milo should be grateful for everything Noah had done for him, for all the sacrifices and compromises he’d made—would make, was about to make.

“Eat your food, Milo! At least you have something to eat! You have no idea how lucky you are!”

Milo cringed. He shrank into himself, wrapping his skinny arms around his chest, his shoulder blades like bird wings.

Remorse shot through Noah. He regretted his tone. He was stressed, his nerves raw, threads of guilt and dread, misery and anger all snarled inside him.

Everything overwhelmed him—work, the militia, Hannah—the entire world falling apart at the seams.

He had to get it together, or he’d fall apart, too. He could feel it inside himself, a slow relentless unraveling.

His agreement with Rosamond haunted his thoughts. Noah pushed aside his reticence. It was necessary. They had forced him into it by their own actions. He had no choice.

If Fall Creek was going to have a chance at peace, it had to be done.

He needed to do this thing. This one dark thing, and then he could start putting the world back together. Everything would slide back into its proper place. The town. Hannah. His family.

He made his peace with it. The things done for love were the hardest to regret.

He dropped the bread knife to the counter with a clatter. “I’m sorry if I scared you, buddy.”

Nothing from Milo. His delicate chin dipped, his unruly black curls obscuring his features.

Noah came around the island and leaned in close. His pulse thudded loud in his ears, his entire body tense, clenched like a fist. “I love you more than anything. Nothing in the world will change that. Even if the whole planet goes nuts, I’m still here for you. I will not fail you. Do you understand?”

Milo stared at the picture of Wolverine like it was his salvation.

It took everything in him not to snatch the drawing and rip it to shreds. “Milo! Are you listening to me?”

Milo nodded.

Noah sighed. The tightness in his chest expanded a fraction of an inch. “Whatever happens, son, know that. I did it all for you.”

33

LIAM

DAY FIFTY-THREE

Liam waited for Noah.

Dusk painted the sky in shades of indigo, a few snowflakes spiraling toward the ground.

Mike Duncan was guarding the barricade at the top of the street. Moments ago, he’d radioed Liam. “Chief Sheridan wants to talk to you. I didn’t think we could refuse him. Jamal is talking up a storm, trying to delay him for a minute, but we’re gonna have to let him through.”

“Copy that. It’s fine. And thank you.”

Liam hooked the radio to his chest rig, set down the hammer, and picked up the M4 leaning against the wall beside him.

He’d been staying in an empty home five houses down from Hannah’s, just around the bend in the road. From the second story bedroom window, he could keep watch on her house with binoculars while remaining hidden from view.

If the militia attacked her house, they’d get a rude surprise.

From here, he’d have an escape route or the ability to mount a surprise counterattack, depending on the situation.

He was also shoring up a safe room in the basement. Hannah, Quinn, Molly, Milo, and Charlotte needed a place to hide when the shooting started.

Liam grabbed the camping lantern and exited the darkened kitchen to the back porch, descended the icy steps, and hurried through several backyards toward Hannah’s house.

He reached the house before Noah. He entered through the rear patio door just as the Fall Creek police truck rumbled up the road. He rested the M4 on its sling across his chest, grabbed a hand towel from the kitchen counter, and opened the front door before Noah had parked the truck.

The engine switched off. Noah sat in the driver’s seat for a moment, staring at Liam through the icy windshield.

Liam stared back. He didn’t fear Noah, but he certainly didn’t trust him, either.

Noah climbed out of the truck. He was dressed in his police uniform, boots, and coat. He wore a Lions cap pulled low over his forehead. He moved slowly, trudging through the snow like an exhausted man who’d reached his last reserves and found he had no more.

He reached the front steps and halted. He looked past Liam into the house. “Is she here?”

“They’re at the shelter, feeding people supper. You just missed her.”

Bishop, Reynoso, Perez, and Hayes were with Hannah, along with the kids, Molly and Quinn, and Ghost. Reynoso had posted guards at the shelter, and everyone was armed.

Liam had wanted to go with them, but they’d agreed that he needed to keep a low profile.

Noah’s mouth twisted. Something shuttered behind his eyes. “I’m not here for Hannah. I’m here for you.”

“What do you want?”

“To talk.”

“What for?”

“I think we have plenty to discuss.” He glanced around to see if any neighbors were out and about. None were. He returned his attention to Liam. “I’d ask to come inside, but it’s my house.”

Liam stepped aside. “By all means.”

The little house was dim, the LED camping lantern the only light. Blackout curtains covered the windows. Heavy shadows crouched in the corners. The fire in the fireplace had guttered out, the coals glowing orange. The house felt as cold as an ice box.

Liam retreated several feet to make room for Noah but kept himself in an open space unobstructed by the couch or coffee table. He held the dish towel loosely in one hand, the other within easy reach of his Glock.

Noah shuffled his feet and glanced around uneasily. His gaze darted everywhere but at Liam, his eyes red-rimmed and glassy. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a month, like a man haunted by his own ghost.

Liam just watched him.

Noah cleared his throat. “I hate the animosity between us. I want to smooth things over.”

Irritation shot through him. Whatever Noah was here for, it wasn’t to make friends. Liam said nothing.

Noah took a step toward him. Five feet between them. “We’re on the same side.”

“Are we?”

“We want what’s best for Fall Creek. For the town and the people.”

“The people are tired of being controlled by a wannabe tyrant. They want their freedom back.”

“Freedom is an ideal,” Noah said. “It’s a luxury. One we can’t afford right now.”

“Some would disagree.”

He frowned. “If they just obeyed the rules, everything would be fine!”

“If they’d just give up everything they have, they wouldn’t be forcibly starved, you mean? They wouldn’t be beaten in the streets for saying the wrong thing or looking the wrong way? Their food wouldn’t be stolen right out of their homes?”

Noah stiffened. “You come sweeping in here thinking you’re a savior, but you’re not! People have died because of you! More will die, too. Now Sutter is on a rampage, and innocent people will pay the price!”

Liam’s temper flared. “You know better than that.”

“All they had to do was what they were told. That’s it! They had free food, gas, and supplies handed to them! Rosamond and the militia saved them. Don’t you get it? Fall Creek was fine before you got here!”

“Judging by the state of things, I doubt it.”

Noah’s eyes darkened. “This is your fault! All of it! They’re calling you a terrorist.”

“And you’re a collaborator.”

“I’m trying to keep the peace! If you people would just see that, would just see reason—”

Liam set his jaw, reining in his ire. He had no patience for this. “I’ll ask you again, what do you want? If it’s to stand here and whine, I don’t have the time.”

A shadow crossed Noah’s face. He started to say something, stopped himself, then dropped his gaze to the floor. His jaw worked soundlessly.

Liam waited with growing exasperation.

“She left me,” Noah said bitterly. “But you already know that.”

“What do you want, Noah? Why are you here?”

“You took her from me!”

“Hannah can make her own choices.”

Noah was agitated, on edge. He rubbed fiercely at his face with his left hand. Which was odd, since he was right-handed. His right hand remained stiff at his side.

Liam’s heart rate kicked up a notch. He didn’t move, didn’t telegraph that he’d noticed a thing. “You should go home, Noah.”

“Home is where Hannah is.”

“Not for you.”

Noah gave a petulant scowl. “Some hero you are, stealing another man’s wife.”

“You’re being pathetic. Get a good night’s sleep, hug your son, and pull yourself together.”

Noah shifted slightly. His coat sleeve covered his right hand. Only his fingers poked out. Not his fingers—his knuckles. He was holding something.

Instinctively, Liam shifted into a fighting stance. Slightly bent knees, weight centered over his hips, left foot slightly forward. His body cantered so he couldn’t be pushed over.

“I know what you’re doing,” Liam said in disgust. “Leave here before I kill you.”

Noah’s complexion went sickly pale. Sweat beaded his forehead. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“You came here to murder me.”

Noah took a step toward him, his movements quick and furtive. “No, I wouldn’t—”

He shot him a hard look. “No? So you don’t have a knife hidden up the sleeve of your coat?”

With an enraged growl, Noah rushed Liam.

34

LIAM

DAY FIFTY-THREE

Noah charged him, the hidden knife now gripped in his hand.

Adrenaline surging, Liam stepped left while chopping hard with his arm. He used the edge of his right hand to redirect Noah’s knife away from his body.

He seized the top of Noah’s knife hand and slid his thumb beneath Noah’s wrist, creating a fulcrum. He bent the wrist inward while jerking Noah off-balance, twisting his knife hand down and backward.

Normally, Liam would drop his hips to further pull his target off balance. He’d utilize his forward momentum to drive the knife under the hostile’s breastbone up into his heart.

Instead, he wrenched Noah’s wrist so far backward that Noah screamed and dropped the blade. It fell to the carpet. Liam kicked it away. He released the man and stepped back.

Noah doubled over, moaning over his jammed wrist. Abruptly he straightened, reaching for his sidearm.

It was barely in his hand before Liam slapped it aside. It went skittering across the carpet and lodged somewhere beneath the coffee table.

Noah ran at Liam again. Liam easily parried his hands away and punched an elbow strike to Noah’s face. The savage blow split his upper lip and knocked a few of his teeth loose.

Noah staggered back, blood gushing from his nose and mouth.

“You done yet?” Liam asked.

Noah gave a bloody shriek and lunged again, pummeling Liam with a rain of blows. Noah took a wild swing that Liam easily avoided. Before Noah could recover his balance, Liam stepped forward, bent his arm, and struck him under the chin with the sharp point of his elbow.

Noah’s head flung backward. His hands flew to his throat. Liam could have struck a windpipe-crushing blow but chose to deliver a colossal sucker punch to his soft belly.

With a gasp of pain, Noah sank to his knees, slow and sluggish. He remained there, kneeling before Liam, his head bowed. His shoulders slumped in defeat.

Liam frisked him quickly then stared down at him, barely stifling his revulsion. Hot anger ran through him like an electric current. “I should kill you. I have every right.”

Noah couldn’t even look at him. He was a small, weak, pathetic man.

Liam fought the desire to end him, then and there. Everything in his training urged him to do it. Everything but his heart.

For Hannah’s sake, Liam stayed his hand.

As much as he wanted to, he wouldn’t kill the husband of the woman he loved. He wouldn’t kill the father of her child.

He knew Hannah might never get over it. Even if she wanted to, even if she forgave him. It would always be there between them—a shadow, a ghost, a dark and ugly thing that would not die.

Gritting his teeth, he gestured at Noah’s cowering form. “Slink away like the dog you are. I take that back. Ghost has more honor in his right paw than you have in your entire body.”

Noah staggered to his feet. He swiped blood from his split lip and stared down at his blood-splattered hands like they didn’t belong to him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean it.”

“You did,” Liam said. “Now get the hell out of my sight.”

35

ROSAMOND

DAY FIFTY-THREE

Rosamond felt her iron control slipping.

Noah had failed her. Tonight, he had planned to kill Liam Coleman.

She had just spoken with him on the radio. His attempt had been unsuccessful.

He swore that he would try again, but he was unlikely to get close enough to lay eyes on the soldier, let alone eliminate him.

She stood before her office window, a small object clasped in her hands, staring through the glass out into the night. The trees were still, the moon half hidden by ribbons of dark clouds.

Behind her, a half empty bottle of chardonnay sat on her pristine desk, the cup beside it empty. Every light in the house was on, making it difficult to see outside. A rectangle of yellow light stretched across the snow.

Her dinner had consisted of steak, mashed potatoes and gravy, and a few glasses of red wine, accompanied by Bach on one of the old CD players that Sutter had plundered.

If only she could have enjoyed it. Instead, she’d barely tasted the food, barely heard the music.

She couldn’t stop thinking about that night so many years ago. The night she’d finally discovered who she was, what she was capable of, and the lengths she would take to get what she wanted.

Most people didn’t think themselves capable of murder.

She knew what people didn’t want to acknowledge about themselves—that anyone was capable of anything. But only if they wanted it badly enough.

She remembered kneeling on the cold tile, the feel of the knife slick and bloody in her trembling hands, the body stretched out on the floor beside her. How adrenaline and fear jackhammered through her, made her dizzy with it.

A noise had startled her. She’d turned to find the boy standing in the hallway, watching her, watching the whole thing.

Slim and gangly at seven years old, Gavin’s skinny arms hung at his sides, three fingers on his left hand bandaged and splinted. Cal had enjoyed hurting anything weaker than he was.

They hadn’t gone to a doctor. They never went to a doctor.

Gavin’s features were blank, his mouth a thin red line. He showed no emotion. No fear, no sorrow. Nothing.

She hadn’t known how long he’d been standing there. If he saw his father straddling her on the floor, strangling her throat. If he saw her fight back, stabbing the kitchen knife between Cal Pike’s ribs and wrenching it into his lungs. How the man had gurgled as he flopped on their kitchen floor like a dying fish.

They never spoke of it—not that night, and not after.

Gavin had come and stood at her side. He took the knife from her hands and wrapped it in a dish towel. “I’ll bury it,” he’d said without tears or theatrics. Simple as that.

They’d buried the body, too, deep in the woods on their twenty-acre property. It was probably still there—a pile of yellowed bones all that remained of the monster who’d terrorized her for eight years.

She turned from the window and glanced at her bookcase, her gaze resting on the framed photograph, the gleaming revolver displayed beside it.

No one had terrorized her since that night. Not even her rigid, fear-mongering dictator of a father. She’d left him behind, just as she’d left the husbands and lovers who’d come after.

Julian’s father had been a weak man. A moody, pretty-boy musician who’d never lifted a finger against her. It hadn’t taken violence to get rid of that one. Once she’d tired of him and kicked him out, he’d drifted off to some music festival out west and never returned.

She never took the musician’s name, returning to her maiden name for herself and Julian. After that, she hadn’t needed or wanted a man. She had her sons.

She’d set out to master her own life, to best everything and everyone that came across her path. She had succeeded.

She had raised her sons the same way, teaching them that the world was theirs by right. To gain power, wealth, and influence, you had to want it more than anyone else.

You had to be willing to do more than anyone else to get it.

Power lay in control. Both Cal and her father had taught her that. The lessons were painful to learn, but she had learned.

Wield power over others first. Never bend, never break. Be better than your enemies and friends alike—stronger, smarter, more cunning and devious.

Sadly, her sons hadn’t inherited her ambition, or her relentless drive.

Julian had been more beguiled by pleasure than accumulating power. He’d been moody, inclined to jealousy and brooding rather than action. He wanted the benefits without putting in the hard work to earn it.

She had loved him—as any mother loves her children—but she hadn’t attempted to conceal her abject disappointment in him.

Gavin had been driven in his own way. A skilled, single-minded hunter who had done whatever she’d asked of him—and much that she hadn’t.

He was what he was. And she’d loved him for it.

With a savage pang, she thought of the flowers he’d always brought her—a bouquet of white lilies. Anger and grief flared through her. His absence left a jagged hole in her heart that would never be filled.

She forced the grief down somewhere deep and focused on the task at hand. She glanced at the bulky satellite phone in her hand.

Lyle Tomlin had come through after all. He swore he’d kept it from Sutter. No one knew she had it. No one knew who she was contacting, or why.

Anxiety twisted inside her, doubt like a snake eating its own tail.

Once she made the call, there was no going back. There was no putting the worms back in the can, the toothpaste back in the tube.

Sutter couldn’t get the job done. Noah couldn’t do it. The militia was no longer enough.

The problem was far larger than one man, now. Sutter’s forces were being decimated. Eight men dead in the ambush. One shot in the shoulder and two injured during a riot, but they were still on their feet. Forty-one men left.

She needed someone strong to protect Winter Haven. Someone powerful and dangerous. Far more dangerous than Mattias Sutter and his scruffy band of fighters. Possibly, more dangerous than herself.

If she lost Winter Haven, then her sons had died in vain. It was worth whatever came next.

She lifted the sat phone and dialed the number she’d memorized long ago. One ring, two rings, three rings.

Her palms were slick on the casing. She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. Six rings. Seven.

Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe she should just—

The phone clicked. “Hello?”

36

HANNAH

DAY FIFTY-FOUR

Hannah spent the afternoon at the shelter with Molly, Quinn, Bishop, and Ghost. Bishop had come through with his last jerrycan of gas, which would power the Orange Julius for a few more miles.

At the shelter, they gave Annette King a break while they fed everyone a lunch of chili stew, fried rice, canned green beans, and canned pears.

True to his word, Bishop brought the donated food for them. People assumed it was leftovers from the Crossway food pantry; Bishop chose not to disabuse them of that notion.

Hannah understood the need for secrecy. Molly’s hard-earned stash would be gone in a few weeks if they used it to feed everyone. But for now, for tonight, the smiles on so many haggard faces was worth it.

After they’d fed everyone, they played with the children for a few hours. Quinn carried Charlotte around while Hannah put on an impromptu music lesson with a few of the violins, flutes, and ukuleles that Annette had collected from the band room.

The kids loved it. Some of the adults had gotten into it as well, singing along, clapping, and stomping their feet.

Music was something everyone missed deep in their bones. It was a loss difficult to verbalize or quantify, but still felt acutely. She saw it like a spark of light in their hollow gazes.

Ghost was the star of the show, as usual. He’d stood in the center of a crowd of eager, delighted children, a regal prince patiently enduring the ministrations of his adoring public.

Ghost brought those kids back to life. They petted him, hugged him, fondled his soft fur, and giggled when he gently nosed their faces.

Poor Annette was frazzled and exhausted. The woman had almost single-handedly kept the shelter going. She was also caring for half a dozen children who’d lost their parents since the collapse.

She didn’t say so, but one glance told Hannah that she was near the breaking point. One woman could only do so much.

Hannah had a mind to set up a rotating schedule of helpers for her. She made a mental note to bring Ghost in more often and add music classes to the schedule.

Or better yet, get the people out of the dreary, overcrowded shelter and into actual homes, so they could work on becoming self-sufficient, make a plan, and build a future worth holding on to.

Too many of them were still sitting around waiting for the world to come back online. No matter how many times they were told, they still couldn’t quite believe it—for the foreseeable future, their old lives were over.

This wasn’t the end of everything. Americans weren’t sentenced to a pathetic life of drudgery, of mere survival. They could thrive. They could bring the world back, but they had to be willing to work for it. To fight and bleed and struggle for it.

She didn’t see that tenacity in most of their faces. It didn’t mean they couldn’t get there. She believed that they would get there—with time, hard work, and hope.

Hannah and the others had just returned from the shelter when Liam called an impromptu emergency meeting on the radio. He wouldn’t say what it was; only that it was important.

They met in Molly’s backyard next to the shed where Liam was adding to the growing woodpile. She had Charlotte strapped in the carrier. She’d fallen asleep, tuckered out from all the activity at the shelter.

Reynoso, Perez, and Hayes were still working for the police department. Mike Duncan and his son were manning the barricade at the top of Tanglewood Drive, and Dave was busy working his ham radio contacts.

Bishop finished conducting his perimeter patrol of the neighborhood and approached from the woods to meet them, rifle in hand.

Ghost’s ears pricked, hackles raised until he trotted over and personally inspected Bishop, then offered a chuff of approval. Bishop scratched beneath his chin.

“You see anything?” Liam asked.

“A man and a couple of teenage boys were sneaking around the Putman’s shed an hour ago. I shot at their feet and scared them off. The two militia we discovered scoping out Hannah’s house the night before last returned this morning. They retreated as soon as I got close. Never got a good look at their faces.”

“They won’t keep retreating for long.”

“No,” Bishop said grimly. “They won’t.”

“What’s the dire news, Wolverine?” Quinn asked.

“It’s Noah.” Liam’s expression revealed nothing, but Hannah could tell that something was wrong. His broad shoulders were tense, one hand on his M4 attached to the sling, his knuckles white.

“What happened?” Quinn asked, concerned. “Is he okay? Did the militia do something to him? Is he hurt?”

“Not exactly.” In short, clipped sentences, Liam explained what had happened. How Noah had first attempted to gain Liam’s trust, then confronted him, and finally attacked him.

Hannah’s heart sank with every word. She felt sick to her stomach, then angry and horrified, and finally, profoundly disappointed.

She met Liam’s gaze. His gray-blue eyes were somber. She tried to read the answer to her question before she’d asked it, but he wasn’t giving anything away. “Is he dead?”

Everyone waited in silence for the answer. Birds twittered in the trees. A squirrel ran through the brittle underbrush. A gust of wind tugged at her hair. Hannah shivered and glanced up. The sky, thick with gray clouds, darkened like a stain.

“No,” Liam said. “I sent him away.”

Relief filled her. Not for Noah’s sake, or her own, but for Milo’s. She took a step back and let herself sag against the wood pile, her legs suddenly weak.

Quinn shook her head. “That doesn’t make sense. It has to be a mistake.”

“He’s dangerous,” Liam said. “He cannot be trusted.”

Bishop paced in a tight circle and ran a hand over his afro. “Oh, Noah. I didn’t want to believe he was capable of such a thing. I knew he was falling in with them, getting sucked deeper into their madness, but still…”

How could he do such a thing? It was inexplicable to her.

And yet, it wasn’t. People did shocking things every day. If they were hateful enough, angry enough, desperate enough.

The human heart was a deep well, unfathomable and unknowable, sometimes even to yourself.

“Why?” Quinn demanded. “Why would he do that? Why would he try to kill you?”

Liam didn’t say anything for a beat. He shot a questioning glance at Hannah.

“I think Rosamond probably asked him to,” Hannah said.

Awareness dawned in Quinn’s eyes. “Because Rosamond believes that Liam murdered Gavin Pike, and she wants revenge. She thought Noah could get close enough to Liam to do it.”

“That’s the likely reason, yes.”

Quinn glanced from Liam to Hannah and back to Liam. Her eyes narrowed. “He blames you, too. For Hannah being here instead of with him. He’s jealous.”

“Jealousy is not a good reason to kill someone,” Molly said. “Read some Shakespeare. They always reap what they sow. It never ends well.”

“Nothing in Shakespeare ends well.” Quinn frowned and worried at her lip ring. “He was just mad with loss, like Othello. Or Macbeth. Or Hamlet. Noah won’t do it again.”

“Quinn,” Molly said with a tenderness that surprised Hannah.

She was usually so gruff and sarcastic with her granddaughter, though Quinn dished it right back. It was how they expressed their affection. No one doubted their dedication to each other.

“What?” Quinn shot back, jutting her chin. “People make mistakes. They get emotional. So what?”

“This is different,” Molly said.

“He’s Noah the Cop! He’s Milo’s dad! You can’t really be standing here talking about him like this! Like he deserves…like he should be…” She swallowed, blinking fiercely. “He’s our friend!”

“All souls are savable,” Bishop said. “I believe that. I still believe that.”

How Hannah wished that Bishop was right. That Noah was still reachable, still savable. But when he’d tried to kill Liam, he’d passed the point of no return, at least for her. Some acts could not be forgiven.

Hannah’s chest squeezed. Her heart ached with sadness, regret, and empathy. She had loved this man once, had a child with him, built a life. That didn’t change anything.

He’d made his choices. Now Hannah had to make hers.

“See?” Quinn said.

Bishop sighed heavily. “I also believe that some hearts become so hardened that there is no humanity left in them. They don’t want to be saved.”

“Not him!” Quinn cried. “You’re wrong!”

“Quinn—” Molly said.

“Shut up! Everyone just shut up!” Quinn turned and fled toward the house, her head down, blue hair flying behind her, her hands balled into fists.

“Quinn!” Hannah called after her, but the girl was gone.

37

HANNAH

DAY FIFTY-FOUR

Molly let out a curse. She glanced guiltily at Bishop. “Sorry, Pastor.”

“No apologies necessary,” Bishop said. “God understands our hearts. This is a hard thing for her and for us. We all care about Noah.”

“She’s sixteen,” Hannah said. “We’ve got to cut her some slack, let her grieve on her own terms. She acts older than she is, but she’s still a kid. A kid with a broken heart.”

“That girl has been failed by practically every adult in her life.” Molly’s eyes were wet, regret scrawled across her features. “Her father walked out on her when she was a baby. My daughter was a horrible parent. Her string of trash boyfriends were worse. My husband and I tried to be there for Quinn, to replace what she’d lost. I fear we weren’t enough. She’s got a hole in her heart the size of Texas, a hole she’s been trying to fill since she was a little kid.

“Noah got them down from that awful ski lift from hell. He was there when her grandfather died. Noah respected her and treated her like a friend. He was the father figure she’d been searching for. She needed that in her life. She needed him.”

Hannah’s heart ached for Quinn. She wanted to run in after the girl and gather her up in her arms. She also wanted to wring Noah’s neck.

Molly shook her head angrily. “Damn him for letting her down. Damn him!”

Bishop put his big hand on Molly’s shoulder. “We all want this to be different than it is. All I can say is, God knows the end of his story. We don’t. Maybe things will turn out differently than we think.”

“It doesn’t make an iota of difference what God knows,” Liam said. “Noah Sheridan doesn’t step onto this street for any reason. No matter what.”

Bishop nodded. “Agreed.”

“Get everyone up to speed,” Liam said. “He may be the police chief, but he is firmly in Rosamond and Sutter’s pockets.”

Hannah moved away from the group, rubbing her bad hand absently. The mishappen joints were throbbing. The sky was a flat gunmetal gray, dreary and cold. Dark clouds promised precipitation. Her hand always hurt worse when it stormed.

“Hannah.” Liam strode toward her. He watched her intently, his brow creased, concern in his eyes—and maybe a hint of guilt.

“Thank you for not killing him,” she said in a low voice. “I know he deserved it. You were well within your rights to do whatever you felt was necessary.”

He looked relieved. “I can’t make any promises. When the fighting starts—”

It hurt her to speak the words, but it needed to be said. “He’s chosen his side. What happens, happens.”

Liam nodded. He stepped closer to her. She felt his presence, his strength. “I’m sorry, Hannah.”

“Don’t be.”

She thought of Milo, her stomach sinking. He was stuck in Winter Haven without her. Though it had broken her heart, she’d left him with Noah because she’d believed that he was safe with his father.

That was no longer true.

“What’s wrong?”

She glanced up at him, fighting back the fear and anxiety clawing at her chest. “Milo.”

His face hardened. “No harm will come to him, I’ll make sure of it. I’ll go get him. Just say the word.”

“He’s not going to understand. About his father. About why we have to take him away from Noah.”

“He’s a child. Your job is to protect him, whether he understands or not. Eventually, he’ll get it.”

She sucked in a steadying breath. “You’re right. Okay. Let’s get him.”

Liam gave her a tight smile. “I’ll do it tonight.”

She couldn’t manage a smile in return. Everything was closing in on them. The threat of violence hung over Fall Creek like a storm cloud. You could see it, could feel it, knew it was coming, but you couldn’t do a thing to stop it.

All you could do was face it head on and pray that the ones you loved most made it through.

Ghost jumped to his feet, a low growl emanating from deep in his chest.

Liam narrowed his eyes. He turned in a slow circle and sniffed.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Something’s burning.”

He was right. A singed smell tinged the air. The sky was hazy, especially to the north above the roofline of the houses.

Ghost glanced back over his shoulder at Hannah and then faced north again, his muzzle pointed toward that preternaturally gray sky. The fur along his spine bristled. He let out an uneasy yip.

Hannah tensed, her good hand going to the Ruger in her coat pocket. “Something’s wrong. Ghost can sense it.”

Liam gripped his M4 and started for the house, his strides long and purposeful. “Check the perimeter,” he called to Bishop.

“Got it.” Bishop spun and jogged toward the fringe of woods, taking a circuitous route to skirt the neighbor’s backyard fence.

Ghost remained at Hannah’s side but chuffed in frustration, like he was longing to run ahead with Liam to investigate. He pushed his snout into her hip to hurry her along.

The back door of Molly’s house slammed open. Quinn stuck her head out. “Guys! Something’s happening in town!”

They couldn’t see it from here. The houses blocked their view to the north. Charlotte awoke, squirmed in her carrier, and let out a hungry cry. Hannah rubbed the baby’s back to soothe her and hurried after Liam.

They rounded the corner of the house. Quinn stood in the front yard with a pair of binoculars, staring to the north. Liam was already beside her.

Dread uncoiled inside her chest, her veins turning to ice water. Across the road, above the trees and houses, a huge column of black smoke rose into the sky.

“Fire!” Quinn shouted.

38

LIAM

DAY FIFTY-FOUR

The horizon turned dark and threatening as smoke bled into the storm clouds approaching from the west.

Liam reached for his radio. “Reynoso, we see smoke in town.”

The radio crackled. “The middle school is burning!” Reynoso shouted. “Several fires have started up and down Main Street, but the distribution center has the whole town’s food supply. It’s everything we have!”

“What about the sentries we put there?”

“Their throats were cut. They were good men, but not soldiers or trained. Maybe they fell asleep, I don’t know. Someone snuck up on them and took ‘em out. Obviously, this is intentional.”

Liam cursed, anger coursing through him. “The militia. This is payback.”

As he’d feared, they’d gone after the thing that would hurt most. Take out the food, and fighters weren’t strong enough to fight for long. The women and children would starve, too.

Sutter had already proven he didn’t give a flying fig about the rules of engagement. If burning the town’s entire food supply won him an advantage, then what did he care? The militia had plenty of food—and were willing to kill to get more.

“We have to put it out,” Hannah said. “All that food…”

Bishop jogged around the opposite corner of the house and headed for the Orange Julius. “Let’s go!”

“Gather everyone!” Liam said into the radio. “People to put out the fire, and people to fight. This isn’t just an F-you to Fall Creek. It could be a trap.”

“Already on it,” Reynoso said.

Liam clicked off the radio and turned to Hannah, Quinn, and Molly. “You should stay here.”

Molly patted her Mossberg. “Are you kidding me, tough guy? We can handle ourselves.”

“We’re in,” Quinn said fiercely. “No way we’re letting our town burn.”

Hannah gave him an apologetic smile. “If they’re going, so are we.”

Ghost chuffed in agreement.

Liam had expected as much. He pointed at the Orange Julius. “Then quit dawdling and get in the damn truck.”

The group piled into the vehicle, Liam and Bishop in front, Hannah and Charlotte, Molly, and Quinn in back. Ghost sensed the tension and followed right at Hannah’s heels. He jumped into the truck bed, tail stiff, barking a warning at the darkening sky.

They took the back roads and didn’t pass another vehicle as they drove the few miles into town, the truck rattling and coughing. The sagging mobile homes of Fall Creek Estates trailer park flashed by the windows on the right, fields of crops and pastures to their left, then the bridge and the abandoned roadblock.

The militia had disappeared—no patrols along Main Street, no armed men clustered on every street corner. As they drew closer, smoke thickened the air, stinging their nostrils.

The front of the grocery store, the Pizza Palace, and Patsy’s Diner were all burning. Dozens of people were running about, frantically yelling and shouting, scooping up snow with buckets and shovels and throwing whatever they could at the fires.

Liam didn’t slow down. The buildings might survive, or they might not. Either way, they didn’t house anything crucial. The fires weren’t likely to spread unless the wind kicked up.

They drove past the old courthouse with the white columns like an ancient Greek temple and hooked a right at the town’s single stoplight. The education complex was located on the left side of the road, wide swaths of dirty brown snow covering the baseball and football fields.

The elementary school was untouched. Further down the road, the high school also appeared to be fine.

The middle school was located in the center of the complex between the elementary and high school buildings. It was burning like a torch. Flames danced along the roof and leapt from the broken windows on the first and second floors.

Fifty yards from the school, Liam pulled to the curb behind a Schwan’s delivery truck that had been scavenged weeks ago. He didn’t want to be seen.

Everyone climbed out and slammed their doors. Ghost jumped down from the truck bed and trotted to Hannah’s side.

Bishop came up beside him with a pair of binoculars, the AR-15 hanging on its sling across his chest. Liam radioed Reynoso, then held up a closed fist, telling the others to wait while he assessed the scene.

He uncapped his scope, brought the M4 to his shoulder, and scanned their surroundings warily. He searched the intersection, the baseball fields, and swept his gaze across the elementary and middle school, checking windows, doors, and rooftops.

Around fifty people from the shelter huddled in front of the high school near the flagpole, pointing and shouting in alarm. But for every person standing around watching, two were scrambling to fight the fire.

The townspeople were using whatever they could to hurl snow and water at the flames. Some were using the big five-gallon latrine buckets. Others were scooping snow with pots and pans, milk jugs with the tops cut off, and large pails. They’d covered their noses and mouths with whatever they had on hand—shirts, bandanas, and scarves.

The heat of the fire kept them from getting close enough to do much good.

Across the street, Reynoso and Perez appeared around a corner and jogged toward them. Bishop closed his eyes and bowed his head in a quick prayer. “Lord, have mercy on us.”

Liam would take all the prayers he could get, but he preferred action.

“Sure could use a fire department right about now,” Molly said. “Too bad the militia siphoned all the gas from the fire truck for themselves.”

Fall Creek shared a small one-truck, three-man department with the neighboring township. The firemen had taken the equipment—oxygen tanks, suits, masks, and hoses—with them.

“Rosamond wouldn’t send it anyway,” Reynoso said, anger thrumming through his voice. Liam had never seen Reynoso upset. He was usually steady as a rock. “This is her idea. Or at least, it has her blessing.”

“What do we do then?” Quinn asked. “We can’t just stand here!”

“Everyone is concentrating their efforts on clearing a path to the cafeteria,” Perez said. “That’s where the supplies are. Forget the building—save the food.”

“Where’s Noah?” Quinn asked.

Reynoso frowned. “Rosamond ordered him to put out the fire at Friendly’s. They don’t want him here for this.”

Perez shook her head. “And he just went along with it, no questions asked. Some police chief. I miss Briggs. He was a pain in the neck, but at least he had a brain. He never would’ve let this happen.”

“I kept back a security team on your suggestion,” Reynoso said. “Truitt and Hayes are organizing the new volunteers to keep an eye on the surrounding buildings.”

True to Corinne Marshall’s word, twenty-one townspeople had agreed to man the roadblocks, help with patrols, and fight if necessary to defend Fall Creek. Twenty-one wasn’t a lot, but it was a lot better than none. If they actually showed up, of course.

Uneasiness rankled him, but he nodded. “We’ll join you.”

He kept his head on a swivel, checking the windows in the empty buildings across the street, searching for movement, the glint of a rifle barrel, any sign of hostiles.

Quinn pushed past Liam and Bishop. “Enough talking!”

Ghost barked his agreement and darted ahead.

Hannah moved to join Quinn. “You worry about the militia,” she said over her shoulder. “We’ll help save those supplies.”

39

LIAM

DAY FIFTY-FOUR

Liam crept around the front bumper of the delivery truck, scanning continually for threats.

The frigid wind kicked up, tugging at his hair and clothing. The air was charged, electrons sparking against each other, packing tighter and tighter.

The snowstorm would hit soon. Hopefully, it’d put out the damn fire.

Kneeling, he searched the buildings across the street through his scope—Tresses Hair Salon, Brite Smiles dental, and a small single-story post office.

Something caught his eye. A gleam in a darkened second story window.

He tensed and raised his M4. “Hostile at your four o’clock. Forty yards. Possible sniper.”

Bishop pivoted, already lifting the AR-15 to his shoulder. Perez sank into a defensive position near the passenger’s side door and swept her shotgun from side to side.

Reynoso dropped to his knees at the rear of the truck and peered around the fender. “Just caught movement in the window above the hair salon. Looks like we’ve got two possible snipers. Maybe more.”

The radio crackled. “This is Moll. At least six militiamen were seen entering the elementary school less than ten minutes ago.”

“They’re going to open fire on the people,” Perez said, dismayed.

Fear struck him like a gut-punch. Blood rushed in his ears as he visualized the scene in his mind. Two snipers across the street, holed up in second-story hides in adjacent buildings with clear shooting positions. Six more in the elementary school flanking the distribution center.

Open fields stretched between the two schools. There was little cover besides a few metal and concrete structures on the playground.

The snipers could mow down hundreds of innocents in a matter of minutes. They would have nowhere to run. Hannah was out there. Little Charlotte. Quinn.

“We have to stop them,” Liam said.

“Presume all militia are hostile,” Reynoso said without hesitation. “Take them out.”

“Copy that,” Truitt said. “We’re going in.”

Reynoso clicked off the radio as Liam motioned to Bishop. “We’ll take the dentist’s sniper.”

Reynoso jerked his chin at Perez. “And we’ll take the second one.”

Reynoso and Perez took off in a hunched jog, circling back behind the buildings to infiltrate the hair salon from the rear.

Liam covered them, panning left and right through his optics. Once they’d disappeared around the corner, he studied the two-story dentist’s office for an avenue of approach.

The front door was intact, the large picture windows on either side shattered. There were no side windows or doors.

Liam assumed the militia had stationed static sentries guarding the first floor. Still, the militiamen’s attention was likely on the burning school—and selecting targets.

He pointed toward the front; Bishop nodded. He pushed down his rising panic, his fear for Hannah and the others. He needed absolute focus. Anything less meant a death sentence.

Liam crouched, weapon up and ready, and darted across twenty yards of open space toward the nearest side of Brite Smiles. Bishop squatted by the delivery truck and covered him.

Liam reached the building and bladed himself against the wall, checked their six, then motioned for Bishop to follow.

The pastor scurried across the yard, surprisingly fast for his size, and positioned himself behind Liam. They paused, listening to the dull roar of the fire mingled with people shouting and yelling.

When they didn’t hear anything suspicious, they followed the exterior wall to the front. Liam cut the corner, leading with the M4.

A grunt came from inside. Something scraped, like a chair being pushed backward.

A flurry of gunfire burst from the upstairs window.

40

QUINN

DAY FIFTY-FOUR

Q uinn and the others met up with Principal King and Shen Lee, the nurse, along the side of the building nearest the playground.

The principal knew where everything was, so she directed the rescue efforts, while Lee organized the fire fighters.

A handful of teens and young adults had volunteered to run into the school to grab boxes of food and bring them out. A line of men and women formed to hand the boxes off and dump them in a safe spot on the playground.

The teens were only allowed to go in five times each. They were supposed to switch off with someone on the line outside to prevent lung damage from smoke inhalation.

There were no hospitals, no ambulances. No safety nets.

Dozens of people raced back and forth from the fill-up station with their containers of water to throw on the fire, attempting to beat back the front line of flames from the section that contained the most vital supplies.

It didn’t seem to be making a difference. The fire roared, crackling and hissing like a living thing. Even from a distance, the heat blasted them.

Since Hannah couldn’t get close to the fire with Charlotte strapped to her chest, she’d stayed near the playground, helping to organize the refilling of buckets and pans from the two-hundred-and fifty-gallon water tank someone had backed in on the flatbed of a truck.

Ghost alternated between checking on Hannah repeatedly and running up and down the line, plumed tail streaming behind him, barking menacingly at the inferno.

Quinn ran up to Principal King. “We should make gas masks. I don’t know how well they’ll work against smoke, but it must be better than nothing. We just need two-liter pop bottles, scissors or X-acto knives, duct tape, and dust masks like painters and janitors use.”

The principal wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. She was in her late forties, her silver hair cut short, her expression drawn. She brightened. “We have those supplies in spades at the high school. I’ve been recycling every bottle we can get our hands on.”

She glanced around, her gaze settling on Whitney Blair, who was standing nearby. “Can you gather the equipment? You should be able to find everything in storage or in the teachers’ supply room. The dust masks will be in the janitor’s closet. There should be a case of them. Pack everything on one of the sleds. Bring someone to help you.”

“I can do that,” Whitney said.

She looked nothing like the bubbly cheerleader Quinn remembered—her once glossy red hair dull and stringy, her cheekbones gaunt, her eyes bruised hollows.

She wouldn’t be cheerleading ever again. She’d lost everything. Her home, her family. Her father had been shot by the militia when he’d attempted to steal a Winter Haven house. The militia had killed him right in front of her, like Quinn’s mother.

How quickly things—and people—changed.

Without another word, Whitney sprinted toward the high school. If she was helping, Quinn sure as hell could do something. She turned to the principal. “Put me in. I’m fast and strong.”

Principal King nodded reluctantly, her expression somber, like she hated asking this of “her kids,” as she’d always called them at assemblies back when school was a thing. Everyone had rolled their eyes then. No one rolled their eyes now. “Be careful.”

“I always am.”

“She knows I’ll swat her behind if she isn’t,” Gran said, snarky even in the direst of circumstances.

A fierce affection rose in her chest. For Gran. For Whitney. For the whole stupid town.

“I’d like to see you try,” Quinn said as she wrapped her scarf around her face. “But all bets are—”

A volley of gunfire cut her off. Loud cracks blasted the air. Snow exploded not twenty feet from where they stood.

Quinn’s heart stopped. People screamed and ducked. Several threw themselves to the ground. Others scattered, fleeing for the shelter of the nearest buildings.

More gunfire. More screaming.

Panic seized her. She whipped around, ducking instinctively, hands over her head. “Gran! Get down!”

Boom! Boom! Boom! Thirty feet away, a man jittered and fell to the ground. A woman lugging a yellow five-gallon bucket toppled forward. Blood sprayed the snow.

They were under attack.

41

LIAM

DAY FIFTY-FOUR

Screams of terror splintered the air—cries of pain and fear, children shrieking. Above it all, the steady report of gunfire.

Liam’s blood ran cold. They had to act—now.

Keeping close to the wall, he grabbed a frag grenade from a pouch on his chest rig. As he rounded the corner, he pulled the pin and hurled it careening through the shattered window.

He ducked back against the cinder block outer wall, pushing Bishop behind him.

The grenade exploded. Debris, shrapnel, and clouds of smoke blasted through the window. The front door rattled on its hinges. Screams and moans pierced the air.

Liam and Bishop pivoted toward the window, climbed through, and entered the fray, weapons sweeping, Liam left, Bishop right.

Smoke swirled thick and choking. The room was a mess of broken chairs, toppled end tables, and twisted metal and plastic. Across from the shrapnel-riddled reception desk, a fish tank leaked cloudy water from spiderwebbing cracks.

A hostile sat on the floor in the middle of the room, leaning against the reception desk. Blood crusted his earlobes; chunks of shrapnel punctured his plate carrier.

He rose from a seated position, bloody but conscious. He held a double barrel twelve-gauge shotgun and was bringing it to bear.

Bishop fired twice; the man went down.

A second hostile leapt up from behind the reception desk, firing wildly with a modified AR. Rounds thwacked the walls and ceiling.

Liam spun and squeezed the trigger. Pop! Pop! The man’s head jerked back. He took one staggering step and slid down the far wall, leaving a red streak behind.

More gunfire from upstairs.

Liam raced for the hallway behind the reception desk, kicking aside a tipped over chair. Urgency gripped him. Fear and dread drove him on. He led the way, sweeping with the carbine as he moved.

He entered the x-ray room, the hulking white shape of equipment looming out of the smoky shadows. He cleared it swiftly as Bishop checked a small office to the right, then they headed for the stairs at the end of the hall.

He whipped around the corner, shooting blind, already racing up the steps. The gunfire was deafening in such an enclosed space. His ears rang like his skull was a struck bell.

Halfway up the stairs, a round whined by his head. Drywall splintered a foot to his left. Liam dove for the floor even as he fired at the flash of movement above him.

The hard ridges of the stairs slammed into his shins, thighs, lower stomach, and chest. His breath punched from his lungs.

He wrestled the M4 up and fired again, rounds stitching across the belly of the militiaman toppling toward him, rifle flailing on its sling. The bloodied body struck him as he leapt to his feet. Two hundred pounds of deadweight nearly bowled him backward into Bishop.

Rounds cracked over his head and smashed into the walls on either side of him. Another hostile fired on them from the top of the stairs. Spent brass clattered down the steps, rolling against their boots.

The enclosed space was too tight. His weapon was caught between the torso of the dead man and his own body. He could barely move, let alone fight.

He still couldn’t breathe. His lungs were screaming.

Adrenaline spiking, he struggled to yank the M4 free while simultaneously wrenching the dead man’s body in front of his as a shield. Lead riddled the dead man’s back, his body jerking against Liam’s.

Bishop ducked down behind him and fired over his shoulder. Rounds zipped past his ear. The explosive bangs nearly deafened him.

Bishop’s rounds hit their mark. With a wet thwack and a scream, the hostile staggered, one knee an exploded mess, but didn’t drop his weapon.

He raised his rifle at Liam, fired three more rounds into his dead buddy’s body. One of the slugs made it through, impacting against Liam’s plate carrier. It felt like a sledgehammer smashing into his ribs.

Liam grunted, teetering, nearly losing his balance and collapsing into Bishop. He managed to get one hand free and drew his Glock. He angled up beneath the dead guy’s floppy arm and squeezed the trigger in rapid succession.

The hostile dropped like a puppet with its strings cut. He rolled down three steps before jolting to a stop, his body wedged sideways.

Gasping, Liam threw the first body aside and staggered up the stairs, Bishop pounding at his heels. His lower right ribs felt broken. Pain seared his side, his chest on fire. He needed another grenade; he didn’t have one.

He gritted his teeth and did a tactical reload, ejecting the magazine, slapping in a fresh one, and charging the handle, and then he was at the top of the stairs. He plunged into the room, firing in a low sweep. Boom! Boom! Boom!

Rounds shredded the fabric of the dental chair. The stainless-steel rolling tray went flying across the room, an array of small tools scattering over the carpet—mouth mirrors, dental probes, and drills.

The sniper’s McMillan TAC-338 sniper rifle was propped on a white folding table, muzzle still pointed out the window. The room was empty.

The sniper must have been one of the hostiles he’d already serviced—probably the guy with the blown-out knee.

Heart still hammering, Liam lowered the M4. Drywall dust drifted in the air, the smell of cordite was strong in his nostrils. Sound went tinny and distant. His bruised ribs pulsed with pain, mingling with the burn in his spine.

“You good?” Bishop asked from behind him.

He pulled in several jagged breaths. “I’m good.”

Bishop keyed his radio. “Brite Smiles sniper is down.”

“So is Tresses,” Reynoso responded. “Two hostiles out of commission—permanently. Status report, Truitt.”

A moment of silence.

Liam peered through the window, M4 in one hand, gingerly probing his ribs with the other. The fire was still burning, a dozen bodies on the ground. From this distance, he couldn’t identify them.

His heart tightened like a fist. If one of them was Hannah…or Quinn or Molly…

He needed to get down there. He needed to be there for them.

Static belched over the radio. “We were driving them out of the elementary school and got ambushed,” Truitt said, his voice raspy, on the verge of panic. “I got hit. I repeat, I’m hit!”

42

QUINN

DAY FIFTY-FOUR

“They’re shooting at us!” someone screamed.

“Run!” a man shouted.

More gunfire. Precise and controlled. Boom! Boom!

One of the teenagers jerked and dropped to the ground. He groaned, hands clawing at the snow as blood bloomed across his back.

Quinn stared at him in horror. She didn’t remember his name, but she knew him. He’d sat behind her in Chemistry. He was always chewing his pencils.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

She couldn’t move. She was frozen in terror, her muscles rigid, her heart bucking a million miles a minute inside her chest.

A vision of the church wavered in front of her eyes. Dozens of bodies falling, always falling. Chloe and Juniper, forever calling her name with no answer.

Someone seized Quinn’s coat sleeve and jerked her arm, jolting her from her fugue.

“Get behind cover!” Hannah yelled.

Quinn scrambled forward, Hannah half-pulling, half-dragging her behind one of the big painted concrete tunnels that Quinn used to play on a thousand years ago.

Hannah shoved Quinn next to Gran and Principal King, making sure her arms and legs were hidden. A round slammed into the concrete shell above their heads.

A whimper escaped between her clenched teeth. She blinked rapidly, forcing the horrid images of the church out of her head.

She wasn’t trapped in the sanctuary, replaying the same nightmare again and again. She was here, outside, and she needed to freaking think.

“Where are they shooting from?” she forced out. “I can’t see them!”

“Snipers.” Gran leaned against the concrete, clutching her Mossberg to her chest. Her cane lay in the snow a few feet away. She lifted her head, fired a few rounds at the elementary school, then ducked back down. “It’s the militia. They started the fire. Now they’re shooting us like fish in a barrel!”

Principal King stared at Gran in numb shock. All the blood had drained from her face. “How could they? This is—how could anyone do such a thing?”

No one answered her. There was no good answer.

“The police will get them,” Hannah said. “Liam and Bishop, too. We just have to wait.”

Quinn clenched her jaw. She’d rather be out there with them, taking out the damn militia, protecting the people, doing something brave. Not cowering here, terrified and helpless.

“The food,” she said. “We can’t let the food burn.”

More gunfire. Screams echoed from the school yard. Charlotte wrinkled her tiny face and let out a fierce wail. Hannah had tented an insulated baby blanket over Charlotte’s head to protect her from the elements, but the baby was having none of it.

Her heart in her throat, Quinn shifted to her knees and peered around the corner. She couldn’t see any militia anywhere. They were hiding in the buildings, shooting unarmed citizens at their leisure.

She had her slingshot and the flechettes she’d made from nails. They’d turned out better than her wildest expectations, flying fast, straight, and true. But she couldn’t shoot at what she couldn’t see.

Another crackle of gunfire. Quinn ducked. When she peeked out again, she didn’t see anyone falling, didn’t see any puffs of snow as rounds erupted around them.

Maybe it wasn’t the militia this time.

“It’s Wolverine. He’s got this.” Quinn wanted to believe that Noah would be on their side, out there standing between them and the snipers, but she couldn’t.

She didn’t know what to believe. A part of her hated him for that.

Hannah crawled onto her hands and knees and peeked around the opposite corner, one hand cupping Charlotte’s head. “Quinn is right. We’ve got to get inside that school.”

“We need to stay right here,” Principal King said.

“If we lose the food, everyone starves anyway,” Quinn said.

“She has a point,” Gran said.

The fire roared. The wind bent the trees. Cries, shouts, and moans echoed all around them. Charlotte cried and cried, but they didn’t hear any more gunfire.

Her legs shaking, Quinn stood. She flinched, half-expecting a bullet to the spine.

None came.

“It’s clear,” she said. Then louder, “It’s clear!”

People were huddled on the ground, hands over their heads. Others crouched behind the playground equipment. They stared at her, wide-eyed with panic and disbelief, still in shock.

“It’s okay!” she shouted. “We’ve got to salvage that food!”

The principal stood slowly, trembling in fear but her jaw set.

Others watched them. When no more shots were fired, a few more risked rising to their feet. Then a few more.

The principal keyed her radio. “Lee, tell everyone we’ve got friends on our side. The police and other volunteers. They’ll protect the people.”

“Okay,” Lee’s voice came over the radio. “I’ve got to take care of the wounded.”

A woman moaned, clutching at her bloody leg. A few people rushed to help her. A man cried out as he ran toward a limp form lying in the snow. His wife, maybe. Or his sister.

Five people were dead. Another ten or so injured. Family members and friends knelt beside the bodies as others came to help tend to the wounded.

Gradually, people got up. Some ran back to the safety of the high school; others remained to help. They looked around warily before heading to the fallen buckets. One by one, they returned to fighting the fire.

Someone tapped Quinn’s arm. Whitney peered at them over the scarf wrapped around her face. Jonas Marshal stood next to her. “I’ve got the mask stuff. And I brought helpers.”

Within a few minutes, a dozen volunteers had constructed the simple gas masks. They cut a U-shape into each two-liter bottle, lining the edges with duct tape for comfort and to help seal the mask to the user’s face. They cut the elastic bands from the dust mask, then taped the dust mask into the bottom of the bottle, sealing it on all sides. The plastic bottle acted as a face shield, the top of the bottle now the bottom of the mask.

“It’s primitive, and it won’t do much for long,” Gran warned as she cut two holes into each side of the mask, attached the elastic bands, and sealed it with duct tape. She handed it to Quinn. “In and out, girl. No more than five times, then you’re done.”

Principal King looked up at the sky. It was only mid-afternoon, but the thick dark clouds roiling across the horizon obscured the sun completely. The wind grew stronger, fiercer, beating at them and whipping the blaze on the roof into a frenzy.

“We need that snow,” Principal King said. “We need a miracle.”

Quinn slipped the elastic band over her head and adjusted the mask. “Let’s go make one.”

For the thirteenth time, Quinn raced into the school, eyes watering and stinging, everything so blurry that she could hardly see.

The edges of the makeshift mask bit into her skin. Each breath fogged up the plastic. Heat blasted her, smoke hitting her like a wall, black and thick.

She felt her way down the hallway and banged into the frame of the opened storage room door. She’d spent three years in this school. She could find her way blind—she practically was.

The blaze had already eaten one storage room of supplies. A second room had been cut off, but a janitor’s closet and secondary door provided access to the opposite side of the school.

Entering that way, they’d slipped into the cafeteria and pantry to salvage whatever they could before the choking smoke drove them back and the fire consumed it.

Quinn grabbed a heavy cardboard box labeled “pasta” in black Sharpie, adjusted the box against her ribs so her aching arms weren’t carrying all the weight, and stumbled for the exit.

Every breath was torn from her aching lungs. Her pulse roared in her ears. She felt like she’d run ten miles underwater. A roaring crash shuddered the door, the walls, the ceiling.

Jonas Marshall passed her, sweaty and coated in ash, staggering in his exhaustion. He’d already made more than ten trips, and he was coming back for more.

Apparently, Liam wasn’t always right.

Quinn pushed past another teen running in—Whitney—and rushed outside. She deposited the pasta box atop a stack of boxes and stepped back. The pile of rescued supplies was pitifully small. It felt like she’d been running into that smoke-filled haze for hours.

She lifted the mask off her face and stood for a moment, gasping for precious oxygen. The cold air was like shards of glass raking her throat.

The occasional crack of gunfire split the air, but it was distant. Liam and the others had done their job. She only hoped that she could do enough, too.

She inhaled one more deep breath, lowered her mask, and turned to head back for another run.

Hannah appeared out of nowhere and seized her arm. “Quinn! You’re done. You need a break.”

“One…more…time.” Her voice was raw and raspy. It sounded like it belonged to someone else. A stranger.

Hannah didn’t let go. “Molly told me to watch out for you. She’ll kill me if I don’t.”

Quinn spun to face her, prepared to argue. She’d keep helping until she dropped of exhaustion. She’d crawl if she had to. No way was she standing around when she could actually do—

Something past Hannah caught her eye. Something that stopped her heart in her chest. “Hannah.”

Hannah stilled. Her sharp gaze searched Quinn’s face. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Silently, Quinn pointed.

To the northeast, past the high school and the woods, a new pillar of smoke spiraled into the roiling sky.

“That’s Winter Haven!” Hannah gave a choked cry. “Milo!”

43

LIAM

DAY FIFTY-FOUR

Liam and Bishop entered the elementary school from the east end.

They moved quickly but cautiously through wide hallways blanketed in heavy shadows, the rectangular florescent lighting affixed to the ceiling blank and useless. Banks of metal lockers stood on either side. Classroom doors hung open, offering opportunities for ambushes.

Liam’s wet boots were slick on the tile floor. Spent cartridges were flung everywhere. Occasional bullet holes punctured the walls and ceiling. The air smelled like textbooks and mothballs.

Distant, sporadic gunfire sounded from the other side of the building. Reynoso, Perez, Hayes, and their team were driving back about a dozen militia.

“Don’t leave me!” a voice cried up ahead. “Please!”

Pulse racing, he and Bishop rounded the corner, weapons up and sweeping.

A brown-haired man in a police uniform sagged against the wall of lockers at the end of the hallway. Black blood pooled beneath him. It was Oren Truitt.

“You go,” Liam said to Bishop. “I’ll see to him, then catch up.”

Bishop nodded without a word and left to aid Reynoso’s team.

“He shot me,” Truitt stuttered, surprise in his voice. “Sutter did it. The scumbag didn’t even hesitate. I still can’t believe it…”

Keeping his gun up, Liam approached and started to enter the classroom on the right to clear it. He glimpsed desks and chairs kicked over, papers scattered across the floor.

Two dead bodies lay inside—one militia, the other a middle-aged civilian, one of the volunteers that Corinne Marshall had brought them. Much of his face was missing, but Liam still recognized him—Wayne Marshall. Corinne’s husband, Jonas’s father.

“It’s cleared,” Truitt wheezed. “It’s just me left.”

Guilt speared him. Liam pushed it aside and knelt beside the wounded man, grunting from the pain in his ribs. “I’ve got my IPAK. Just hold on.”

“There were too many of them. Killed one of ‘em anyway, I think. Not Sutter, though. I held ‘em off until Hayes arrived with backup and got us out of the pincher hold they’d trapped us in.” He winced and sucked in a ragged breath. “Too late for me, though.”

“You did good. You did fine work.”

Truitt looked down at himself, his face a ghastly white. Dark red liquid bubbled from holes torn through his shoulder and leaked down his crotch, drenching his splayed pant legs.

Blood oozed between the fingers splayed across his belly. He wore a tactical vest, but the rounds had gotten him too low.

Liam shifted his gun into one hand, seized an Israeli emergency bandage from his chest rig, and placed the package between his teeth to tear it open. He kept one eye on the end of the hallway and the other on the task at hand.

“No,” Truitt said weakly. “Save it. Don’t waste it on me.”

Liam didn’t argue. There was no argument to make.

Even if they had air support and a med evac sixty seconds out, even with a trauma team standing by—Truitt didn’t stand a chance. He knew it as well as Liam.

Liam placed the bandage back in its pouch. “I’m sorry,” he said because he had nothing better to say. Because words weren’t going to put this man back together again. Words weren’t going to bring back Wayne Marshall, either.

“I always wanted to be a cop.” Truitt coughed again, blood bubbling from his lips. “I always wanted to be the hero, you know? The one who runs into danger, not away from it.” He laughed weakly. “They don’t tell you it’s nothing like the movies. That it’s scary as hell. That you’ll piss your pants.”

“I know the feeling.”

“Tell that sack of manure Reynoso…tell him…” Truitt wheezed, his eyes bulging, his gaze growing distant. “…he’s a damn fine…cop.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“Take care…of…take care…”

Liam placed a hand over Truitt’s bloodied one. “I will.”

Scattered gunfire sounded in the distance. It was coming from the west, in the direction of Main Street.

Torn, he glanced down at Truitt. No man deserved to die alone. He’d lost too many brothers in the desert hellholes of Iran and Afghanistan. It was always the good ones, always utterly senseless and infuriating.

He hadn’t known Truitt well or Wayne Marshall at all. They’d both died for the cause he was leading.

That was the price freedom demanded. It was always paid in blood. Always.

He remained crouched beside Truitt, gripping his blood-slick hand until he was gone. They would come back for the bodies later.

He wiped the blood on his pant leg, rose, and moved down the hall, toward the battle. He longed to head the opposite direction, to find Hannah, but he had a duty. A vow to keep.

Reynoso had successfully drawn the militia away, but for how long? They had to keep the gunfight clear of the civilians, far from Hannah and everyone else.

He felt his weariness in the knots in his shoulders, the fire in his ribs, the nerves in his lower back like twisting strands of barbed wire—every cell of his body in pain.

At least he was alive. At least he could still fight for what mattered. He still had a town to protect.

44

QUINN

DAY FIFTY-FOUR

“I’m coming with you,” Quinn said. “Don’t even try to stop me.”

Fear clawed at her chest. Milo was in trouble, and she wasn’t there.

She saw the same terror reflected in Hannah’s eyes. “We have to save him.”

“How the hell are we going to get inside Winter Haven? Those maniacs will shoot us on sight.”

“There’s a gap in security down by the river,” Hannah said hurriedly. “The patrols focus on the main entrance and surrounding woods. Only one or two guys patrol the ridge overlooking Fall Creek. I paid attention. Maybe we can sneak by—if we’re careful.”

“A walking trail starts at the public park behind Jerry Stover’s U-Pick farm and winds along the river right into Winter Haven. It’s unmarked. The locals know it; I doubt the fake soldiers do.”

Winter Haven was about a mile away. Too far to reach it quickly on foot. Quinn pointed across the playground toward the high school parking lot. “The principal has an ATV.”

It was Ray and Octavia’s old apple-red Honda Fourtrax 300. Since they were both dead, they didn’t need it. Molly and Quinn had given it to the principal to help with the shelter’s needs.

They couldn’t take the Orange Julius—it could only drive on plowed roads. The four-wheeler could make it, but it was loud.

“We have to risk it,” Hannah said as if reading her thoughts. “We don’t have time to go on foot. Their patrols will be thin, if they’re even patrolling right now. They’re distracted.”

“I’ll get the key fob.”

Charlotte let out a loud cry. Hannah looked stricken, torn between protecting her baby and saving her son.

“Gran,” Quinn said. “Gran will watch her.”

Hannah nodded tightly. “Ghost! Come on!”

Across the field, Ghost’s head shot up, ears perked. He loped after her.

They ran for the school, Hannah looking for Gran, Quinn for the principal. She zigzagged through the crowd until she found Principal King around the side of the building where the fire was fiercest.

She bent over, hands on her knees, gasping for air. “We need to borrow the Fourtrax.”

Principal King coughed, scrubbed wet ash from her face, and dug the key fob out of her coat pocket without a word. She didn’t waste time to ask why. She handed it to Quinn and gestured at someone behind her. “More water on the east wing! We have to keep that corridor open!”

Quinn didn’t hear anything else. She was already racing for Hannah, Ghost, and the ATV. Fear pistoned her legs. She’d never run faster in her life.

They had to get to Milo. If those turdsacks had hurt him…

Her boots nearly slipped on the slick mixture of snow and ice. Her hair was frozen. Icicles were forming on her cheeks, her eyelashes, and her earlobes. Her breath came in dense white jets.

She reached the machine just as Hannah ran up, sans the carrier and the baby. She tossed Hannah the keys and climbed on behind her. Hannah already had her helmet on. There was no second helmet for Quinn, but she still wore her make-shift gas mask.

Hannah twisted around and handed her the .45. “You know how to use this?”

Quinn nodded.

“I have to drive. You see one of them, you shoot. Don’t hesitate. Just shoot.”

“I can do that.”

The engine chugged to life. Quinn leaned forward and gripped Hannah’s waist above her hips, the pistol clutched in her right hand, her fingers brittle with cold. She turned her head sideways to watch for any threats through the sleeting snow.

Visibility was turning to crap. They could see maybe a hundred feet ahead of them. Hannah didn’t slow down. The frigid wind tunneled straight through her gear. Quinn clenched her jaw and held on tighter.

Ghost sprinted after them, barking. They couldn’t slow down for him. He was a smart dog; hopefully, he could follow their trail.

The old engine coughed, spewing choking fumes. The wheels slammed and rattled and slid over the rutted, icy snowplow tracks set into hard ridges. They cut a path through the back section of town, whipping past house after house, the trees a blur as they raced toward Winter Haven and Milo.

They hurtled through the park, skirting the skateboarding half-pipes and banked ramps and whipsawed sharply right onto a narrow path between towering pines. Her jacket flapped like a wind-whipped flag. She squinted, eyes watering.

The frozen river gleamed not ten feet to their right. The wind whooshed through the brittle leafless trees, their branches sealed in thick ice and draped with jagged icicles like teeth.

They saw no fake soldiers. No movement between the trees.

Hannah drove up the side of the ravine that bordered the rear perimeter of Winter Haven in a loose zigzag, the engine sputtering. The machine crested the ridge. Quinn glimpsed several Winter Haven houses through the woods.

Hannah roared up to the house, approaching through several backyards. Ahead of them, a pillar of black smoke appeared.

Quinn’s heart seized. She’d hoped and prayed that it was a different house, not Milo’s. Anyone but Milo’s.

It wasn’t.

Fire licked the eaves. Smoke boiled from the roof and poured from the broken sliding glass doors. Inside, angry red flames flickered and danced. The kitchen was on fire. Maybe the rest of the house, too.

The four-wheeler slammed to a stop ten feet from the snow-covered back patio. Hannah jumped off, yanked off her helmet, and tossed it to the snow.

Quinn clambered off the machine and looked around, seeing no threat but the fire. She kept Hannah’s .45 in both hands.

Hannah ran around to the front of the house and scaled the porch steps. The front of the house wasn’t burning—yet.

Quinn remained in the front yard to keep an eye on the street. “What if he’s not inside, Hannah? What if Noah put him somewhere safe?”

Hannah cupped her hands around her face to peer through the glass window on either side of the double front door.

She stiffened, took a step back, and covered her mouth with her hands. She glanced back at Quinn, her face bone white. “His fanny pack is on the coffee table.”

Quinn’s veins turned to ice water. She knew what that meant as well as Hannah.

Milo never went anywhere without it. Never.

If the pack was inside the house, so was Milo.

45

QUINN

DAY FIFTY-FOUR

“I’ll go,” Quinn said. “I’ll get him—”

“Stay here and keep watch!” Hannah wrenched open the front door. It was unlocked. She didn’t hesitate or look back; she ran inside after her son.

“Take my mask!” Quinn shouted, but she was gone, vanishing into the smoke.

Quinn fought back helpless tears as sleet and snow slashed at her face. She hated feeling powerless, hated the dread and fear knotting in her throat.

A crunching sound came from behind her. Boots on snow.

She spun around, raising the .45, and flicked off the safety.

“Woah!” Darryl Wiggins lifted his arms into the air. “Hey! Don’t shoot me!”

Quinn didn’t lower the weapon.

Darryl Wiggins wriggled his fingers. “I’m unarmed, see? I’m not the bad guy, here.”

His bruises had faded, the cuts on his face healed. She remembered how he’d looked the day she’d shot Desoto with her slingshot, how Mr. Blair and that other man had beaten Wiggins without mercy as they fought over his house. He lived just down the street from Noah.

“Who started the fire?” she asked. “Did you see anything?”

His gaze darted from the barrel of the gun to the burning house behind her. His eyes widened, his expression stricken. “I don’t know anything—”

“Then why do you look so guilty?” She jabbed the pistol at him. “Tell me the truth!”

“Okay! Okay! I—I was supposed to watch the kid for Chief Sheridan. I was the backup. The fires in town—the chief had to go. It was an emergency. I was watching the kid fine, then he fell asleep in his room playing with LEGOs. I ran back to the house for a bit to cook myself some lunch. That’s all. It was just a few minutes…”

She gritted her teeth. “How many minutes?”

“A few! I don’t know exactly! Maybe thirty. Maybe more. It’s not my fault!”

Quinn cursed. She wouldn’t get anything useful from him. She resisted the urge to shoot him in the balls just for being a colossally selfish jerk.

“Can I lower my hands now, please?” he whined.

Quinn glanced back at the house. Hannah was taking too long. She should be out already.

She flicked on the safety, lowered the gun, and stuffed it in her coat pocket. She took a deep breath and adjusted the mask over her face, trying to seal it as best she could. It was crap, but it was all she had.

She headed across the yard.

“What are you doing? You can’t go in there!”

She didn’t bother to answer. She didn’t care how stupid this was, how foolhardy.

“Whatever you think of me, I’m not a monster!” Wiggins called after her. “I’m one of the good guys!”

Quinn ran into the burning house. The heat slammed her backward. Thick black smoke hit her like a wall. She coughed violently, her throat instantly burning.

Fire swallowed the kitchen. Flames igniting the cabinets, racing across the ceiling, chewing through the huge island she’d sat at so many times.

The fire hadn’t reached the living room or the hallway yet. Holding her breath, she dropped to her hands and knees and crawled deeper into the thick and suffocating darkness.

She detoured into the living room, flailing blindly, scrabbling for what she needed. She couldn’t see a thing but smoke. Finally, she found it, turned, and headed for where she thought the hallway was located.

Instead, she blundered into the wall. Panic skewered her. She knew this house like the back of her hand—each room, the location of every piece of furniture, but the smoke was disorienting.

It felt like hell itself, like Dante’s Inferno come to life.

She fumbled along, feeling her way until she reached the hallway. Smoke hung heavy above her. She barely sensed the doors she knew were there—the guest bathroom, guest bedroom, linen closet, and finally, Milo’s room.

The door hung open. She blinked stinging tears out of her eyes and managed to make out a hazy shape. Hannah crouched over Milo on the floor, her form silhouetted against the smoke.

She’d gathered him into her arms but struggled to lift his dead weight with her injured hand. She was coughing, her whole body shaking, tears streaming from her eyes. She didn’t have the mask, half-assed though it was, and was fast losing oxygen.

Quinn wasn’t doing so hot, either. Tendrils of smoke slithered into her brain, a thick fog descending over her. It was hard to focus, to think.

The foundation of the house shifted with a horrible grinding sound, joists cracking, splintering, things coming apart.

Down the hall, flames flickered. The fire hissed and crackled. Milo’s bedroom glowed like the inside of an ember about to burn.

“The window,” Hannah croaked.

They wouldn’t make it down the long hallway, through the living room to the foyer and out the front door. The smoke was too toxic, the ferocious fire spreading too fast.

Quinn crawled into the bedroom, LEGO bricks digging into her knees and palms. Hannah kicked the door shut behind her to buy them a few precious seconds.

Quinn climbed onto the bed and shoved aside Milo’s “Guardians of the Galaxy” curtains. She wrestled with the window lock, her lungs throbbing, her fingers thick and slow. She managed to unlock it and yank the sash up. The screen only needed a kick to dislodge itself.

On her knees, she turned back for Milo. Hannah lugged him onto the bed and scrambled onto the mattress herself, gasping from the effort.

Quinn felt blindly for his chest and got a grip beneath his armpits. She pulled him backward across the bed, her arms incredibly heavy.

She choked, the air hot and swollen and boiling down her throat. The air was poisonous. It was poisoning them.

Confusion stuffed her head with cotton. Darkness fringed her vision. Her throat constricted, lungs screaming for oxygen she couldn’t give them.

She was losing consciousness. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move—

Something struck her hard in the ribs. Hannah pushed her out the window.

46

QUINN

DAY FIFTY-FOUR

Q uinn toppled through the window, Milo still in her arms, and hit the ground, a foot of snow cushioning the five-foot fall.

She landed hard on her side, Milo on top of her. He felt like he weighed a thousand pounds.

She lay there for a moment, dazed. Her lungs ached, her head pounding. She clawed at the mask with her free hand, ripped it off, and sucked in mouthfuls of oxygen. Snow pelted her face.

Hannah dropped to the ground and crouched over them. Coughing, she rolled Milo off Quin, and together they dragged him a safe distance from the burning house.

Hannah pressed her finger to his throat. “I can’t feel a pulse!” she rasped. “He’s not breathing!”

Quinn dragged in ragged breaths. She heard the words like Hannah was speaking from far away, from another planet.

“He’s in adrenal crisis! His body is shutting down!”

Fear shot through the haze, bright as a shooting star. Dimly, she remembered that Noah had said an adrenal crisis could lead to shock, coma, and death.

She forced herself to her hands and knees at Milo’s other side. He lay in the snow, dressed in jeans and a red Iron Man sweatshirt, one sock rolled down to his ankle. His delicate eyelids looked bruised. His beautiful olive skin was too white. White like a ghost, like death.

Hannah looked at her, stricken. “His emergency injector! It’s still inside!”

“No!” Quinn fumbled to lift her coat and tugged out the fanny pack she’d tucked into her waistband. It stank of smoke but was otherwise unharmed.

It was critical. It was the difference between Milo living and dying. Noah had hammered that fact into her, and she’d never forgotten it.

“I have it,” she croaked. “I’ve got it.”

Hannah sagged in relief. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she chanted like a prayer, like a lifeline.

Quinn unzipped the pack, fumbled and nearly dropped it, got it open and jerked out the injector. She couldn’t get the stupid wrapper off with gloves, her fingers going stiff from the cold. She ripped it open with her teeth, tore it free, and positioned it over Milo’s right thigh—

“Stop right there!” a male voice shouted.

Quinn froze. She was leaning forward on her knees, holding the syringe in midair, her thumb on the plunger. Terrified, she lifted her gaze.

A pistol was pointed at her face.

The owner of the weapon swaggered toward them, halting less than twenty feet away. His narrow, horsey face twisted in a familiar sneer.

“Well, isn’t this a pretty sight,” Vik said. “I remember you. Both of you.”

Vik’s bandolier was gone. His shoulder was heavily bandaged, his left arm in a sling, a nasty purple bruise swelling beneath his right eye.

He aimed the gun at her one-handed. “Don’t get any dumb ideas. I don’t need two hands to end you, and you know it. Now, where’s that big dumb mutt of yours? I’ve been waiting to put him down like he deserves. That thing is a menace. So are the two of you.”

Quinn swallowed a snarky response. She had Hannah’s gun in one pocket, her slingshot and flechettes in the other, but no fast way to reach either one with the syringe in her hand.

All Vik had to do was squeeze the trigger.

Milo was what mattered. She dropped her gaze to the syringe.

“Don’t you dare move!”

“It’s an emergency injector! I’m saving his life!”

“Move your hand and I’ll kill you! Both of you!”

Milo’s life hung in the balance. Seconds mattered.

Hannah met Quinn’s eyes over Milo’s body. Hannah gave the faintest nod.

Quinn plunged the syringe into Milo’s thigh and depressed the plunger. She flinched, anticipating a bullet to the back of the head.

It didn’t come.

A white streak flashed out of the corner of her eye. Out of nowhere, Ghost appeared, bursting around the corner of the house.

With a ferocious growl, he hurtled across the snowy yard and launched one hundred and forty pounds of solid muscle at Vik.

Quinn watched in shock as Ghost brought the man down and bowled him flat on his back. The Great Pyrenees crouched on top of him, snarling and snapping.

Vik struggled to get a hand up in defense. Ghost latched onto his forearm, easily tearing through the fabric of his coat, into his flesh.

Vic howled as the pistol was knocked from his grasp. “You stupid—”

Ghost lunged at his throat before Vik could finish his sentence. His teeth sank deep into the man’s neck, cutting off his startled cry. He locked his jaws and whipped his head back and forth.

In a spray of wet red blood, Ghost ripped the man’s throat out. Vik’s arms and legs flopped in the snow, then went still. He never even screamed.

Ghost lifted his head, still crouched over his kill, fangs bared, every inch of him fierce and lethal. He looked like one of Attila the Hun’s ancient war dogs, blood-soaked in battle.

“Ghost,” Hannah said.

He looked at her, his growl dying in his throat. In a heartbeat, the ferocious beast transformed back into a loving family pet. He snorted, shook himself, and trotted over to Hannah.

“Good boy. Good dog.” She reached for him, ignoring the blood flecking his fur. He pressed himself against her side, offering her comfort and support, offering himself.

Quinn’s pulse roared in her ears. Vik was dead, but Milo was still in trouble.

She tore off a glove with her teeth and pressed two fingers to Milo’s waxy neck. His skin was cool to the touch. His pulse was faint, thready. He was alive—but just barely.

“Wake up, Milo,” Hannah said. “Wake up!”

Fear and panic torqued through her. “What’s wrong? Why isn’t it working?”

“I don’t know. Milo, wake up!”

“Come on!” Quinn grabbed his narrow shoulders and shook him. “Small Fry! Come on! Get up!”

The boy didn’t respond. He lay just as limp, just as pale. Ghost sniffed at him, his tail thumping, and whined uneasily. He nosed the boy’s shoulder with his snout.

Hannah let out a low agonized moan like a wounded animal. She rocked back and forth, gripping Milo’s fingers in one hand, her other hand buried in Ghost’s fur. “No, no, no!”

The seconds ticked by in Quinn’s head. Snow stuck to her face, melting, trickling down her cheeks and forehead. She felt numb. A stunned disconnect from reality. This wasn’t real. It wasn’t happening.

They’d saved him. He was supposed to be okay. He was supposed to live, damn it!

The whole world was cruel and barbaric, senseless and fickle. But Milo was innocent. He was good. He couldn’t die. He just couldn’t.

Hannah barely looked up. She pulled Milo into her arms, weeping. Snow gathered in her hair, coating her head and shoulders with ice crystals.

Behind her, the fire blazed higher. The roof went up with a roaring whoosh, the bones of the house snapping, creaking, and popping. A groaning crash shuddered through the walls.

Ghost let out a booming bark, his hackles rising.

The crunch of boots. Footsteps approaching.

Quinn reached for the .45.

Wiggins shuffled around the corner of the house. He halted at the sight of Quinn’s gun aimed at his chest. “It’s me!” His gaze dropped to Milo. “What’s wrong with him?”

Quinn lowered the pistol. She stared at him, blinking snow out of her eyes, her foggy brain struggling to think, damn it, think! “You have a radio?”

Wiggins stared at the mangled body of the dead militiaman, a look of horror on his face. “Well, yes, but—”

“Then use it!” Quinn leapt unsteadily to her feet. Milo was dying, but he wasn’t dead yet. “Call the nurse. Call him and tell him we need him right now!”

47

HANNAH

DAY FIFTY-FOUR

Desperation congealed in Hannah’s belly. Her son lay unconscious at her feet. Not three yards away, a dead man’s still-warm blood steamed in the snow.

She and Quinn stood in Noah’s backyard in the middle of Winter Haven, surrounded by enemies, vulnerable and exposed.

They were in immense danger, but they couldn’t just leave, not without saving Milo first.

Quinn held the gun on Wiggins to make sure he didn’t try to yell for help while Hannah used the radio to call the nurse.

“We’re out of intravenous fluids,” Shen Lee said when she got ahold of him.

“What do you mean, ‘out’?” Hannah asked, her throat raw. “How can you be out?”

“I’m working on eight gunshot victims as we speak, or do you not recall the shootout this afternoon?” Lee’s normally upbeat voice was laced with fatigue and resentment. “Liam Coleman brought this down on us.”

“The militia set the distribution center on fire! Do you not remember that part?” Quinn shouted over Hannah’s shoulder.

Hannah gripped the radio with whitened knuckles. “My eight-year-old son is dying. Are you refusing to help him?”

“Of course not. I told you, I just used the last IV bag. There’s no more. The militia don’t have any, either. I’m sorry, ma’am. I am. But I can’t leave my critical patients here. I can’t. I have to go.”

The radio clicked off.

Hannah stared at it, shaking in anger and fear, unsure what to do next.

“Hannah,” Quinn said. “We still have some leftover saline solution from when Milo got sick from the tainted river water. We have needles, tubes, and bags. We just need to get to them.”

“How? We need a plan.”

“I have one.” Quinn motioned at Wiggins with the barrel of the .45. “Turn around. Go back to your house. We’re coming with you.”

“Absolutely not—”

“Listen to me, you little pissant!” Quinn spat. “The only reason you aren’t dead yet is because we might need you. Operative word ‘might.’ You see that guy whose neck was Ghost’s chew toy? Ghost did that in about two seconds. All Hannah has to do is say the word, and her attack dog rips out your carotid artery before you have a chance to cry for your mama.”

On cue, Ghost pivoted and took a menacing step toward Wiggins. He snarled, his jowls peeled back from his large white teeth.

Wiggins’ eyes bulged. Terror flashed across his face as both his hands shot high in the air. “Okay, okay!”

“We need a safe place to bring Milo until he wakes up. Your digs will have to do.”

Wiggins shook his head frantically. “No way! It’s too dangerous! If Sutter finds out, he’ll kill me.”

“You owe us! Milo might die because of you. You’re going to hide us. You are going to tell the militia that you have no idea where we are. Act stupid. It shouldn’t be too hard.”

Wiggins’ frightened gaze flicked from the dog to Quinn’s gun pointed at his chest back to the dog. Reluctantly, he nodded.

“Good decision. Keep making good decisions and you might get out of this with your spine still attached to your skull. Maybe. Now move!”

If the situation hadn’t been so grim, Hannah would’ve smiled. Others might have been surprised at Quinn’s ferocity, but she wasn’t.

When the going got tough, Quinn got tougher.

“Stay on him, Ghost,” Hannah ordered. “He moves wrong, go for his crotch.”

Ghost growled, lunged forward, and nipped at Wiggins’ knees. With a yelp, Wiggins staggered backward, nearly tripping.

A wet stain formed on the front of his pants.

His face went beet red. “Are you satisfied now?”

“Very.” Quinn tucked the gun back in her pocket. She grabbed Milo’s shins while Hannah held him beneath the shoulder blades, tucking and twisting her bad hand until she got a satisfactory grip.

Ghost stayed on Wiggins’ heels while the women carried Milo to the front yard. They gave the burning house a wide berth. The fire roared, hissing and spitting angrily as sleet pelted the flames.

Hannah’s throat and lungs were still raw from the smoke, but she barely spared a thought for herself. Her only concern was Milo.

The two guards stationed outside Rosamond Sinclair’s mansion were nowhere in sight. A street over, a few snowmobiles rumbled, but they didn’t draw closer.

At the street, Hannah tensed, her adrenaline surging. Two militia were patrolling the end of the road—a man and a woman. Their backs were turned; they were walking away.

They didn’t seem concerned about the fire burning down Chief Sheridan’s house. Maybe they were the ones who’d set it.

Ghost growled.

Quinn shot Hannah a look of pure terror.

“Shh, boy,” Hannah murmured. “Not now. Stay quiet for me.”

Ghost continued to growl, a deep low rumble, but he didn’t bark. Hannah kept her gaze locked on the back of the militia, her heart in her throat. Keep walking. Just keep walking…

They crept across the street and headed toward Wiggins’ house. Snow swirled into their faces. Their boots crunched with each step. Hannah’s biceps burned. Her bad hand aching from her awkward grip on Milo’s armpits.

Hannah kept waiting for a shout, a gunshot, the sudden appearance of armed guards bearing down on them.

None came.

The militiamen didn’t turn around. The patrol rounded the bend in the road and disappeared.

Hannah didn’t breathe until they made it to Wiggins’ house. They weren’t safe yet.

Together, they got Milo situated on the sofa in the living room. They needed a better hiding spot in case of surprise visitors, but first they had to get him medical attention.

Quinn quickly closed all the curtains, then forced Wiggins into a chair in the kitchen and kept her gun on him while Hannah used the radio to call Liam and Bishop for help.

She didn’t want to put them in further danger, but Milo needed the IV supplies. They desperately needed Bishop’s medical knowledge. And Hannah…well, Hannah needed Liam.

48

HANNAH

DAY FIFTY-FOUR

It didn’t take Liam and Bishop long to get to them; it felt like a century. They snuck into Winter Haven via the same riverfront trail as Hannah and Quinn, only they came in silently, on foot.

Reynoso, Perez, and a handful of volunteers had continued to harass the militia to keep the bulk of their fighting force distracted and out of Winter Haven. They’d utilized a few of the booby traps and ammo caches that Liam had hidden throughout Fall Creek.

It was snowing harder and harder. Visibility was low. The fight was nearly over—for now. The snowstorm put out the fires in town, including the distribution center.

Half the building had burned to cinders and ash. The townspeople had rescued about a fourth of the supplies—three days of rationed food left for every man, woman, and child.

That was it. Then it was all gone. The real starvation would begin.

Liam and Bishop moved Milo downstairs to keep him safely out of sight. Hannah didn’t even balk. It didn’t feel like a basement. It was as nice as the upstairs—thick beige carpets, oak bookcases, glass coffee and end tables, an ornate pool table in the far corner.

Hannah sat on an ottoman she’d pulled up to the sofa, facing her son, rubbing Ghost’s scruff with her bad hand and praying, begging and bargaining with God.

She leaned forward and checked the cannula taped to Milo’s arm. A thin tube snaked into the fluid-filled IV bag that Bishop had attached to a hanger and hung from a coat rack he’d found upstairs.

Milo hadn’t woken up. He was still trapped in a coma induced by the adrenal crisis. He was breathing—barely, his pulse shallow, his complexion an awful bluish gray like glacial water.

He was so small. So impossibly still for a boy always on the move, always full of light and laughter.

Ghost leaned against the sofa, his big head resting on Milo’s chest. He whined softly, his brown eyes bewildered and worried. He kept nosing Milo’s arm, his shoulder, his cheek, trying to cajole him into waking up.

“I know, boy. I know. We want him to wake up, too.”

The hours passed with excruciating slowness. It was after eight p.m. and dark outside. The lights were switched off, except for a small electric lamp on a nearby end table.

The heat was on, the room so warm that Hannah could remove her winter gear. She could live fine without electricity, but she was immensely grateful for it now. She was thankful that Charlotte was safe and warm at Molly’s house.

Upstairs, Liam and Bishop guarded the house while Quinn kept an eye on Wiggins, who was still sitting in a dining room chair. They’d wanted to zip tie him, but if someone came to the door, Wiggins needed to answer it to deflect suspicion.

Around nine p.m., the militia returned, loud, angry, and out for blood. Hannah and the others sat still and quiet, listening to them just outside the house.

Luckily, Liam had managed to slip out and dispose of Vik’s body before the militia had arrived. One look at the corpse’s shredded throat, and Sutter would know that Ghost was the culprit.

It hadn’t taken him long. He’d dragged the body into the woods, hastily covered it with snow, and snuck back to Wiggins’ house. If anyone were to look closely, they’d see the blood splatters, track the footprints, and discover the body.

It wasn’t a permanent solution, but they only needed to buy some time.

They planned to get Milo stable, wait for most of the militia to turn in for the night, and then somehow smuggle everyone out of Winter Haven before dawn.

Staying here was incredibly dangerous. If Wiggins outed them, or if Ghost barked, or Noah or Rosamond glimpsed one of them through the windows…

Everyone understood the gravity of the situation. They spoke in whispers and moved only when necessary, their faces tense, expressions drawn.

They felt the walls closing in, the silence pressing down on them. Death loomed like a giant boulder above their heads, poised to fall.

They were huddled in the center of the hornet’s nest. One nudge, one kick, and dozens of armed men and women would descend on them in a frenzy of rage and violence.

One little mistake, and they were all dead.

49

HANNAH

DAY FIFTY-FOUR

Hannah tightened her grip on Milo’s hand as she listened to the shouting upstairs.

She recognized Noah’s distraught voice. She knew what was happening—Noah had returned to Winter Haven, seen the fire, and come running to Wiggins’ door. Wiggins had answered, pretending that he wasn’t a hostage.

Liam would be hiding behind the door, just out of sight, the Glock trained on Wiggins’ skull. One wrong word, one mistake, and Darryl Wiggins’ brain matter would decorate the front porch.

Wiggins had been instructed to tell Noah the truth—that he’d left Milo sleeping in his room to tend to a few errands at his own house. The rest Noah could deduct on his own: the fire, the choking smoke, his son’s certain death.

The trampled footprints surrounding the house would have told a different story if they hadn’t been erased beneath fresh snowfall. The house itself was a half-collapsed wreck. Small fires seething here and there, everything burnt, scorched, and unstable.

Noah couldn’t get inside the house to search for his son’s body.

She couldn’t make out his words—shouting, berating, then sobbing, a broken and haunted wail of grief, of unimaginable pain that mirrored her own.

She closed her eyes, tears squeezing between her eyelashes. It was a terrible thing to tell a man that his son was dead. Milo hovered on the brink, but he wasn’t gone yet. It was still a lie.

They had no choice. Noah couldn’t find Liam and Bishop here. Quinn, either.

He would betray them—and Sutter and his men would slaughter them all.

After a time, it grew quiet upstairs. Noah had finally left. Where he would go or what he might do, she had no idea. She pitied him, but her pity had its limits.

Noah had put his faith in people he should have known never to trust. Milo lay in a coma because of Noah’s decisions, Noah’s inaction, Noah’s cowardice.

She did not forget that. Not for one second.

A few minutes later, Bishop came downstairs to check on Milo’s vital signs, adjust the flow, and change out the IV bag. He leaned his AK-47 against the foot of the sofa and set down a few cans of coconut water. “Molly sent these with us. Once Milo wakes up, we can add some salt for oral rehydration and to regulate his electrolytes.”

“How is he doing?”

“I’m a medic, not a doctor, but from what I can tell, he’s still hypotensive. His blood pressure is too low. A hospital would give him a bolus of hydrocortisone in higher doses than we can, along with intravenous dextrose for low blood sugar. We need to pray. Prayer is not an inconsequential thing.”

“Thank you, Bishop. For everything.”

Bishop settled his considerable bulk on the edge of the sofa, careful not to squish Milo’s feet. “I’m sorry,” he said gently. “I know hearing Noah upstairs was incredibly difficult for you.”

She shook her head without speaking.

“I hated it, too, but it was necessary. We’ll tell Noah the truth as soon as it’s safe to do so. After Milo wakes up.”

“I hope so.”

He looked at Hannah, his eyes kind and filled with compassion. “How are you holding up?”

She felt that old darkness opening up inside her, an emptiness that swallowed her mind when things got too horrible. It was a crutch, a survival mechanism, one she’d fought hard to overcome.

She stared at Milo until her vision blurred. “I’ve just found him again. We had a second chance. It was a miracle. Like God was watching out for me, after all.” She sucked in a trembling breath. “How can I lose him? How can I bear it?”

Bishop shook his head heavily. Tears glistened in his eyes. “I’ve asked myself the same questions. Again and again. In the dead of night when I wake up to their screams. In the silences where their laughter echoes.”

She closed her eyes, her heart aching. Bishop’s arms were empty. He’d lost even more than she had—his family massacred in cold blood.

Yet here he was, as strong as an oak tree, sheltering her, providing comfort like the shepherd that he was.

“I have faith, Hannah. It is my faith that sustains me. My hope.”

“And when you don’t feel it? When you can’t see it?”

“That’s what faith means. To believe in something you can’t see. To trust when the way is difficult and unclear. To believe that even on the darkest night, the sun will rise.”

She nodded.

“My prayers are unceasing, Hannah. I’m praying for Milo, for you, for this town.”

“We’ll take those prayers.” She managed a wan smile. “Thank you, Bishop.”

Ghost scrambled to his feet, turning toward the stairs. Hannah and Bishop looked up.

Liam strode down the steps, his M4 hanging from its sling across his chest. “Any change?”

Hannah shook her head.

Bishop rose to his feet and picked up his rifle leaning against the sofa. “I need to take over watch, anyway. It’s time to stretch my legs.”

Once Bishop had gone back upstairs, Liam paced the room like a caged panther, the dark energy radiating off him palpable. He’d washed his face, but dirt and dried blood still smeared his neck, his clothes dirty and torn.

“Liam.”

He turned to face her. “I’m here. Whatever you need, I’m here.”

She couldn’t look at him. She’d burst into tears if she did. She patted the ottoman beside her. “Will you sit with me?”

Reluctantly, Liam sat down, unhooked the M4, and set it at his feet. He placed the Glock within easy reach.

Ghost thumped his tail in greeting but didn’t leave his post at Milo’s side. Liam leaned over and scratched behind his ears.

She was too heartbroken to wonder if she should or shouldn’t; she acted on instinct, scooting against him and leaning her head on his shoulder.

He stiffened. Then his body relaxed, and his arm slipped around her shoulder. She sank into his strength, his warmth.

His presence eased her aching heart like a salve placed on a raw, open wound. For several minutes, they simply sat together, sharing the burden of their fear, worry, and pain.

“I made a mistake,” she said. “I should never have left him with Noah.”

“Maybe not, but you made the best decision that you could with the information that you had at the time. You can’t be responsible for more than that.”

“Easy to say.” Anger filled her, burning through the grief. “He left Milo with strangers. He tried to kill you. If I had known—”

“You didn’t know. Taking Milo by force would’ve come with its own ramifications and fallout. It would have started a war.”

“We’re already in a war.”

“A war we weren’t prepared for.”

“Are we prepared now?”

“We will be.”

“His medication. The five-year supply. It was in that house, Liam. It was all there. He needs it. He’ll die without it.”

“We’ll find more. I promise, Hannah. We will.”

She reached out with her bad hand and stroked Ghost’s silky back. He whined sadly, his head still resting on Milo’s thighs.

“When I was imprisoned in that basement, all I thought about was staying alive. I refused to die. Day after day, hour by hour, it was a choice I had to make. I made it, over and over. I would not die. I would be the one who lived. The girl who lived.”

Tears sparked in her eyes. “Now, I would lay down my life in a heartbeat. I would trade mine for his, no question, no hesitation. I would drain every drop of blood in my veins if it would bring him back.”

Liam squeezed her shoulder. So slightly, she might have imagined it. “That’s what love is. That’s who you are.”

“It hurts so much.”

“I wish I could take it away.”

“I know,” she whispered. “I know.”

She couldn’t give in to the despair, couldn’t let her grief drag her back to that place. She had to be strong. For Milo, for Charlotte, for herself. For Liam, too. For all the people that she loved with every fierce beat of her heart. “I’m not giving up.”

“I’d expect nothing less of you.”

They sat quietly for several minutes.

“We won’t lose him,” Liam said, his voice gruff.

“You can’t promise me that.”

“I can damn well try.”

She wanted to believe him. She wanted it desperately. Usually, she was the one who clung to hope. In her moment of doubt, it was Liam who held her up.

Suddenly, Ghost leapt up. Hackles raised, he let out a fierce growl and dashed for the stairs.

Instantly, Liam was on his feet, weapons in hand.

Adrenaline shot through her veins. If they were discovered, they were all in danger, not just Milo. She keyed the radio. “Ghost senses something. Do you see anything?”

“Nothing out back,” Quinn responded.

“Got something,” Bishop said through a hiss of static. “A single intruder approaching the driveway from the street. Moving to intercept.”

“On my way.” Liam glanced down at her, expression tight, shoulders tense, all business. “Stay here. Protect Milo.”

Hannah palmed the trusty .45 that Quinn had returned to her and nodded.

Liam headed for the stairs. “Ghost, stay with her.”

Ghost hesitated, his body trembling, straining with the desire to burst up the stairs and attack whatever threatened his little flock.

“Ghost,” Hannah said. “Please.”

He returned to her side with a reluctant whine. She stroked his back and looked down at her son—her heart, her life.

“Live, my precious boy.” She placed her hand on his fragile chest. “You have to fight for it. Fight, Milo. Fight with everything you have.”

50

LIAM

DAY FIFTY-FOUR

Wiggins opened the front door, his hand shaking. He stank of piss.

Cold air blasted inside, snow swirling at Wiggins’ feet.

Liam crouched behind the wall of the coat closet, M4 up and pressed against his shoulder, ready to swing into action.

Bishop had slipped through the kitchen into the garage. He would exit through the side door and flank them before they had any clue that he was there.

Quinn squatted on the opposite side of the front door, out of sight. She held the Beretta he’d given her and aimed it at Wiggins.

He’d instructed Quinn to stay out of it unless completely necessary. The mere threat of her gun on Wiggins was enough to keep a weak, whiny man like him in line.

Whether she’d listen was another matter entirely.

“What do you want?” Wiggins’ voice came out high and squeaky.

Liam stiffened. If Wiggins gave them away, he was a dead man.

“I’m Luther,” the figure said. “I’m here to speak to Liam Coleman.”

“He’s not here,” Wiggins stammered. “I’m alone. Completely alone.”

“I’m the only one who knows. I was on watch when I saw your people sneak in. I didn’t report it. I didn’t fire at you. Trust me, you would’ve known. I don’t miss.”

“You clearly aren’t listening. No one is here. I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. I was just sitting down to a nice dinner before I was so rudely interrupted.”

“I have critical information for you, Liam,” Luther said. “You have no reason to trust me, but I have no reason to come here. I’m the one putting myself at risk, and you know it. We can be useful to one another.”

Liam cursed under his breath. He moved out from behind the wall. His eyes remaining on Luther, he kicked Wiggins’ legs out from beneath him.

Wiggins went down like a sack of potatoes. He landed hard on his butt and let out a startled squeal like a pig.

Wiggins no longer blocked his view. Liam took two quick steps forward, his ribs aching in protest. He aimed the M4 at Luther’s forehead, right between his eyes. “Get inside. Now.”

Luther looked taken aback. His hands instinctively moved for a weapon. He was armed with an M4, pistol, and combat knife. The carbine hung on a sling.

“Not a good idea,” Liam said. “Hands where I can see them.”

Luther’s hands shot up. “I’m alone.”

Fifteen feet behind Luther to the right, Bishop moved out of the shadows of the garage. He faced the street, sweeping back and forth, searching for anyone else hidden in the darkness. Snow flurries whirled from the black sky, obscuring visibility.

This could be an ambush or trick. If so, it was a piss-poor one. There were easier ways for a superior force to take out a few enemy targets.

Still, Liam remained wary. His nerves taut, every sense on high alert. He gestured with the M4. “Move.”

Luther moved. He shuffled into the house, dripping snow everywhere. He stomped his boots on the welcome mat. Quinn shut the door, and Liam directed the militiaman into the living room, where he patted him down and confiscated his weapons.

The curtains were drawn. No one could see inside. Bishop remained on watch outside. He had clean sight lines to the street and yard from the garage windows.

Wiggins made a surreptitious move toward the kitchen, as if to try and escape out the back door.

Quinn raised her Berretta. “Uh uh. Don’t even think about it.”

Liam tugged a pair of zip ties from his chest rig and tossed them at Quinn. “Tie him up.”

“With pleasure, Wolverine.” Quinn dangled the zip ties in front of Wiggins. “Time to go on your leash.”

“I did what you asked!” Wiggins whined. “Why do I—”

“Are you testing me? ‘Cause I hate tests. I usually fail them.”

With a pained sigh, he thrust out his wrists. Quinn zip-tied Wiggins’ hands behind his back and shoved him into a kitchen chair to keep him contained.

Liam kept his attention on their guest. “Spit it out. Lie a single time, and I guarantee you won’t be walking out of here.”

Luther nodded, his expression grave. “Sutter is done playing games. Your superintendent has kept him on a tight leash thus far, but that’s no longer the case. I don’t know if she’s giving the orders or if he’s decided to stop following them. He wants you all dead. He doesn’t care about collateral damage. He doesn’t care if the whole town burns.”

“We got that already.” Quinn’s voice was still hoarse from the smoke inhalation. “Try again, Einstein.”

“They’re going to attack at dawn. Today was just a warning shot over the bow, an attempt to draw you out the easy way. It didn’t work. Now they’re coming in guns blazing and killing whoever gets in their way.”

Luther looked at Liam. “We have orders to kill you and Bishop. But not just you. Dave Farris, Annette King, Michael Duncan and his son. Molly Dũng. Corinne Marshall and her son, Jonas. Anyone who’s suspected of aiding and abetting insurgents or promoting anti-government propaganda. Sutter put out an order that the militia are taking over law enforcement entirely. Truitt’s already dead. Reynoso, Hayes, and Perez are on the hit list.”

Quinn’s face drained of color. “Gran.”

Liam’s chest went tight. He thought of little Charlotte with Molly. One old woman and a shotgun against a small army.

“Sutter would slaughter the whole town in their beds—man, woman, and child—if he thought it would give him an advantage.”

“Does Noah know?” Quinn asked. “He’d never allow that!”

“He never had control in the first place,” Luther said. “It’s Sutter’s ball game now.”

Liam shook his head. “We have no reason to believe you. And every reason not to.”

“I thought you might say that.” Luther glanced past Liam, looking further into the house. “Is Hannah Sheridan here?”

“What do you want with her?”

Luther wet his lips nervously. “I think she deserves to hear what I have to say.”

“Don’t listen to a word he says,” Quinn said. “He’s a liar.”

Luther stiffened. “I’m no liar.”

Quinn shot him a scornful look. “Just a murderous thief, then?”

“I’ll hear him out,” a voice said from behind him. Hannah appeared at the top of the stairs. She strode to Liam’s right, Ghost at her side. Ghost’s hackles were raised, his black lips curling back from his teeth.

Alarmed, Luther took an involuntary step backward. His gaze darted from Hannah to the giant dog. He looked uncomfortable as hell.

Liam clenched his jaw. Good. Let him squirm.

“What is it?” Hannah asked. “What do you want?”

Luther swallowed. “It was me, ma’am. I’m the one who set Chief Sheridan’s house on fire.”

51

LIAM

DAY FIFTY-FOUR

“I was following orders,” Luther stammered. “It’s no excuse—”

“No, it’s not,” Hannah said.

Luther’s jaw bulged. Something like contrition flashed in his eyes. “I deserved that. Sutter said it needed to be done. He said the superintendent had been soft on Sheridan for too long, that it was high time that he learned his lesson, to make sure that he knew exactly who he was beholden to. He told me to do it today, while Chief Sheridan was busy with the fires on Main Street.”

“Fires your men set.”

“Yes. We set them. All of them.”

“My son was inside.” Hannah’s voice was steely with barely repressed fury. “How could you!”

“I didn’t know!” He sucked in a sharp breath, looking frazzled, shaken by the guns in his face, more shaken by Hannah’s forceful confrontation. He looked anywhere but at her. “I swear to you. I jimmied the lock and got inside and went straight to the master bedroom closet. I poured accelerant in the master, kitchen, and living room and left. The house was completely quiet. I thought it was empty. There was no indication that it wasn’t.”

“Except for the eight-year-old boy sleeping on his bedroom floor!”

Luther visibly deflated. Shame crossed his face, took up residence in the lines of his face, and shadowed his eyes.

There were many emotions that men could imitate well; this wasn’t one of them. This man regretted what he’d done.

“I’m sorry,” Luther said. “Truly, I am. I’ve witnessed awful things. Taken part in more than a few that I wish I hadn’t. But this. Burning the town’s food? Firing on people trying to put out the fire? I didn’t sign up to kill kids.”

Quinn sneered. “Just adults?”

Luther’s face reddened. “That wasn’t how it was. It wasn’t how it started out. I understand where you’re coming from. I do. It’s been us versus them from the beginning. I won’t lie. I’d rather be ‘us.’ And I’m not beyond taking what I need to survive.”

Liam angled his chin at the M4 he’d taken off Luther. “You stole this from an American soldier, didn’t you? And the frag grenades.”

“We saw an opportunity and took it. A National Guard unit is stationed at the Cook Nuclear Power plant. We relieved them of a few goodies they wouldn’t miss, that’s all.”

That confirmed what Dave had said earlier. “You kill him, too?”

“No, actually. We didn’t. I’m going to do what I have to do to live. People wouldn’t get hurt if they knew when to accept the way things are.”

He pressed his lips together. His eyes were dark, his expression unreadable. “Our last raid, this damn girl, she ran out in front of our truck. Guess we took some diabetes medication that was important for her mother. She was just a kid, couldn’t have been older than fourteen. Sutter could have pushed her aside or drove around her. We had what we needed. No one was fighting us or coming after us.” He dropped his gaze. “He didn’t. He just shot her.”

Outrage burned through Liam. He imagined that girl, braver than the carload of sadistic sociopaths who’d killed her. In his mind, she had Quinn’s face. It took everything in him not to shoot Luther like the dog he was.

Quin rolled her eyes. “So now you’re sorry? Who freaking cares?”

Luther flinched. “I’m no saint. I’m not pretending that I am. But I want out. I’m done with Sutter and his egomaniac politics. I just want to live, not spend all of my time fighting people.”

“Still don’t care,” Quinn said.

“I took the biggest damn risk of my life coming to you,” Luther said.

Liam narrowed his eyes. “The question is why.”

Luther shifted uncomfortably, his hands lowering a few inches.

Ghost snarled.

Blanching, Luther shot his hands high in the air. “Because you know what you’re doing. And you risked your lives to save us.”

Liam clenched his jaw. “Turns out we saved the wrong people.”

“Maybe so, but you did.”

“Wish I hadn’t.”

Luther grimaced. “I deserve that. Look, it doesn’t change anything, not really. Sutter isn’t who I thought he was. That superintendent of yours—her either. Before the collapse, that was just the way things were. Corrupt and greedy politicians ruled us, taxed us to death, sucked the teat of America dry. No one could do anything about it. Not the little people, anyway. We were taught that voting could change things, fix things, but we’ve just been trading one charlatan for another, through every level of government.

“This thing, this disaster, it’s like a reset. People like Sutter will always look for a way to manipulate chaos to benefit themselves. Politicians will use it to consolidate even more power. But who says it can’t do some good along the way? Who says it can’t be a reset for us, too?”

Quinn glared at him. “Get to it. All I’m hearing is blah, blah, blah.”

“The way I see it, we’ve been sent back to the Wild West. Might makes right. If you can defeat your little tyrant mayor, no one else is coming to arrest you or cart you off to jail. The Feds aren’t showing up with fifty caliber machine guns and air support. The army doesn’t give a flying fig what’s happening here. If you have the means to destroy your enemy, why not do it now? This is a window. An opportunity.”

“Thanks for the pep talk,” Quinn said. “We need your advice like a shot in the head.”

“Then ignore me. Go to bed, wake up, and watch your whole town burn to the ground, not just a couple of buildings. Wake up to the screams of your loved ones getting slaughtered. It’s no skin off my nose. I’m just trying to do one right thing. That’s all.”

“You risked getting shot to do the right thing?” Liam asked, skeptical.

Luther didn’t blink. He met Liam’s gaze head on. “That’s right.”

“Not good enough.” Quinn gestured with the Beretta. “You want out? Why don’t you just grab some gear, hop on an ATV, and leave? Why come to us?”

Something shifted in his face. A flicker of fear. “There’s the rub. Sutter isn’t a man you leave. He wouldn’t let us walk out of here, not even with just the clothes on our backs. He’d see it as a betrayal. He’d send his best trackers to hunt us down and kill us.”

“Who’s ‘us’?” Hannah asked.

A shadow crossed Luther’s face. “My father lives with me. He has severe COPD. He needs to be on oxygen. He needs electricity. We can’t just up and go.”

“You want us to kill Sutter,” Liam said. “You want us to take care of your problem for you.”

Luther swallowed and nodded. “In exchange for my help defeating Sutter, I get to stay in Winter Haven with my father when this is over. That’s all.”

“You’re playing both sides,” Hannah said, her voice flat with restrained anger. “No matter who wins, you come out on top.”

“Screw you!” Quinn spat. “You’re as bad as Sutter.”

Luther’s eyes flashed with anger or resentment, maybe some of both. “No one does anything for nothing. If I help you win, I’d have earned it. It’s only fair.”

It didn’t make Liam trust him any more than he did before, but at least he recognized the man’s motivations. It was a start.

“There’s more. Not that it matters now.” Luther’s gaze shifted from Liam to Hannah. Guilt shadowed his face. “Sutter said to make sure that the Sheridan boy’s pill stash was in the house, to make sure that it burned with everything else.”

Liam kept his eyes on Luther. He couldn’t see Hannah’s expression, but he could imagine her reaction. Externally, she didn’t move, didn’t even flinch.

“You destroyed a little kid’s critical medication!” Quinn’s voice rose in fury. “Medication that he would have died without!”

“I was supposed to.” Luther returned his attention to Liam and his M4. “I am going to withdraw something from my chest rig with my left hand. It is not a weapon.”

Liam dipped his chin in acknowledgment.

Slowly, cautiously, Luther pulled out a bottle of pills. He held them out. “This is hydrocortisone. I know it doesn’t matter now, but I was planning to get as much back to Chief Sheridan as I could. I wasn’t alone, so I couldn’t smuggle it all out, but I’ve got two bottles in this pouch and two more in the left pocket of my cargo pants.”

Liam struggled to keep his expression neutral. If Milo woke from his coma, those four bottles would be worth more than gold to Hannah. Which made them priceless to Liam.

They couldn’t express their relief—revealing Milo’s existence jeopardized them all. Noah would not stay away; he would bring the entire militia down upon their heads.

“Put it all on the floor.”

“It was meant to be a gesture of good faith,” Luther said. “To show you that I am genuine. That you can trust me.” Luther looked from Liam to Hannah and back again. “I want your word. If I help you, in exchange, my father and I remain here. We have immunity.”

“You’re gonna have to do better than this,” Quinn said.

“Considerably better,” Liam said.

“I can.” Luther smiled for the first time. It wasn’t a pretty smile, but sharp and cunning as a barracuda. “I can give you what you need to win this thing, once and for all.”

52

LIAM

DAY FIFTY-FOUR

Liam and Bishop laid beneath a massive oak tree, weapons in hand. Black grease smudged their faces. Their breath plumed in the chilly air.

Around midnight, it had finally stopped snowing. The clouds from the snowstorm had dissipated over the last hour. The moon was full, the wind soughing through frozen branches, the ice crackling and whispering.

A line of spruce trees screened them from the target property approximately ten yards to the east. It was a white three-story house in the heart of Winter Haven, located just off the main drive before it branched into several cul-de-sacs.

Luther claimed this was the weapons depot.

If it were true, stealing the militia’s weapons from beneath their noses could give them the advantage they needed to even the playing field and end this thing tonight. It just might be enough.

Before hunkering down to recon the house, they’d made a wide circuit of the property, doubling back and checking for possible ambushes. Every few yards, they paused and listened, their senses attuned to the faintest sound, the slightest movement.

So far, Luther’s intel appeared to be solid.

They’d left him bound and gagged next to Wiggins under Quinn and Hannah’s watchful eyes. He’d be uncomfortable in his underwear, but at least he was alive.

Luther had thought to bring an extra uniform and jacket for Liam so he’d blend in. He hadn’t counted on a second man, so Liam ordered him to strip to his skivvies and donate his clothes to Bishop.

Luther was tall enough, but thinner than Liam in the shoulders, yet Liam made it work. Bishop had a harder time. He was a refrigerator of a man, too tall and broad for anything that would fit Luther’s slim frame.

He took Luther’s plate carrier and got the coat on, but barely. It bulged at the seams and wouldn’t zip. It didn’t matter.

At first glance, at night and from a distance, they’d easily pass for militiamen. Liam wouldn’t give anyone time for a second glance.

Liam pressed the M4’s stock to his cheek and scanned the area with his ACOG scope. As usual, his lower back was hurting, his ribs on fire, though he’d swallowed several ibuprofen at Wiggins’ house. He ignored the discomfort and focused on the front of the house.

The exterior security lights were switched off, but the front window along the right side glowed brightly. Anyone inside attempting to peer out would have crap night vision.

According to Luther, there were four guards. Apparently, they spent most nights in the dining room, smoking and playing poker. One of them was supposed to check the yard’s perimeter every thirty minutes. Based on the last hour of observation, they didn’t.

A guard would open the door, shuffle out a few feet, glance around, and hurry back inside to his card game. None of the guards were particularly alert or aware of their surroundings. They weren’t wearing plate carriers or night vision goggles.

From his vantage point, Liam could make out the shapes of two figures through the front window—both appeared to be seated, presumably in the dining room. They were stationary, heads bent as if looking at a hand of cards.

There were likely one or two men sitting on the other side of the table out of sight. Likely, but he couldn’t be certain.

Liam missed thermal scopes and night vision goggles. Air support. A whole team behind him.

He would have to make do. He’d improvised in the field plenty of times. He was trained for this.

Snowmobiles rumbled in the distance, shattering the stillness. A patrol drove along a rutted deer path ten yards behind the house to the south. Liam and Bishop were hidden along the western side.

Luther’s intel matched up with Liam’s own observations. During his brief stay in Winter Haven, he’d made mental notes, learning their schedules, security protocols, and weak points.

In addition to the weapon depot guards, six hides were stationed in the trees around the outer ring of houses, a guard with a sniper rifle in each tower.

The militia’s patrols were focused on the perimeter of the community, the main drive, and the front gate. Two patrols of two men each—one on foot, one on machines, with shift changes every four hours: at midnight, four a.m., and eight a.m.

The snowmobiles made a circuit of the outer perimeter in about ten minutes. The foot patrol stuck to the roads and made a full circuit about every hour, depending on how cold the night was and how fast the guards felt like walking.

The patrols kept to the street; they didn’t check the individual houses. They were lazy and poorly disciplined.

The rest of the militia were sleeping in their beds, resting up for the big attack in the morning. An attack Liam would ensure never happened.

Liam and Bishop waited for the engine noise to fade. They’d timed an eight-minute window between the foot and machine patrols. Plenty of time for what they needed to do.

Liam drew his Gerber MK II tactical knife, honed razor sharp. Bishop unholstered the HK45 Tactical that Liam had taken off one of the dead militiamen from the ambush.

Bishop threaded on the silencer. The big man was surprisingly swift, his movements practiced and efficient. With the silencer, the HK45 looked more like a short rifle than a pistol.

“I know I asked you before,” Liam said. “I just need to make sure I know where your head is.”

Bishop had more than proven himself so far, yet Liam still had difficulty reconciling the religious peacemaker with the skilled warrior he saw in front of him.

“I know what needs to be done, and why,” Bishop said, his voice low. “You can trust me, Liam.”

Liam gave a tight nod. Trust didn’t come easy to him. He doubted it ever would.

He drew a finger to his lips. Bishop nodded without speaking.

They’d practice noise discipline from here on out. This mission required stealth. It would be messy, up-close and personal. Unpleasant, but necessary.

Two men couldn’t take on forty hostiles simultaneously. But if they could get to the goodies in the weapons depot…

Adrenaline spiked his veins. He was itching to move in, but he crouched, waiting and listening, straining his ears for any sound that didn’t belong.

He checked his watch, steadied his breathing, and slowed his heart rate. He thought about Hannah and Quinn hiding in Wiggins’ house with Milo.

Everyone he cared about trapped in the wolf’s den.

He needed to be careful. He needed to make this work. Failure was not an option.

He motioned to Bishop, and they moved in, Liam leading, Bishop covering their six. They crept forward, duck walking across the open ground and scurrying to the shadows along the side of the house. Thick, tall shrubbery provided concealment.

Moonlight limned their forms in a silvery glow. They stepped light and fast, their boots crunching. The sleet from earlier had refrozen, a crust of ice forming on top of the snow, making it difficult to move soundlessly.

Liam inhaled a lungful of crisp air and darted around the corner to the front of the house, knife low and ready. He checked his watch again. Another minute or so before the guard would open the door and stick his head out.

The front door was recessed deep in an alcove and blanketed in heavy shadows. Six-foot potted evergreens towered on either side of the door. Liam slipped into the deepest shadow to the left and set his feet, muscles coiled and ready to spring.

Bishop hung back, offering cover. They waited.

They didn’t wait long. Footsteps sounded from inside. Boots on tile. A click as the lock released, the squeak of the handle turning.

The door opened. The guard stepped outside. His carbine hung on its sling. He cupped his hands to his mouth, blowing to warm his bare fingers, his gaze straight ahead. He blinked rapidly, trying and failing to adjust his eyes to the darkness.

Liam lunged from the shadows. The guard never saw him.

With his left hand, he seized the man by the back of the head, grabbed a fistful of hair, and drove his skull forward and down. He brought the knife up and shoved it into the man’s chin and up through his brain.

The guard flopped, instant dead weight.

Liam jerked the hostile’s head back and withdrew the blade. He readjusted his grip, grasped the man by the shoulders, and dragged him into the recessed shadows where he’d hidden moments before.

The front door was wide open. No one behind them. No suspicious noises from inside.

He raised his hand and waved Bishop forward. Bishop stacked up behind him. Still crouched, weapons up and sweeping, the men slipped into the foyer and closed the door silently behind them.

Just like that, they were inside.

53

LIAM

DAY FIFTY-FOUR

Liam moved into the foyer—long, high-ceilinged—with an arched hallway located ten feet to the right and shadowed darkness directly ahead; likely the formal living room.

The overhead fixture was switched off. A rectangle of light from the archway reflected across the slate floor. The dining room was located to the right.

Liam and Bishop hugged the side of the wall and crept silently forward, Liam taking point. His mouth was dry, his adrenaline skyrocketing. He strained his ears for any sign that the remaining hostiles suspected anything amiss.

The scent of cigarette smoke hung in the air. Voices drifted. Laughter. One man insulting another. Something about the flop being all wrong.

Two voices. Where was the third?

They had to eliminate the three remaining guards without allowing them a second to warn their buddies. One word on the radio, and it was all over. They needed to do it silently, without alerting the nearby patrols.

A sound ahead and to the left. A toilet flushing.

The third hostile revealed himself.

Liam motioned to Bishop to cover him. Bishop crept forward and peered around the archway, leading with the silencer.

He gave Liam the all-clear signal. The kitchen lay between the foyer and the dining room, which hooked to the right. They were out of sight of the card players.

Water gushed from a faucet. The guard was washing his hands, maybe glancing in the mirror. He probably wasn’t contemplating the final seconds of his life on planet Earth. He should have been.

Liam slunk forward, stepping lightly, and entered the darkened living room. On the carpet, his boots were utterly silent. He skirted the shadowy shapes of sofas, credenzas, and end tables, careful not to trip on electric cords.

The half bath was located off the living room at the end of a short hallway. On either side, two side doors led to empty bedrooms.

Liam positioned himself on the wall beside the bathroom door.

The water switched off. The guard opened the door and flicked off the bathroom light. He shuffled out, patting his wet hands on his thighs, his pistol holstered, his AR-15 hanging from its sling.

In a single fluid motion, Liam stepped forward and sliced deep into the guard’s neck under the jawline. He pressed his left hand across the man’s mouth to keep him quiet as he drove the blade tip upward into the base of the brain.

The guard went rigid. A quick twist of the blade, and the brain stem was severed. The man convulsed, then went limp.

Liam stepped backward, pulling him into the bathroom. He eased him down against the toilet. He extracted the knife, wiped it on the dead man’s pants, and exited the bathroom.

Liam crossed the living room, returned to the foyer, and pressed against the wall to the right of the archway. Bishop eased his head around the corner and checked in both directions. He waved Liam forward.

The kitchen light was off. The refrigerator buzzed, a strangely disconcerting sound after so long without it. A large wood-topped island loomed directly in front of them. Five steps to the right was another archway, this one flooded with light. The dining room.

A pause in the banter. The sibilant hiss of cards being dealt.

“Where the hell is Dalton?” a gruff voice asked. “It’s his damn bid.”

“You know how he enjoys his daily crap on the pot,” a second, higher-pitched voice quipped. They both snickered.

Liam visualized the placement of the hostiles in his head. He raised two fingers, indicating two targets, then signaled that he would take the one on the left, Bishop the one on the right. The pastor nodded.

They exploded into action. Still in their crouched positions, Liam and Bishop raced around the corner.

Liam took in the scene within the space of a heartbeat—two men seated on either side of the dining table, cards in front of them, handguns and radios resting on the table beside their elbows. No chest rigs, no plate carriers.

Bishop peeled to the right, homing in on his target. A bearded man looked up, two poker cards in his hand, a startled look on his face. The suppressor coughed twice.

Two rounds struck him in the forehead. He reeled backward, knocking over the chair with a clatter. Cards fluttered to the floor.

“Hey!” The second guard started for his handgun. He never reached it. Liam hurled his blade at the man’s chest. The strike missed his heart; the quivering blade lodged in the meat of his shoulder just above his underarm.

Bishop pivoted and fired three times. Liam’s target jittered as rounds impacted his chest and shattered his breastbone. The man slumped, a cigarette still clinging to his lips.

Liam let out a slow, steady breath. Four hostiles down.

Steering clear of the window, he edged between the wall and the chairs and retrieved his knife from the dead militiaman. “Nice shot.”

“Thanks, brother. Good to see you’re human after all. Sometimes I wonder.”

Liam grunted. The Gerber wasn’t a throwing knife. Tactical knives didn’t have the right balance. It was lucky he’d hit the guy at all. He didn’t tell Bishop that.

Besides, he couldn’t afford to be human. Not on nights like this, against an enemy this dangerous.

Bishop dropped to his knees beside the body on the other side of the table. Liam couldn’t see his eyes, but his head was bowed. Of all things—he was praying.

“Seeking forgiveness for your sins?”

“Not for me. I know I’m in the right. I don’t doubt my path. I pray for forgiveness for their sins.”

Liam cocked his brows, cynical as ever. “You’re a better man than me.”

“I’m not better than anyone. But for the grace of God, I would be one of them. I try to never forget that. If I can’t give them mercy in life, I pray God grants them mercy in death.”

He was a pastor. Liam didn’t try to understand him. As long as God didn’t mind Bishop’s killer side, Liam was good.

He remained acutely aware of Hannah, Quinn, and Milo only houses away, cognizant of the seconds ticking toward dawn. Time to get back to business.

He stood and angled his chin toward the kitchen. Bishop rose, holding the suppressed pistol in both hands. They quickly cleared the rest of the house and the basement.

The motherlode waited in the master bedroom. The smell of gun oil and a hint of cordite tickled his nostrils. “In here!”

Gun racks lined the walls along with metal shelves stacked two-deep in front of the windows. Several metal footlockers loaded with ammo boxes and magazines were piled on the floor in the master bathroom.

The huge en suite was fully stocked but disorganized as hell. Hunting rifles and shotguns were shucked off to one corner, handguns piled on two tufted chairs, AKs and ARs dominating most of the space, along with a couple of M4s—scattered across the bed, leaning against the dressers, clustered on every available inch of shelving.

Goodies lined the tops of the dressers. Liam opened the drawers. Nestled amongst the silky feminine underthings were storage tubes for fragmentation grenades, along with flashbangs and even a claymore.

Everything he needed was laid out like a Christmas present: the claylike gray plastique explosive material, blasting caps, a reel of yellow Primacord.

A sharp thrill jabbed through him. He could’ve done a jig on the king-sized bed. “Jackpot!”

“Thank God they didn’t use these on civilians,” Bishop breathed, his skin going ashen.

“Yet. They’re planning on using them in the attack. That’s why they’re all laid out like this, ready to go.”

“They must have stolen these off that National Guard unit, too.”

Liam glanced at his watch, his apprehension growing. One thirty-five a.m. Sunrise was around seven-fifteen a.m. Sutter would have his men gearing up by five at the latest.

Plus, fresh guards would appear for the shift change at four. The new shift would discover the bodies and sound the alarm.

They still had a tremendous amount of work to do.

Reynoso and his team needed these weapons. Fall Creek needed these weapons.

But they had no way to smuggle it out of Winter Haven on such short notice, not without being detected. Fall Creek would have to fight without them this time.

But that didn’t mean Liam and Bishop couldn’t use them.

Liam stuffed several flashbangs and frag and smoke grenades in the pouches of his chest rig. He loaded several more magazines of 5.56mm ammo for his M4.

Bishop picked up a pair of night vision goggles affixed to a helmet and slid them on. He tossed Liam another pair of NVGs and shook his head. “Those bozos would’ve seen us coming if they were wearing these.”

The goggles were attached to a mount on a plastic crown that tightened around his head, the optic folding down over his eyes. Liam checked that the equipment worked, then tilted the optics up.

The gear was cumbersome and uncomfortable but critical for proper defense. “They got complacent in their own kingdom.”

“This isn’t their kingdom.”

“That’s the part they keep forgetting.”

“We’ll just have to remind them of that fact.”

“That’s the idea.” He loaded his pockets and pouches with as many magazines as he could carry and upgraded his radio equipment. “Get Reynoso on the radio. Tell him to get ready.”

“I’ll have him gather the volunteers.”

Liam grunted dismissively. “They won’t come.”

“They will.”

“Not after the bloodbath at the distribution center.”

“I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.” Bishop patted his shoulder. “Have a little faith, my friend.”

Liam envied Bishop’s confidence. He couldn’t rely on faith. He could only rely on himself.

“I’ll call up Mick Sellers, too. Tell him we need the Community Alliance.”

“Good luck with that.” Liam rolled his eyes. “Make sure Reynoso warns us when they breach the militia’s defenses. We don’t want to get caught in any friendly fire.” He gestured at his uniform. “We look just like them.”

“Copy that.” Bishop spun in a slow circle, taking in the room. “What about the rest of this? We can’t get all this out of here, but we can’t leave it for them, either.”

Liam eyed the claymores. “I know.”

“I’d rather it all burn than see a single bullet used against our people.”

“Agreed.”

Bishop looked at him. “Then what’s the plan?”

Liam flashed a grim smile. “We make it go boom.”

54

NOAH

DAY FIFTY-FOUR

Noah didn’t know where he was. Somewhere in Winter Haven, in front of some house that wasn’t his own.

He’d been walking for what felt like hours, shuffling, staggering, stumbling somewhere, anywhere. He couldn’t stand to be inside his own skin.

He looked up, blinking through squinting, burning eyes. The sky was a roiling mass of gray. The tops of the trees bent, snow swirling down the color of dirty ash.

The snow mingled with sleet, ice sheeting from the sky. Pellets stung his cheeks and forehead. Wind whipped at his clothes and hair.

He didn’t care. His discomfort was nothing compared to the pain eating away at his soul. The suffocating shame, a black hole of loss.

After everything he’d sacrificed, everything he’d done. It was all for naught.

His heart shriveled inside him. Without Milo, there was nothing. Without Milo, there was only bleak and bitter darkness. Despondency welled in his chest and up into his throat, drowning him from the inside out.

Dazed, he found himself huddled inside someone’s garage. They’d left the bay door open. He sagged against the unfinished drywall next to a John Deer lawnmower that somehow still smelled like grass and gasoline, his knees drawn up to his chest, his hands hanging limp at his sides.

Long minutes passed, stretching into hours. The sleet transformed into snow. The snow stopped falling. He was shivering violently, his tears turning to icicles pricking the backs of his eyes.

Gunshots sounded in the distance. A war was starting. Or maybe it was ending.

He should go. He should fight; he should stop the fighting. He should do something.

But he couldn’t. He had been rendered immobile, consumed with a terrible, howling grief, a relentless aching numbness. An accusing voice in his head condemning him, over and over and over.

In the end it was only you. It was all up to you. The one thing you had to do in your life, your one purpose. To protect your son. To keep him safe. And you didn’t do it, did you?

You did not.

You did not.

You did not.

55

LIAM

DAY FIFTY-FIVE

Liam shifted his position just outside the garage attached to the weapons depot. He lay flat on his belly, stock firm against his shoulder and cheek, one hand on the clacker. A chest-high stack of firewood leaning against the rear wall of the garage offered cover and concealment.

He’d set the claymore just inside the living room beneath an end table to shield it from view. The twenty-five-foot detonation cord snaked into the hallway behind the living room wall and remained mostly hidden. From there, it wound through the garage access door, into the garage and twisted left through the outside garage door at the rear of the house.

Bishop lay to the east of the house, positioned to catch stragglers as they fled the blast.

The night was completely silent. The snow and sleet had ceased. The cold air was still, the moon veiling everything in a dim glow.

The time on his watch read 3:57 a.m. He flipped his optics down over his eyes. Everything shone green through his NVGs. He exhaled down into the collar of his jacket so his clouding breath wouldn’t give him away.

He keyed his mic. “Alpha Four, in position.”

A single click answered him.

Reynoso, Perez, and Hayes were in place. They’d divided into three teams, including twelve Fall Creek volunteers who’d shown up, Mike Duncan, Dave Farris, and Robert Vinson among them.

There was no sign or word from the Community Alliance. Liam didn’t expect any.

Reynoso and Hayes had Alpha Teams One and Two positioned to the west on the approach road to Winter Haven. Perez and Alpha Team Three would sneak in through the woods from the north and attempt to flank them.

Fall Creek river lay to the east at their backs. They’d contemplated infiltrating from the river, but the recent warm weather had weakened the ice. It was dangerous and unstable.

Everyone was ready to move in as soon as Liam gave the word to attack.

While Reynoso prepared his teams, Liam and Bishop had been hard at work. Bishop watched his six as Liam used a sled he’d found in the garage to lug load after load of weapons, ammo, and gear from the depot to the house next door, which was conveniently empty.

The gear was stored in the neighboring basement safely out of sight. If they could, Alpha Team Three would rally at the basement location to load up on gear and fresh ammo.

Either way, it was out of the hands of the militia. That was the important part.

Liam checked his watch again, breathing slowly to regulate his heart rate. This was it.

It was up to him to get his hands dirty so others could sleep peacefully in their beds, so children could run and play and their mothers could smile, so kids like Quinn could paint and draw, instead of taking up guns and going to war. So the people he loved could live their lives.

This was what he did best. This was what he was here for.

Adrenaline spiked through his veins. His pain was dulled, forgotten. He felt that cold calm descending over him, time slowing, the seconds extending as his mind and body focused one hundred percent on the mission at hand.

It was time to kill. It was time to finish this.

Liam whispered into his new throat mic. “Alpha Teams One and Two, this is Alpha Four. You’re a go. I repeat, you’re a go.”

“Roger that,” Reynoso said. “Moving in.”

A moment later, a cacophony of gunfire erupted to the west.

Men spilled from the nearby houses, shouting the alarm. They were still groggy with sleep and pulling on their clothes and gear, kitted out with plate carriers, ammo, and weapons. Only a quarter had their NVGs on them.

Militia appeared from all directions. Several yelled orders into their radios. Half ran toward the front gate, where Reynoso and Hayes were concentrating their fire. The other half headed toward the weapons depot to grab battle rifles and load up on ammo.

In the night, they were shadows darting here and there, shapes glowing green through Liam’s NVGs.

Winter Haven’s single entrance boasted a wrought iron gate bracketed by a five-foot tall decorative stone wall that stretched a good twenty-five to thirty feet in both directions.

The militia had placed gunner positions both along the wall and within the hide towers they’d built on either side of the road. Several of the neighborhood’s stalled vehicles had been pushed onto the shoulder to provide fallback positions leading into the community.

Liam couldn’t see the front of the house, but Bishop could.

“Three inside,” Bishop whispered. “Five, with another coming. Six. It’s a go.”

He didn’t want to wait for the raided depot to be discovered and the alarm sounded. He clicked the firing device.

A massive boom exploded. The M18 mine contained over a pound of C-4 explosives layered with seven hundred 1/8th inch steel balls that burst outward in a sixty-degree kill zone of fifty meters or more.

The devastating blast ripped through the house, tearing apart the men inside. The windows blew, glass shattering. Black smoke poured out. The foundation groaned as interior walls collapsed in on themselves. The destruction was immense.

The tangos still alive inside the wreckage screamed, shouting incoherently, terrible moans and shrieks of agony echoing over the report of gunfire.

Liam was up and on his feet before the dust settled. He positioned the M4 stock against his shoulder and circled around toward the front of the house.

A man stumbled from the front door, blood drenching his uniform. A shot rang out and the man dropped. Two more staggered out behind him, disoriented, flailing blindly. Bishop fired several bursts, taking them both down. No one else exited the decimated house.

Six hostiles down in one go. Not a bad start.

56

LIAM

DAY FIFTY-FIVE

The roar of the battle was deafening. Rounds peppered the snow, the houses, shattering windows.

His ears ringing, Liam spun in a slow circle, sweeping the area.

Most of the remaining militia had been dispatched to the attack at the front gate, as they’d planned. Perez’s team were working their way through the woods. The fighting was concentrated to the west. Liam intended to keep it far from the east end—where Hannah, Quinn, and Milo were hidden.

Liam took point and headed northwest. He moved out from the wall of the house, his carbine barrel slicing the area he could see. Bishop covered his exposed side as they moved quickly to the southern wall of the next house.

Liam took a knee as Bishop pressed up behind him, facing the way they’d come, sweeping with his weapon. The buildings were dull, black shapes, rearing up out of the gauzy moonlight.

Liam stood again, and they moved together in a tight crouch, their pulses surging, urgency crackling through them. They crept from house to house, vehicle to vehicle, constantly scanning windows and doors and roofs for signs of a sniper.

If Sutter had been smart, he’d have realized that the claymore required a short detonation cord and a clacker—and someone to set it off. He should have ordered some of his men to find and dispatch the inside men before they did even more damage.

As it was, Liam and Bishop went unnoticed in the mayhem. They moved among their enemies, invisible in their militia uniforms and NVGs, the black grease paint obscuring their faces.

At every opportunity, they tossed flash bangs and smoke grenades, whipping the chaos and confusion into a frenzy.

Smoke billowed everywhere, obscuring the world into dim shapes and scurrying shadows. Men and women screamed and shouted. The deafening retorts of gunfire exploded all around them.

More figures ran from various houses carrying shotguns and rifles. Even in the haze and smoke, Liam could tell that not every fighter wore uniforms or carried themselves like the militia.

Some of the militiamen’s spouses, grandparents, and teenaged children had joined in the fighting. Untrained and without body armor, many of them wouldn’t last long.

He couldn’t afford to hold back his own fire. They were armed, and they would kill him if given the chance. He had no choice.

Across the street, two militia exited a three-story mini-mansion. They headed east, toward the rear of Winter Haven—toward Hannah.

Fear constricted his lungs. He had to keep her safe.

The two men barely glanced at Liam and Bishop, who were advancing from the south. Liam tossed a flashbang at their retreating backs and darted behind the cottage, Bishop at his heels. They opened their mouths and closed their eyes.

A resounding boom blasted their eardrums, a blinding strobe of light flashing behind their eyelids. Men shouted in panic and confusion.

Liam and Bishop cut the corner of the building, leading with their weapons. The two militiamen were bent double, clasping their hands over their ears, stunned and disoriented. Bishop picked them off.

“This is Alpha One. I’ve got two injured friendlies,” Reynoso shouted over the radio. “Mike Duncan took a shot to the thigh. We’re moving the wounded out of the kill zone.”

“Alpha One, this is Alpha Three,” Perez said. “We’re almost through the north woods. One of the sentries spotted us. We’re taking heavy fire. We need support.”

“Roger that,” Bishop said.

They stealthily snuck up behind the first sniper hide along the northern woods and took out the gunner with a shot to the back of the head. Easing from tree to tree, they reached the second gunner position and eliminated him, too.

A round zipped by Liam’s shoulder, so close it tore a hole in his uniform. His heart jolted. Someone had discovered them.

A hail of lead kicked up snow at their feet. Bishop dove behind the corner of a fancy log cabin while Liam sprinted for the SUV parked in the driveway. He dove for cover and rolled to his knees, carbine leveled.

A flurry of gunfire to the right. Shots showered down, slugs tearing into the garage wall behind him. Bishop released several shots and missed. He grunted in frustration. He reacquired the target, shot again, and hit the guy in the leg. A fourth shot took him down.

Rounds impacted the snow a yard to Liam’s right, kicking up divots and pinging into the side and front of the SUV. Several militiamen were closing in behind him, taking cover behind a backyard shed.

“Frag going out!” Bishop lobbed the grenade and ducked back behind the wall. Two seconds later, it detonated.

Screams of agony echoed over the constant rat-a-tat of gunfire. The high-pitched wails of children joined the cacophony. Liam couldn’t afford to think about where they were coming from.

He swung out from behind the SUV, and together he and Bishop dashed around the shed, leading with their weapons. They advanced on the men, firing round after round.

Two were already dead—crumpled, bloody corpses, shrapnel protruding from their bodies like porcupine quills. One was writhing on the ground, clutching at a gaping gash in his stomach. Bishop drilled him between the eyes.

The last man was on his back, pistol in hand, aiming right for them. He squeezed off a shot, the round narrowly missing Liam’s head. Liam squeezed the trigger and dumped lead into the target’s torso. He died instantly.

More gunfire exploded from the west, still concentrated at the front gate. Reynoso was giving it all he had. They would run out of ammunition soon. They didn’t have enough to keep the militia back for long.

As soon as they ran dry, Sutter’s men would leap the front wall, pour through the gates, and obliterate them.

That couldn’t happen.

A fresh barrage of gunfire rang out.

“Our people are getting tangled up in the barbed wire!” Perez shouted over the radio. “Snipers are picking them off! Three down!”

Liam swore under his breath. He motioned to Bishop and spun around, heading toward Alpha Team Three’s location. He hurled a smoke grenade to cover their retreat.

Three figures crossed the yard behind the house opposite Liam’s position. They were working their way around to try and ambush Perez’s team as they pushed through the woods to the north.

Liam sprinted for the closest house, swapping magazines as he ran and keeping the targets in sight. There were no faces. Through his NVGs, they were just green shapes darting furtively, jagged flashes of fire spurting amongst the trees and between the buildings as they fired.

He sighted the first one through his scope, the stock tucked into his shoulder, cheek pressed down. He slammed out two shots. Spent brass dropped to the ground. He missed, shifted his aim, and fired again.

The target stumbled and fell. He didn’t get up.

A gunshot blasted next to him. The second hostile went down. They quickly dispatched the last one. Bishop grunted—whether in satisfaction or dismay at the growing body count, Liam couldn’t tell.

“You got ‘em!” Perez shouted. “Alpha Team Three is headed to the rally point!”

Liam didn’t have a moment to appreciate the small victory.

While Alpha Team One and Two engaged the shooters at the gate, Liam and Bishop pushed toward their position to the southwest, circling around and flanking the enemy on the left. Once Alpha Team Three resupplied, Perez would head northwest to flank them on the right.

They would trap the remaining militia in a pincher move and end this.

The crackle of gunfire surrounded him. Smoke drifted like fog, the smell of gunpowder sharp in his nose, spent cartridges flying. Strobes of muzzle flashes lit up the night. His ears were tinny and ringing, filled with bursts of static.

A flash of glowing green caught his eye. At his six o’clock, forty yards away, a figure darted between two houses. He was decked out in militia gear but running the wrong way. Away from the battle, not toward it.

Liam recognized the large, bulky form and shiny bald head. Sutter.

Hot anger speared through him. Teeth clenched, Liam ducked behind the engine block of a car in a driveway.

Bishop was squatting five yards ahead of him behind a backyard shed, covering him. He glanced back and motioned to Liam; Liam signaled for him to wait.

Liam dropped to one knee, reacquired his target, and fired.

Sutter spun sideways like he’d been hit. He staggered, then straightened and kept going.

Liam shifted slightly and aimed just ahead of his fleeing shape.

A soft crunch came from somewhere behind him.

Heart in his throat, Liam dove and rolled to the left. Boom! Snow spit from the spot where he had been kneeling a moment before. Boom! Boom! A round dinged the fender a foot to the right of his bicep.

Alarm shot through him. His heart felt about to hammer out of his chest. His right cheek burned like it’d been touched by a hot poker. A piece of shrapnel was lodged in his face. He ignored it, forced himself to focus.

Tracking the direction of the last gunshot in his head, he twisted and came up onto one knee. He squeezed the trigger in quick succession. Three sharp cracks split the air.

A muzzle flash in the dark betrayed the shooter’s location; he was hidden in bushes behind a trampoline laden with snow. Liam aimed and fired twice.

With a moan, something heavy fell into the snow-covered underbrush. He rose, strode forward, circling around the trampoline until he reached the bushes.

A glowing green figure writhed on the ground. Liam slammed out two security shots. The figure went still. On closer inspection, the target was only a teenager, maybe fifteen. Quinn’s age. Just a dumb kid fighting his parents’ war.

Liam’s stomach went queasy. He wanted to scream his frustration and rage at the cold, unsympathetic sky.

Instead, he spun back around, searching for Sutter, for a little bit of justice in this damn screwed up world.

Smoke wreathed the ground. The cold air stung his face, the scent of cordite strong in his nostrils. Blood ran in rivulets down his right cheek.

Crouching, he ran toward the woods, scanning left to right, high and low, but it was useless.

Sutter was gone.

57

ROSAMOND

DAY FIFTY-FIVE

Rosamond gazed anxiously out the living room window.

Smoke stained the lightening sky. Gunshots boomed, automatic rounds shredding the air. In the gray dawn light, she could see dead bodies in the road. Blood on the snow.

Figures moved furtively in the shadows between houses, darting between the trees, occasional muzzle flashes as men fired at each other.

The battle was far too close. A few rounds had even hit her home. Not that long ago, a massive explosion had rocked the neighborhood. Sutter hadn’t responded to her frantic calls.

She was no tactician, but even she could see that things weren’t going well. Most of those dead bodies wore gray camo.

She rarely felt fear, but she felt it now. A cold prickle crept up her spine.

She glanced impatiently at her Cartier wristwatch. She’d delayed for too long already. It was time to act.

It would behoove her to get out of Winter Haven until the battle was over. All she needed was some fired-up soldier wannabe storming in and shooting her. Every Tom, Dick, and Harry in Fall Creek knew where she lived.

Her Smith & Wesson Model 29 revolver with its long 8 3/8th barrel had been removed from its velvet-lined display case, loaded with six .44 Magnum cartridges, and now rested snugly inside her waistband.

A precaution, but a prudent one.

A fresh round of gunfire startled her. She flinched, then exhaled slowly through her teeth, forcing herself to remain calm, collected, and controlled. She left the living room window and returned to the kitchen island. She unzipped her waiting purse, pulled out the radio, and switched to the private channel she shared with Sutter.

This time, he picked up.

“I need you,” she said.

“I’m a little busy, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“This is not a request. I need you to come here immediately and escort me from my house to a safe location.”

“That’s impossible.”

Anger seared through her. How dare he refuse her? “I’m in danger, Mattias! I find myself embroiled in the middle of a gunfight right in Winter Haven! This wasn’t supposed to happen!”

“Plans changed.” He sounded irritated and breathless. The radio made crackling sounds like it was being jostled, like he was running. “Not everything is in your control, Rosamond.”

She sniffed. “He got the best of you, didn’t he?”

“Is there a point to this?” His voice bristled. “Someone ratted me out. I was betrayed!”

“You lost control!”

“No, you did!” he shot back.

She gritted her teeth and reined in her anger. “We’ll discuss it later. First, get me out of here.”

A pause. “I’m not coming.”

“I must not have heard you correctly.”

“This is goodbye.”

That prickle returned. Radiating up her spine, turning her veins to ice. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s not personal. It’s time to jump ship and find another venture—for now. Too bad it didn’t work out this time, cousin.”

Cold fury burned through her. She’d brought him here, hadn’t she? She was the only reason he had any of this! She’d given him everything—comfort and luxury, control and power. How dare he leave her behind when she needed him most!

Rosamond hissed a curse. “You have to fix this! You owe me!”

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“We’re family! Family is loyal!”

Sutter gave a dark laugh. “Have you learned nothing? You cling to these antiquated ideals that don’t exist. That never existed! You wanted them to love you. To worship you. You want to be their savior. Look around. How did that work out for you? You should’ve done it my way.”

“You lost Winter Haven!”

“You lost it yourself!” His voice dripped with scorn. “That’s your problem, Rosamond. You should have just let them hate you. Hell, you should’ve let me kill them all in the first place. Then we could’ve ruled this place.”

“I gave you everything! Everything you wanted!”

“Ours was a business proposition. It worked while it worked. Now it doesn’t.”

“Don’t you dare leave me!” she screamed into the radio. “Don’t you dare do this—”

Click.

“Mattias! Answer me!”

No answer.

“Mattias!”

He was gone. He’d left her. In the end, he’d abandoned her, same as everyone else.

Rage and despair filled her. She trembled with black fury, a seething hatred.

He’d better run and never stop. She preferred to leave the messy work to her associates, but she was not beyond doing what needed to be done. If she ever saw Mattias Sutter again, she would kill him.

She would strangle him with her bare hands. Or maybe she’d slide a knife through his ribs. She wanted him to suffer. Just like she made her enemies suffer. Just like she destroyed them all, in the end.

She paused a moment, shaking, and forced herself to regain her composure. The rat-a-tat of gunfire exploded just outside. A resounding boom as a round struck the corner of the house.

She would not give in to despondency. She would not. Rosamond Sinclair did not lose.

This was simply a setback, and one she’d suspected, hadn’t she? She had plans and back-up plans. Contingencies. She’d anticipated a betrayal. And now here she stood, betrayed.

All was not lost.

She wasn’t completely out of plays. Not yet.

She switched out the radio for the satellite phone and dialed the number she’d memorized. She tensed, jaw clenched, preparing herself.

It picked up on the second ring.

“Status?” the familiar voice said.

“The townspeople have rioted. There is a gunfight happening—”

“Winter Haven is all I care about. Do we or do we not have a deal?”

She clenched her jaw. “We do. Winter Haven is ready and waiting for you.”

“Good.”

“You will need more men to secure it.”

“That is not a problem.”

More gunfire outside. She waited a moment for it to pass. “I presume everything is as we’ve arranged? How soon can you get here?”

“There’s been a delay.”

“I need you now.”

“I’m the one who gives the orders, not you.”

She pursed her lips in irritation, a vein in her forehead pulsing. Her insides roiled with revulsion. She pushed it down. “Of course.”

“I cannot specify a date, only the guarantee that I will come. You will be contacted then, and not before.”

She provided the GPS coordinates he requested—demanded—and hung up, ignoring the unsettling churn in her stomach. She could still control this. She would make everything right again.

She tucked the sat phone into her purse and pulled out the radio once more. First, she needed to get the hell out of Winter Haven.

She switched channels. “Noah. I need you.”

58

HANNAH

DAY FIFTY-FIVE

“Hannah.” Quinn’s voice went tense. “I see something.”

Quinn and Hannah were hunkered down in Wiggins’ office, crouched on either side of the window, guns in hand. They stayed low and invisible, listening to the gunfire, the shouts and screams, peering into the darkness for furtive movement.

The lights inside were switched off. A short bookcase was placed against the wall beneath the office window. Full bookshelves lined the wall on either side of the glass. Quinn had raised the window sash and removed the frame.

From their position of relative cover, they shot at anything that moved.

Liam had wanted them to stay out of the firefight. He wanted them out of Winter Haven altogether, but there was no way to safely sneak everyone out—especially Milo.

“We’re not sitting this out,” Quinn had said. “It’s our town, too. It’s our lives.”

Hannah hadn’t disagreed.

Wiggins and Luther were in the large guest bathroom in the center of the house, still bound and gagged, Luther in his skivvies. They’d be safe until they could be properly dealt with.

Milo lay downstairs, his body present but his mind somewhere far away, drifting in a suspended state between life and death.

Ghost guarded them all, restlessly stalking the downstairs perimeter and constantly checking on his charges. If anyone got close to the sliding glass doors or windows, Ghost would sound the alarm.

No one who didn’t belong there was getting inside this house.

Hannah had her trusty .45, three magazines, and her big cowboy buckle to rack the slide one-handed. Liam had left them with a shotgun apiece, two boxes of shells, and an upgrade to Quinn’s .22—a 5.56 AR-15 outfitted with a scope and plenty of magazines and ammo.

Their cul-de-sac was back by the river, located off the main drive where most of the action was. Still, a few stray militiamen had wandered into their sights.

Hannah had missed a dozen times, finally catching one in the leg.

She gritted her teeth in frustration. Her practice sessions were improving, but she wasn’t proficient. This wasn’t like the movies, where a novice picked up a gun for the first time and easily took out her enemies with instant accuracy.

The real world was a different story—moving targets, psychopaths attempting to kill you, fear and panic breathing down your neck, the slightest mistake the difference between life and death.

Quinn, on the other hand, was a natural. She knew how to shoot with her hunting rifle and slingshot. Even without Liam’s training, she’d taken to the AR like a fish to water.

She’d eliminated two militia. It’d taken most of their ammo, but she’d done it.

A snowmobile roared past, headlights bobbing in the dark.

“Got it.” Quinn tracked it and fired several booming shots. Spent brass scattered across the floor.

The machine skidded sideways and slammed into a maple tree, throwing its rider over the handles into a snowbank. The headlights flickered, yellow cones of light highlighting a wide swath of snow punctuated by a knocked over mailbox.

When the man rose, a staggering, disoriented shadow silhouetted against the headlights, Quinn fired several short bursts until he dropped and didn’t move.

“Good job,” Hannah said. “That’s three Liam and Bishop won’t have to fight.”

Quinn didn’t look up from her scope. “It’s not enough. There’s more out there. We have to get every last one.”

“We will.”

Quinn’s bangs were pushed to one side, her piercings glinting in the moonlight streaming through the window. She looked so young. Young and vulnerable and incredibly fierce.

Hannah’s chest swelled with affection for this tough, motherless kid.

Quinn’s mouth pressed into a thin line as she switched out an empty magazine for a new one—their last one. She slapped it in, hit the bolt release to cycle a round into the chamber, and readjusted the stock against the meat of her shoulder, pressing her cheek low to peer through the scope.

The faintest hint of dawn lightened the velvet black of the sky. The moon still blazed bright, reflecting off the white snow. A million pinpricks of starlight gilded the ice-encrusted branches.

It was a dazzling sight. Beauty in the midst of death, a diamond in the ashes.

Hannah tore her attention from the trees and swung left to study the peaceful yards, the empty road. She shifted her gaze, checking high and low like Liam had taught her.

Quinn did the same on the right. “There! There’s someone out there.”

Hannah caught her breath. “What do you see?”

“Five or six houses down. The superintendent’s place. The garage door just opened. Someone’s coming in and out of the house, loading stuff into a car—boxes, it looks like. It’s too dark to see what kind. The rear trunk is open. Exhaust is coming out of the tailpipe. It’s running.”

“Is it her?”

“It’s her. It’s Rosamond Sinclair.”

Hannah’s mouth went bone-dry. Her pulse thudded loud in her ears.

“She’s getting the hell out of Dodge.” Quinn’s voice thickened with contempt. “And stealing whatever she can while she’s at it. What a coward!”

Hannah squinted out the window, peering into the moonlit shadows. Without a scope, it was hard to see into the side-loading garage. The superintendent’s usual militia guards were gone. She appeared to be alone.

“She’s going to get away with it. She’s going to get away!”

Hannah thought of Milo, trapped in a coma. Of Charlotte back at Molly’s house. “We’re supposed to stay here.”

Quinn whirled to face her. The moonlight highlighted the tense planes of her face, her dark eyes like bottomless wells. “She’s the cause of all this! All the death and suffering! All this misery! She did this!”

Hannah nodded tightly. “I know.”

Quinn rose to her feet. She jammed the Berretta into her waistband, shoved as many magazines as she could into her pockets, and slung the AR-15 over her shoulder.

She looked like an avenging angel from some graphic novel—a savage, primal creature bent on destruction.

“What are you doing?”

She glared down at Hannah. “I’m going.”

“Not by yourself, you’re not.”

“Then come with me.”

Hannah rocked back on her heels, hesitating.

Quinn set her jaw. “It’s the only option.”

“What about Charlotte and Milo? I can’t just leave them.”

Quinn leaned down and touched Hannah’s shoulder. “I know you’d never leave Milo in any other circumstances. But Ghost will protect him. This is necessary. This is our chance to do something. To end this!”

Liam couldn’t come to the rescue this time. He, Bishop, Reynoso, and the others were busy battling the militia.

There was no one else. Only Hannah and a sixteen-year-old girl.

If Rosamond Sinclair was going to be stopped, it was up to them.

This was the woman who’d birthed Pike, a sadistic monster. The woman who’d orchestrated the Crossway massacre, who’d exploited Fall Creek for her own greedy schemes.

Every evil that plagued this town—it all traced back to her.

Instinctively, Hannah glanced at her bad hand. The crooked fingers, the contorted thumb. She saw Pike’s face, that red slash of a mouth, those empty eyes.

Every cell in Hannah’s body screamed at her to do something. To act. To right the depraved wrongs committed against her, against Quinn and Milo, against everyone who’d suffered at the hands of Rosamond and her family.

Hannah curled her misshapen fingers into a fist. The bones creaked. The joints ached.

A flash of memory—she was back in the dark, dank basement, fear and pain clawing at her chest, his shadow looming over her, her fingers bending and twisting, the terrible crack of bones breaking.

But never her spirit. Despite everything he’d done, he’d never been able to break her.

Hannah looked up at Quinn. “Let’s finish this.”

59

LIAM

DAY FIFTY-FIVE

Liam removed his NVGs and stood, covered in dust, blood, and grime. He swayed on his feet, the adrenaline dump making him shaky. He was tired, so tired, an abyss of fatigue yawning at him behind his eyelids.

The gunfire had ceased, the fighting ended. Hazy smoke hung heavy in the air. The sky above the tree line lightened to gray as dawn approached, the crowns of spruce and pine haloed in fog.

Alpha Teams One and Two had run out of ammunition. But instead of being overrun, backup had arrived in the form of nineteen townspeople armed with shotguns and hunting rifles, led by Corinne Marshall herself. With their help, they’d held the gate long enough for the ambush teams to get into position.

Mick Sellers and his Community Alliance had never showed. In the end, Fall Creek had defended herself.

The gun battle was fierce but short. Under fire from multiple sides, the militia broke ranks and fled back into Winter Haven, their fallback positions quickly overrun. With the river at their backs, they had nowhere to go.

From there, Liam, Reynoso, and several others had swiftly hunted the few stragglers down. Reynoso and Hayes made the rounds, checking the bodies, putting security shots into the dead and dying militiamen.

In only a matter of minutes, it was over.

The weapons depot was still burning. Two dozen houses were riddled with bullets. Windows were shattered. Shell casings littered the ground. The snow was trampled a dirty brown, streaked with splatters and smears of red.

Bodies lay everywhere. Most of them wore gray camo, but not all of them. Several were family members who’d fought with the militia. A few were much smaller, younger—children accidentally caught in the crossfire.

Several women were wailing. Children were crying. An old woman dressed only in a nightgown and an unzipped coat sat beneath a mailbox and stared at them dully, hate in her eyes.

Hayes and several volunteers were clearing the houses, making sure no more non-combatant family members suddenly appeared with weapons.

Liam walked through the yards, searching the corpses’ faces. He already knew who wasn’t here. Sutter had escaped. He didn’t see Noah, either.

Had Noah actually picked up a weapon and fought against his own people? More likely, he was cowering in a corner somewhere with the superintendent.

They were the ones responsible for all this carnage. Cowards, the both of them.

He bent and turned over a female dressed in militia garb. Katie Kesler stared up at him with unseeing eyes, her face and torso punctured with shrapnel.

He didn’t wonder who she was before the collapse or whether she’d regretted her actions when her life flashed before her eyes. He didn’t relish her death. He felt no guilt, either. Not for her.

In the next yard, Bishop knelt in the snow. He’d gathered a small figure in his arms. Liam approached, dread knotting his chest. “Bishop.”

Bishop looked up, his eyes wet. His shoulders were shaking. “The kid ran out of the house. He was standing on the porch. A ricochet hit him.”

Corinne jogged toward them along the main drive, trailed by several armed townspeople. She rubbed a smudge of dirt from her face, her expression strained, her eyes red. Her husband had just died, but she was still here, still fighting.

“You saved our hides,” Reynoso said. “We’d all run dry, even our service pistols. They were seconds from overrunning us. A few of them had flanked us, too. We were toast.”

Corinne nodded grimly. “You’re welcome. Who else was hurt?”

Reynoso’s face hardened. “Eight of the citizen volunteers are dead. Mike Duncan was shot in the thigh, but we put a tourniquet on it and stopped the bleeding. He’s with the nurse now. Hayes caught some shrapnel to his shoulder. He’ll live. And Perez twisted her ankle and tore her shin up pretty good on that barbed wire. Some antibiotics and a little R and R, and she’ll be okay.”

“I’m fine.” Perez limped up behind them. “It’s just a scratch.”

“That’s not what I heard.” Reynoso gave a grim smile. “I heard you cried like a baby.”

She glared at him. “Shove it, Reynoso.”

Liam understood their need for levity to survive the horror of battle, but he couldn’t drag his gaze from the body of the boy in Bishop’s arms. The kid looked like he was ten or eleven. Unlike their parents, these children hadn’t chosen to be here. They hadn’t chosen this life, this fight. This boy was collateral damage. It was always the innocent who suffered the most.

“I’ll find the boy’s mother,” Corinne said tightly. “She should get to say goodbye.”

Bishop closed the boy’s eyelids. He whispered a prayer over the body before rising to his feet. He looked as sickened as Liam felt. He didn’t say it, but he had to be thinking of his own dead children, his empty arms.

He turned to Liam, hands limp at his sides. “Tell me this was worth it, Liam.”

“It was worth it,” Liam said. And it was, no matter how hollow it sounded now.

“It’s worth it,” Reynoso said. “Winter Haven is safe. Fall Creek is free.”

“We got ‘em all,” Perez said. “We nailed ‘em to the wall.”

Liam touched his hand to his bloodied cheek. “Not Sutter. Not the superintendent.”

“She will face justice,” Bishop said, pain in his eyes, conviction in his voice. “In this world or the next.”

Liam looked past the death and destruction to the east. He couldn’t see the cul-de-sac from here. All he wanted to do was get back to Hannah. “We better make it this world.”

60

HANNAH

DAY FIFTY-FIVE

Hannah and Quinn approached Rosamond’s house, slipping across the street and between the yards, cutting close to the garage.

They moved slow and cautious, their boots slick on the icy snow, their eyes and ears peeled for any sound or movement, any sign of guards.

There was nothing. Rosamond was alone.

Fear clutched at Hannah, but it wouldn’t control her this time. She tried to remember everything Liam had taught her. She adjusted the shotgun, shifting her bad hand to grip the forestock as best she could. The .45 was tucked into her coat pocket.

Hannah motioned to Quinn to cover her. Taking a deep breath, she darted from the edge of the snowy lawn into the garage, sweeping with the shotgun, the barrel following her gaze.

“Don’t move!” Quinn shouted behind her. “Hands in the air!”

Rosamond froze. She was bent over the back of a snowmobile next to a shiny new Mercedes, her slim form silhouetted against the red glow of the taillights.

The snowmobile’s cargo rack was stuffed to the brim with cardboard boxes—cans and boxes of food, medical supplies, liquor, and toilet paper.

Quinn was right. Rosamond was attempting to skip town.

“Turn around slowly!” Hannah ordered.

Rosamond straightened and turned to face them. Her eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re here to stop you,” Quinn said.

Her creamy linen pantsuit was spotless, every strand of her hair fixed in place. It was the sickly shadows beneath her eyes that gave her away, the gray tint to her skin, the tension in her jaw. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m quite busy, so if you could just—”

“You thought you’d gotten away with it,” Quinn said. “You’re wrong.”

“Move out of my way. And put those damn guns down.”

“We’re not going to do that.”

Rosamond’s gaze darted between them. “If you’re here for Sutter, you just missed him.”

“We’re here for you,” Hannah said.

Rosamond revealed nothing. Her eyes didn’t even twitch. “This is an assault against an elected officer. You’ll be arrested. Thrown in prison to rot the rest of your lives away.”

“I doubt that,” Hannah said.

Quinn gave a nonchalant shrug. “No prisons anymore, remember?”

Rosamond’s eyes flickered to the left, toward the opened side door into the house. “You should know that my armed guards are loading the basement pantry. They’ll be up in a moment. If they see you pointing a gun at me, they will kill you.”

“Another lie,” Quinn said. “That’s all you do, isn’t it? Lie and plot to kill people.”

“You need to leave these premises immediately. Go right now, and I’ll forget about this little…situation. Fortunately for you, I am a forgiving woman.”

Quinn widened her stance. “You brought the militia here. You ordered them to beat and starve your own citizens. You let them attack neighboring towns and kill innocent people.”

“Young lady, I don’t know what you’re going on about—”

Quinn lifted the rifle and aimed it at Rosamond’s chest. “The truth, for once.”

Rosamond gave a long-suffering sigh. “It is my job to protect you, to protect the town. I did everything within my power to do that. Everything! I saved you people from starvation! From freezing to death in your own homes. This is how you thank me? How you show appreciation?”

Hannah and Quinn just stared at her.

She flicked a spot of lint from her shoulder and fixed her icy gaze on Hannah. “See? You’re the ungrateful ones. Entitled, selfish, and spoiled. Couldn’t be happy with what you were given. Had to take more, always more. Instigators and agitators. Inciting riots and violence. There’s a name for that. Terrorists.”

“We’re not the terrorists,” Quinn said. “You are!”

Rosamond cocked her head and motioned at the windows. Outside, sporadic gunshots echoed. “No? What would you call this? You’re destroying your own town.”

“We’re saving it! From you and the monsters you welcomed inside our gates.”

“I don’t have to listen to this.” Rosamond turned her back on them, seemingly oblivious to the guns pointed at her. She started for the snowmobile.

“You knew about the massacre,” Quinn said.

Rosamond flinched. A faint tightening of her shoulders, but Hannah saw it. Slowly, she turned back around. “That was an unfortunate accident.”

“It was no accident!” Quinn shouted. “It was planned. You planned it.”

“I did no such thing.”

Quinn’s voice shook. “You ordered Julian to release Ray Shultz and the others from that jail cell. You sent them to the church to put a stop to Bishop. You had Juniper and Chloe murdered!”

Rosamond looked around frantically, as if searching for one of her minions to ride in and save her.

“No one’s coming to help you,” Hannah said. “Look around. All your games, your manipulations, your grasping for power. What did it gain you?”

Rosamond’s eyes hardened. “I’m done talking.”

“Tell us the truth, or I’ll shoot you!”

Rosamond’s lip curled in derision. “I’ve already told you the truth. I have nothing to say to you.”

Quinn’s finger tightened on the trigger. Hannah shook her head at her. Not yet.

Hannah needed something from this woman. The truth for Quinn, but also for herself. She hated it that she did, but that didn’t change reality.

She needed an answer.

And Rosamond Sinclair was going to give it to her.

“I killed your son,” Hannah said.

Rosamond recoiled. “What did you say?”

“I’m the one who killed Pike. Not Liam Coleman. Me.”

For a moment, the woman said nothing, rendered speechless.

“I shot him twice. I stabbed him. And then I released Ghost on him. Your son tortured dogs, too. Not just women.”

Rosamond’s face contorted. “Lies! Shut up! Shut your filthy mouth!”

“It was justice.”

She lunged for Hannah, her eyes crackling with fury, hands outstretched like claws.

Before Hannah could react, Quinn fired at Rosamond’s feet. The gunshot exploded against their ears, deafening in the enclosed quarters of the garage. Chunks of concrete struck the woman’s legs. She cried out and leapt back.

“I said don’t move,” Quinn growled. “The next shot goes to your kneecap. You can confess your sins with a busted knee—or two.”

“You lying whore,” Rosamond spat between clenched teeth. She hobbled backward and leaned against the Mercedes’ fender. Her pantsuit legs were ripped. Droplets of blood streaked the creamy linen. She hunched like a cornered animal.

Hannah took a step toward her. “Five years ago, my car broke down on the side of the road. Pike stopped. He offered to help. Instead, he took me to his hunting cabin in the Manistee National Forest and locked me in his basement. He did terrible things. He enjoyed control. He enjoyed causing pain.”

Hannah’s legs turned to water, her palms clammy, but she didn’t look away from Rosamond. “But then, you already knew that.”

Rosamond went rigid. “I’ll kill you!”

“You knew. You’re his mother. You created him.”

“I’ll kill you for what you did to my Gavin!”

“You knew what he was.”

Rosamond’s eyes flashed with naked contempt. She was a master manipulator. Every word she spoke meant something else, a maze of words with a monster at the heart of every sentence. Every smile, a veiled threat.

She used words to control her opponents, to eviscerate them with shameful half-truths and pretty lies. When that had failed, she’d used her son as a weapon. A monster she could direct at will.

Not anymore.

The carefully constructed mask was finally slipping, the cracks revealing what lay beneath.

“So what?” Rosamond cried finally. “Is that what you want to hear? So what if he had certain predilections! We all have our…irregularities. He was my son. I loved him as he was!”

“He was a rapist and a killer.”

Her mouth thinned into a sneer. “An overdramatic interpretation. Men are men. They’re made for violence. They’re built to desire it. Men love to fight, love to watch fighting. Men hunt and kill animals. It’s sport. Entertainment. Gavin was no different.”

“People are not animals.”

“Says who?” she scoffed. “Some people are no better than rats, vermin scurrying around, disrupting order, bringing chaos and destruction. He never did it to anyone important. They were scum—meth heads and druggies who were a drain on the system, nothing more. They were blood-sucking leeches feeding on everything good we tried to build here. It was like taking out the trash.”

Hannah said, “I am not trash.”

“A different kind of trash. You weren’t good enough for Noah. You never were, never would be. Frankly, I was hoping he’d get rid of you on his own.”

“You knew I was alive,” Hannah whispered. “You knew he had me.”

Rosamond’s teeth flashed white and sharp, a shark going in for the kill. “Your family was always better off without you. Seeing how things worked out, I’d say I was right all along.”

Hannah stiffened, stunned afresh at the woman’s depravity, her incredible capacity for evil.

“You should have died in that basement,” Rosamond snarled, her face a rictus of hatred. “He should have left you there to rot!”

“Stop!” Noah’s voice rang out. He stepped into the garage behind Quinn. “That’s enough!”

61

QUINN

DAY FIFTY-FIVE

Rosamond’s gaze flicked past Hannah and Quinn and landed on Noah. Relief washed across her face. “Chief Sheridan! Thank goodness! They’re trying to kill me!”

“She’s behind it all, Noah!” Quinn said. “All of it!”

Noah Sheridan was dressed in his police uniform and carried a Glock low in both hands. He looked like a wreck, sunken-cheeked and haggard. Gray circled his bloodshot eyes like bruises. He stank of alcohol. “I heard it. I heard the whole thing.”

The tension in Quinn’s chest released. Noah had heard the truth. He would finally fix things.

He’d go back to being the Noah that she knew. Her friend. A good cop. A hero.

“I was just saying what they wanted to hear!” Rosamond said. “It was all a lie! I was trying to save my life! They’re confused from all this chaos, Chief Sheridan. They don’t know what they’re saying!”

Noah strode into the middle of the garage, spun on his heels, and faced Quinn and Hannah. He spoke in a low, flat voice. “Put the weapons down.”

Quinn blinked. “What?”

Hannah’s expression tightened. “Noah. What are you doing?”

“Put them down!”

An ill feeling settled in Quinn’s belly like a block of ice. “It’s Rosamond, not us—”

Noah pointed his Glock at Quinn. “I’m not asking again.”

Quinn blanched, staring at Noah in disbelief. This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be real. Not Noah.

The ground tilted like it was falling away beneath her feet. She’d wanted to believe in him. Despite all the evidence, despite the warnings. She’d needed to believe.

She’d believed in the Noah on the ski lift, the guy who’d scaled the cable in the middle of a snowstorm to save them. The Noah who’d come to their rescue at the church. The Noah who’d welcomed her into his little family with open arms, who’d treated her like she wasn’t just the pathetic kid of a junkie, like she was somebody special.

That Noah had been real. She couldn’t believe it was all an illusion. She wouldn’t. But whatever part of Noah that had been the hero, the good in him—he’d let it go.

He’d abandoned himself as surely as he’d just abandoned her.

Hot angry tears stung her eyes. “How could you?”

Something in Noah’s gaze flickered and guttered out. He didn’t look at her. “Now!”

Everything in her fought against it, but she obeyed. She crouched and laid the AR-15 on the concrete floor, unholstered the Beretta, and set it down.

Hannah did the same with her shotgun.

Noah stepped close and kicked them away. Metal scraped against concrete. The AR and Hannah’s shotgun skidded beneath the car. The Beretta slid against a ladder leaning against the wall.

Noah motioned with the gun. “In the house. Now.”

“Noah—”

“Go!”

Rosamond limped through the side door. Hannah followed, Quinn behind her, Noah bringing up the rear, his weapon pointed at their backs.

Quinn blinked against the harsh brightness. Every light in the house was on. It hurt her eyes.

Noah directed them to the center of the formal living room, boasting Brazilian wood floors, vaulted ceilings, and crystal chandeliers. Everything ornate, elegant, and lavish.

The superintendent’s mansion was brimming with stuff—stocked grocery bags piled on the velvet sofas and tufted chairs, stacks of cardboard boxes stashed in every corner. Some of the boxes were labeled: MREs, bags of rice and beans, first aid supplies, laundry detergent.

In the expansive kitchen, food covered every inch of the marble counters: boxes and bags filled with cans of beans, soups of every kind, and packages of ready-to-cook pastas. The island was littered with crates of toiletries—shampoos and conditioners, soap, toothpaste and toothbrushes, toilet paper.

Nausea churned in Quinn’s gut. So much excess and wastefulness. Rosamond couldn’t use all this, not for years. She didn’t need it. She hoarded it all for one reason—because she could.

Noah didn’t seem to notice anything amiss. Maybe he already knew.

With a grunt, he turned to Hannah. “The Ruger, too. I know it’s in your pocket.”

Hannah shot him a hard look. “Why are you doing this?”

Noah gestured with the Glock. “Do it!”

Hannah hesitated, then blew out a breath and withdrew the .45. She lowered it to the floor.

Noah kicked it away. It slid across the wood planks and landed next to the coffee table, the glass top covered in solar batteries, most still in their packaging.

Quinn’s hands hung loose and empty at her sides. She felt vulnerable and exposed. She liked the solid, reliable weight of the AR in her hands. It made her stronger.

Even without it, she wasn’t completely defenseless. She slipped her right hand into her pocket, her fingers brushing against the scotch tape fletching of one of her nail darts.

Noah had forgotten about the slingshot.

“About time.” Rosamond hobbled forward, holding a hand toward Noah. “Sutter has betrayed us. We need a new plan. We need to—”

“SHUT UP!” Noah swung around and pointed his service pistol at Rosamond’s face. “Don’t you move!”

Rosamond halted beside the coffee table, two feet from Noah. A complicated array of emotions passed across her face. “Noah. It’s me. These…monsters attacked me in my own home—”

“You’re the monster!” Quinn said. “You’re worse than all of them! Worse than Ray Shultz, worse than my mother, worse than Julian.”

“I never hurt anyone! I’ve never raised a hand against anyone! I’m innocent!”

“The bodies we found.” Noah stared at Rosamond like he’d never seen her before. “The meth heads and homeless guys. The one discovered by the river the morning of the EMP. The broken bones in his hands. That was Pike.”

Rosamond glared at him. Her jaw jutted out, aggressive, defiant.

“Hannah was right. You knew what he was. All along. All this time.”

A seed of hope sprang to life in Quinn’s chest. Maybe it was a trap. Noah was playing Rosamond as surely as she was trying to play him. He would come through after all. He had to.

Rosamond balled her manicured fingers into fists. “Don’t get all self-righteous on me, Noah. Don’t try to tell me you didn’t know about Nickel Carter. Julian shot him in front of you, didn’t he? And Billy Carter, too. Two murders in cold blood. I don’t recall you reporting those, turning in your best friend?”

Noah balked. “That was different.”

“How?” Rosamond spat. “You people with your self-righteous indignation, trying to pick and choose your morality! I did what I did for my sons! Everything I did was for them! How are you any different?”

Noah opened his mouth but didn’t speak for a moment. Despair warring with fury twisting his features. “Enough,” he whispered. “Enough.”

His finger moved from the trigger guard to the trigger.

62

QUINN

DAY FIFTY-FIVE

Q uinn’s heart jackhammered against her ribs. It felt like it was going to pound right out of her chest. Why didn’t Noah shoot her already? What was he waiting for?

Rosamond raised her hands, palms out in supplication, warding him off. “Noah, I would never! You can’t believe them—”

“You burned my house down. You burned it down with my son inside.” His voice shook. The gun trembled in his hands.

Rosamond’s eyes widened. Uncertainty flickered across her face, followed by a flash of true fear. “That wasn’t me! It was Sutter! He burned the supplies at the distribution center. It was his plan to take revenge on you. He always hated you—you know that! I didn’t know anything about it, I swear. You know how much I love Milo! I would never do that! Never, Noah. I swear it!”

“Don’t believe her!” Quinn said. “She’s lying!”

“Stop it, Quinn!” Noah said.

“You promised me you would get all the monsters,” Quinn said, her voice accusing and desperate. “Do you remember? That night at the church after the massacre. You promised me. Here’s the last one. She’s right there—!”

“Shut up!” Noah shouted. “Just shut up!”

In an instant, Rosamond’s expression transformed from defiance to contrite benevolence. Her eyes went wide and glossy. Her chin trembled as a tear trickled down her cheek. “A mother loves her children, Noah. I can’t deny that. You were the best of them. I loved you like a son. I love you.”

Noah shook his head wildly. “No! Don’t say that. Stop!”

She didn’t stop. “I loved them too much. I admit that. Maybe I should have done things differently, but I did it out of love. I loved them, just like I love you!”

“You promised!” Quinn shouted. “Shoot her!”

Rosamond reached out her hand, only inches from Noah’s face. She was suddenly soft, motherly, adoring. “You loved me the best. Don’t think I didn’t see that. Don’t think I don’t know how faithful you’ve been. How loyal. How much you’ve sacrificed to protect this family—all of us.”

“She has no love in her, Noah,” Hannah said. “She doesn’t know the meaning of the word.”

Rosamond stroked his cheek. “Don’t betray me, too. You were the only one who loved me. My true son.”

Noah’s face crumpled. “My son is dead. Milo is dead.”

“Noah, he’s not—” Hannah started.

“I love you!” Rosamond raised her voice. “I’m the only one who still loves you. I’m the only one left. I’m all you have left!”

“Noah—” Hannah tried again, but Noah wasn’t listening to her.

“I gave you everything! I saved you! I did everything for this town! Everything I ever did was for you!”

Noah’s shoulders quaked. He looked suddenly feeble, his posture collapsing. His eyes were flat, empty.

A terrible sinking dread filled Quinn.

She watched in horror as Noah lowered the gun. His finger slipped off the trigger.

Rosamond held out her arm to Noah. He went to her, back bent, weeping bitterly.

Rosamond pulled him into a one-handed embrace. She held him close and looked over his shoulder at Hannah, something calculating and predatory in her gaze. There was no humanity in her eyes. None at all.

The tears ceased. She smiled, a quick hard smile flashing like the blade of a knife.

Everything seemed to happen at once.

Rosamond had positioned Noah so that his back was to them, his body shielding her. Quinn caught a glimpse of movement. Rosamond’s free hand reaching for something—a glint of metal.

“Hannah!” Quinn shouted in warning.

Boom! A gunshot exploded out of nowhere. Noah jerked backward.

Hannah threw herself sideways, lunging for the .45 lying several feet away.

Terror shot through Quinn. She yanked the slingshot and flechette from her pocket, notching it as she pulled the bands taut to her cheek. Instinct took over, her movements fast and powerful.

Rosamond pushed Noah aside, a revolver in her hand. She raised the revolver and aimed it at Hannah.

Hannah was on the floor, reaching for the .45, fumbling it into her hands.

Quinn had one option, one chance. She released the flechette. Simultaneously, Rosamond fired a second time. Boom!

The thunderous retort reverberated in her ears. Quinn didn’t see whether she’d hit her mark. Terrified, her gaze darted to Hannah, searching for blood, for a wound.

Her guts turned to water. Her heart plunged in her chest. She was too late. She was certain of it.

Hannah stilled. She crouched on the floor, holding the gun. Unhurt.

The round had punched harmlessly into the wall behind her.

Quinn spun back toward the superintendent.

Rosamond’s triumphant smile quivered. It slid from her mouth, her facial muscles going slack. The revolver fell to the floor.

Rosamond’s hands flitted to her neck, fluttering like bird wings. Blood leaked from the six-inch nail lodged deep in her throat.

A gasping, gurgling sound escaped her lips. Her breath cut off as blood filled her airway. Her eyes widened, terrified, desperate. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish frantic for oxygen.

Noah had fallen back, half-slumped against the sofa. He made no move to help her. He made no move at all.

Rosamond sank to her knees in the middle of her lavish living room, surrounded by abundance, the bounty spilling from every nook and corner, every box and crate.

Her face contorted in a rictus of agony. Her skin drained of color, blood bubbling from her white lips. Her chest heaved soundlessly.

Hannah climbed to her feet. She half-lifted the .45, as if deciding whether to put the woman out of her misery.

“Don’t,” Quinn said.

But Hannah did. “We aren’t them,” she said. “We aren’t the monsters.”

She raised the .45, supported the butt with her crippled hand, and fired a single shot. Rosamond’s body jerked and fell sideways, then went still.

Rosamond Sinclair was dead.

63

NOAH

DAY FIFTY-FIVE

Noah stared at Rosamond’s body.

She was dead. Rosamond was dead.

He slumped against the arm of the sofa, only feet from her corpse. He couldn’t wrap his mind around it. His thoughts came slow and sluggish.

He tried to stand but found that he couldn’t move. His legs and arms were filled with cement. He felt cold, so cold. And pain. Pain pulsing from somewhere deep inside his core.

He lowered his gaze and looked down at himself. Startled, he found there was a hole in his coat over his stomach. He felt wetness beneath his shirt. A warm, wet leaking.

Rosamond, he thought dimly. Rosamond had shot him.

“Noah?” Hannah asked, distress in her voice, uncertainty.

He raised his eyes slowly, so slowly, and met Quinn and Hannah’s gazes. They stared at him like he was a stranger. Like he was the enemy.

And why not? He had failed them both. Failed Milo. Rosamond Sinclair was a monster, after all. A cold-blooded killer. The wolf at the door.

Even knowing the terrible truth, he’d still choked. He hadn’t pulled the trigger. And in the end, when she’d finally turned on him, too, he’d been surprised.

He slid from the couch and fell trembling to his knees. He splayed his hands over his belly, felt the liquid leaking through his coat, spreading, spreading. His hands came away red with blood.

“Noah!” Quinn said in a stricken voice. “You’re hurt!”

“I—I’ve been shot.”

The pain seized him then, a great hand twisting his guts, ripping and tearing at his intestines. He sank back, nearly toppling over, but Hannah was there, lowering him gently to the floor and kneeling beside him.

She grabbed a throw blanket, balled it up, and pressed it against his stomach, yelling for Quinn to search for bandages, something to stop the bleeding.

He stared up at the bright white ceiling, breathing rapid, shallow breaths. His hands were slick, wet blood everywhere now. He couldn’t stop it, couldn’t keep it inside.

“Noah,” Hannah said as if from a great distance. “Milo isn’t dead. He’s in a coma.”

He could barely hear her over the roaring in his ears. She might have been an ocean away. She might have been on another planet.

Her words infiltrated the growing fog in his mind. Milo…alive. But barely.

“He might not make it,” she said, her voice breaking, “but you need to know—he’s not dead.”

Milo had paid a terrible price for his own hubris. Noah might as well have started the fire himself. He might as well have killed his own son.

Even if Milo lived, he could never forgive himself. Never.

That was the one thing he could not abide. The one thing he could not live with.

He had caused this. All of it. With his doubt, his inaction, his unwillingness to see the ugly truth, choosing instead to embrace the beautiful lie—until it destroyed what he loved most.

Recrimination welled within him. He had thought he was protecting them; he was the one who’d opened the door and invited the wolf inside. He had stood by as the wolf devoured everything that mattered.

Only now, when it was far too late, did he see how wrong he was.

“It’s too late,” he choked out. “Too…late…”

“We’ll call Lee,” Hannah said. “We’ll get help. Just hang on.”

There would be no hanging on. He could feel the world slipping away from him. Everything growing cold. His mind cracking into jagged pieces. He felt himself crumbling, disintegrating.

Winter crouched at the door. The cold spreading inside him, predatory and remorseless. And the unutterable darkness—surrounding him, creeping ever closer.

Strangely, he felt no panic. Only a sad and terrible resignation.

He reached out a trembling hand. Hannah took it in both of hers.

He had wanted to believe that he was a better man than he was. Instead, he was small and afraid and weak. Dimly, he wished that he had been a good person. A person with conviction and courage. How different things could have been.

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Wetness clogged his throat. Words drowning in blood. He could no longer speak, even if he’d had something worth saying.

He longed for absolution. But there was no absolution to give.

And then he saw it, felt it—the cold rush of darkness rising up to meet him.

64

HANNAH

DAY FIFTY-FIVE

Grief slammed into Hannah like a tidal wave. The force of it stole her breath away.

For a moment, for just an instant, the world paused in its spinning, the whole bleak earth holding its breath. In Noah’s limbs was a terrible stillness. A body, nothing more. No breath, no life.

There was nothing of her husband in it. Nothing at all.

He didn’t look like Noah anymore. He was a mannequin dressed in the same clothes, with the same dark brown hair, the same handsome face she’d known so well.

Blood stained his clothes, his hands. A scarlet puddle pooled beneath his torso. Her own hands were streaked and spattered with his blood.

She held his hand. The wedding ring was gone from his ring finger, only a band of white flesh remaining to mark its existence.

She couldn’t tear her gaze from that missing ring.

He was gone. Her husband. The father of her son. Gone forever.

No matter what had happened between them, who he’d become. Despite his worst choices, she had still cared for him.

She’d never wanted this. Never wished for it. Not once.

“Noah!” Quinn ran to Noah and fell to her knees at his side. “Noah, answer me!”

He didn’t answer. He never would again.

Quinn rocked back and forth, shaking her head, her shoulders quaking. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “No! No, no, no, no!”

She pounded her fists on Noah’s chest, furious, devastated, grief-stricken. “Why did you trust her? Why? Now you’re dead! Why did you believe her!”

“Quinn,” Hannah said gently.

Quinn beat at him uselessly, her hands slipping in blood. “You let her kill you! You let her. You did it, you did it…”

Hannah pulled herself shakily to her feet and moved around Noah’s body to Quinn’s side.

Quinn let out a strangled cry. “He knew! He knew what she was—but he hugged her anyway, and she just, she shot him…I tried, I wasn’t fast enough—”

“Rosamond did this. Noah, too. Not you. Do you understand?”

“If I’d tried to reach him one more time. To warn him. If I’d just—”

She reached out and grabbed Quinn’s shoulders. “There was nothing you could’ve done. We all tried to reach him, to warn him. You, me, Bishop. Even Liam.”

“He was supposed to be one of the good guys. He could have been—he was supposed to be—”

“I know,” Hannah said, a bright flash of anger cutting through her sorrow. “I know.”

Rosamond might have fired the kill shot, but Noah had stepped willingly into her trap. Noah had allowed her to lure him, bait him, a fish wriggling on a hook. Even at the end. Even knowing the bitter truth.

Noah had betrayed Quinn as surely as if he’d pulled the trigger himself. He’d betrayed Milo. He’d abandoned them, left them holding the pieces of their own shattered hearts.

She didn’t know whether she could forgive him for that.

“He always had a choice. He tried to pretend that he didn’t, but he was lying to himself. That’s on him. No one else. He chose the path that led to this. So did Rosamond.”

Quinn stared at her, bewildered and heartsick.

“You did everything right. You did everything you could.”

Finally, she nodded.

“Come here.” Hannah enfolded Quinn in her arms. Quinn sank into Hannah’s embrace, her whole body trembling as she sobbed like a child.

Hannah rubbed her back with her bad hand. She pressed her cheek against the top of Quinn’s head and breathed in the scent of her. She smelled coppery, of blood, sweat, and gunpowder. She smelled like a soldier.

A warrior’s heart beat inside her, but she was still a girl: a lonely orphan who’d only longed to be loved.

Noah had let her down, but Hannah never would. She would die before she hurt this beautiful girl.

She didn’t know how long she knelt there, holding Quinn. Gradually, the darkness outside the windows lightened. There were no sounds but the girl’s soft weeping. After a while, even that quieted.

Hannah lifted her head, listening. The sporadic gunfire had ceased. Outside, the morning was still.

Quinn pulled away, wiping her eyes. She took a few hitching breaths and steadied herself. Blood streaked her face, her hands, her clothes. None of it hers.

She would be okay. She was strong. She was surrounded by people who cared for her.

That was enough.

Hannah’s heart tugged her in another direction, reminding her of the world outside this house, apart from these bodies, all this death.

Her son needed her. Her daughter, her dog. Liam would be returning. She needed to be there for them, for all of them.

Hannah rose and offered her hand to Quinn. “We need to go.”

They climbed to their feet. Hannah wrapped her arm around the girl’s shoulder and drew her close. Together, they exited the front door, turned their backs on the Sinclair house, and made their way out into the new day.

The morning was cloudless. The sun peeked over the trees, bathing the sky in vibrant pinks, oranges, yellows, and reds. The sunrise reflected off the frozen branches still sheathed in ice, every icicle sparkling like diamonds.

“Is it over?” Quinn asked.

“It’s over,” Hannah said. “We ended it.”

65

HANNAH

DAY SIXTY

Hannah sang to Milo. Whatever songs she could think of, she sang them. Songs by the Beatles. Aerosmith. Pink Floyd. Phil Collins. Queen. She rocked Charlotte in her arms and sang.

When her throat was too raw to sing anymore, Quinn took over. She played Milo’s favorite classic rock songs on her iPod or read some of their best-loved apocalyptic novels.

At Quinn’s request, they’d moved Milo to her bedroom. They could’ve used a Winter Haven house now that the militia were gone, but everyone felt that Milo would want to be in a familiar place, surrounded by warmth and love, with the delicious scent of Molly’s honey-slathered cornbread in the air and a bunch of cats sleeping all over him.

Hannah slept on a cot next to Quinn’s bed, Charlotte in the bassinet at her feet, Ghost on the floor. Small portable propane heaters kept them warm. A kerosene lantern on the dresser provided light.

She adjusted Milo’s position every two hours to ensure he didn’t get bed sores. She gave him sponge baths and changed the oversized adult diapers Bishop had found to keep him clean.

He was breathing on his own, his narrow chest rising and falling, his eyes flitting beneath his paper-thin eyelids. He just wouldn’t wake up.

Five days. Five days was an eternity.

Every day that her son lived felt like a sentence commuted, an execution stayed at the last minute.

Hannah never left Milo’s side except to take a quick, freezing bucket shower or nurse the baby. Ghost never left Hannah except to do his own business outside, scarf up his dinner, and patrol the house at night.

Liam, Bishop, Quinn, Molly, and Reynoso and Perez remained close by. They visited between guard duty shifts, manning the blockades, and cleaning, laundry, cooking, chopping firewood, and various other tasks.

Annette stopped in a few times to say hello and drop off a pot of soup. The second time, she brought Dave with her. They’d been spending time together lately. It was a good thing.

Lee came to check on Milo, but not happily. He blamed them for the fires, the fighting, the death and destruction. He’d supported the militia to the end. He wasn’t the only one.

That was a problem for another day, a problem that Hannah’s exhausted mind couldn’t contemplate yet. There was little room for anything but her son, her daughter, and the people she loved.

Her grief over Noah’s death hovered over her like circling crows. He had been a huge part of her life. He was Milo’s father.

She mourned who he should have been. She mourned all the things they’d lost, the pain they’d both suffered, the love they’d shared for their son.

The worst of the sorrow would come later.

For now, she held Milo’s hand and sang “Blackbird” by The Beatles over and over. You were only waiting for this moment to arise…

As she mouthed the words she knew so well, she prayed for her son without ceasing. He’d been her lifeline back in that basement prison, when an impossible hope was all that she had, an invisible thread connecting her soul to his.

It was the one thing she would never give up on, never let go of. Never.

Hannah sang. And she hoped.

66

QUINN

DAY SIXTY-ONE

Q uinn scrubbed the last towel in the gray, sudsy water. She’d just finished washing two loads of dirty laundry and had one more to go. The bathtub was half full of freezing water she’d pumped from the well and lugged inside, bucket by bucket.

Gran was outside weeding and pruning her winter garden boxes. Bishop, Reynoso, and several of the others were busy manning the roadblocks. Liam had taken Charlotte to the shelter; he was instructing a small group in building perimeter defenses with a baby strapped to his chest.

“How are you feeling?” Hannah asked quietly from the bathroom doorway.

Quinn set the old-fashioned washboard on the lip of the tub and twisted around to face her.

Hannah’s eyes were hollowed with grief and weariness, the strain of her vigil evident in every line of her face. And yet, she was still kind, always thinking of other people before herself. Quinn couldn’t remember her mother asking her how she was feeling—ever.

“Fine,” she answered automatically.

She felt Hannah’s skeptical gaze on her. Hannah didn’t believe her.

Quinn didn’t believe herself.

She climbed to her feet and sat on the toilet lid, wiping her wet hands on her jeans. She touched her lip ring self-consciously. “Just trouble sleeping.”

Hannah raised her brows. “I’ve heard that before.”

She shrugged. She didn’t say anything about the nightmares. How she woke up gasping, gunshots echoing in her ears, the images seared into her brain—Rosamond’s bloody smile, Noah’s dying expression, his drowning eyes.

Noah was dead. And Quinn was a killer. She’d killed Rosamond Sinclair. Rosamond deserved it. She didn’t regret that part for a second.

That didn’t lessen the stupid nightmares. It didn’t save Milo or bring Noah back from the dead. It didn’t make the darkness inside her go away.

Hannah crossed her thin arms over her chest and hugged herself. “We have a lot to be grateful for, you know.”

“Even now, after everything? Even if Milo dies?” She said it out loud, the thing everyone had been tiptoeing around for six days. The massive elephant in the room.

Hannah didn’t flinch. She didn’t look away. She held Quinn’s gaze. “Yes, even then.”

“How can you say that?”

“We’ve already done it. We’ve already suffered incredible loss. I have. You have. And we’re still here, Quinn. We’re survivors, you and I.”

Quinn dropped her gaze first. She didn’t feel like a survivor. She felt like anything but.

Her fear, guilt, hatred, and helplessness were all tangled up in an ugly mess inside her. How shaken she was at taking a life, even one as despicable as Rosamond. Her constant worry for Milo. And her inexhaustible, inexplicable anger at Noah. Her devastation at his betrayal, his cowardice.

She feared her own thoughts. How dark they were. How violent. How furious she was.

Quinn balled her hands into fists at her sides. If she didn’t talk about it, this thing inside her was going to consume her. She could feel it already. Something growing, something alive.

“Hannah, I—”

“Mom?”

Hannah froze. Her eyes widened. She spun and ran for the bedroom.

Heart in her throat, Quinn leapt to her feet and sprinted after her, hardly daring to believe her own ears. She’d know that small, sweet voice anywhere.

Milo was awake.

67

QUINN

DAY SIXTY-ONE

Q uinn and Hannah ran into Quinn’s bedroom.

Milo’s eyelids fluttered open.

Hannah rushed to his bedside, shoved aside the cot, and dropped to her knees. She clutched his hand in both of hers, her knotted fingers holding on tight. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

Milo blinked. His eyes drifted from the IV hanging from his arm to Quinn’s room, slowly taking in the crazy monster murals painted across the walls and ceiling before focusing on his mother.

“Mom,” he said again.

Ghost had been stretched out on the floor at the foot of the bed. Loki was curled on his fluffy rump taking a nap. Thor and Odin were both nestled in the soft fur of the dog’s belly.

At the sound of Milo’s voice, Ghost sprang to his feet and gave an excited woof. Loki tumbled to the floor with a screech, barely managing to land on his feet.

Startled, Thor and Odin slid across the floor with loud meows. They picked themselves up and stalked off, disapproving tails high in the air.

Quinn watched from the doorway. She blinked back the wetness in her eyes, a fierce joy burning bright in her chest. “See what a ruckus you’ve caused?”

Milo’s gaze lifted to hers. “Quinn.”

She tried to swallow the knot in her throat. It didn’t work. “Hey, Small Fry.”

His bloodless lips formed a smile. “Hey.”

“Glad you made it. It was depressing as a nun’s funeral around here.”

“Sounds boring.”

“So boring. They wouldn’t let me play Elvis on my iPod. I know how much you love Elvis. At least I didn’t have to listen to Queen ad nauseum.”

“You missed me.”

She raised one finger. “Correction. I missed my room. Everyone acted like you deserved it more than me or something. You ask me, it’s time to get your lazy butt outta my bed.”

His smile widened. “Deal.”

Ghost thrust his snout against Milo’s cheek and sniffed all over his face and head, as if checking to make sure his charge was in acceptable health. Once he was satisfied with his examination, he laid his head on Milo’s chest and gave a contented whine.

“I’m glad to see you too, boy,” Milo said.

“How are you feeling?” Hannah asked. “Are you hungry?”

His pale lips twitched. “You got any peanut butter?”

He looked tired and weak but alert. He was here, he was alive. Quinn grinned back so hard, her cheeks hurt. “I think we can scrounge some up just for you.”

“Creamy, not crunchy. Jif, please.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, now. You get what you get, and you don’t throw a fit.”

“I know, I know.” Milo glanced past Quinn. His dark eyes flickered. “Where’s Dad?”

In an instant, the oxygen was sucked out of the room. Quinn went rigid, her ribs squeezing tighter and tighter. It was hard to breathe. The walls closed in.

The horrific images flashed through her brain, a movie she couldn’t turn off—Rosamond pulling him into her arms like a python encircling its prey, the retort of the gunshot, how he’d sat there on the sofa for a minute, the blood slowly blooming across his stomach like a flower unfurling.

Hannah bowed her head and squeezed Milo’s hand. “Oh, honey. I’m so sorry.”

Quinn watched Milo’s face contort in confusion, pain, and grief. She watched him process the realization that his father was dead and gone.

Milo wept; his mother wept with him.

There was nothing anyone could do to help him, to lessen his suffering. Hannah’s, either.

Helpless indignation raged through her veins. Hot tears swelled behind her eyelids; she swallowed them back. She would not cry. She refused to cry.

Everything she and Milo had gone through together. Everything they’d survived. It was Noah who ended up hurting him the worst. He’d abandoned Milo, abandoned them both. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

If Noah were here in front of her, she could have killed him. Wanted to kill him.

Blinking hard, hands curled into fists at her sides, she turned and fled the room, leaving Hannah and Milo to their bittersweet reunion.

Whatever she was going to confess to Hannah could wait. Or maybe it was better not to voice it aloud at all.

She was thrilled that Milo was better. Grateful that the militia were defeated and Rosamond was dead, that the residents of Fall Creek could pick up the pieces and work on rebuilding a semblance of a life.

And yet.

She had no words for her brokenhearted fury. The hollowness in her chest, this dark thing roiling beneath her ribs. It was like a black hole in her heart, something ugly and dangerous expanding inside her, consuming everything.

In the deepest part of her, Quinn knew that she would not escape it.

68

LIAM

DAY SIXTY-EIGHT

Liam shielded his eyes as he stepped onto the porch without his coat. It had to be close to forty degrees.

The sun was shining in the early evening sky. The snow and ice were melting, a constant drip, drip, drip from the eaves as everything turned to water. Patches of dirty brown ground showed through here and there, the occasional glimpse of matted dead grass waiting for spring.

They’d just finished dinner—rice with stewed tomatoes, pinto beans, and cornbread. He had a watch shift at nine. Milo, Quinn, and Ghost were playing outside.

Quinn had Charlotte strapped to her chest and was dashing around the yard, Milo and Ghost chasing her as she pelted them with snowballs, Ghost barking enthusiastically, Milo giggling. Almost two months old, Charlotte made joyful cooing noises and waved her little fists.

For days, Quinn had been unnaturally quiet and reserved. It was good to see her acting like a kid again. But she didn’t laugh like Milo; she barely even smiled.

Concern niggled at him. He needed to check in with her and make sure that she was alright. Maybe giving her a shift on watch would put a grin on her face. She’d certainly held her own with the superintendent. Maybe it was time to give her even more responsibilities. Maybe she needed it as much as he did.

Hannah leaned against one of the porch beams, watching the kids play with a soft smile. She looked happier and healthier than he’d ever seen her.

Liam felt lighter too, like a great burden had been lifted from his shoulders. He’d barely slept in the wake of Milo’s coma. He liked the kid. A lot. He was plucky and brave, just like his indomitable mother.

And because Hannah loved him, Liam loved him, too.

And Charlotte. Such a tiny thing, and he was already wrapped around her little finger. Everyone knew it. Liam knew it. He’d move heaven and earth to protect her.

Liam shifted and rubbed his lower back. The bruising on his ribs had nearly faded, the pain in his spine lessened thanks to Hannah’s massages, but he was tired. So tired.

The week since the militia’s defeat had passed in a blur of activity. Fall Creek’s residents were painstakingly picking up the pieces of their town—cleaning shattered glass, mending bullet holes, salvaging what they could from the remains of the fires.

A funeral was planned for the nineteen townspeople who’d been killed by the militia over the last few weeks, including Owen Truitt and Wayne Marshall.

Rosamond’s seven-thousand square foot house held a veritable treasure trove. Boxes, bags, and crates of precious food and supplies were stacked floor-to-ceiling in nearly every room.

Sutter had converted two additional homes into warehouses for the militia. Both were crammed with stolen supplies. Not just food, but a dozen camping stoves and portable heaters, hundreds of propane and butane canisters, gallons of kerosene, and several solar panel kits and chargers.

After a hasty meeting, what remained of the town council voted to give half of the supplies to the neighboring towns. Even though Mick Sellers and the Community Alliance had failed to show in the final battle with the militia, it was still their food.

The rest, they divided between Friendly’s Grocery and the Crossway Church food pantry, ready for any Fall Creek resident who needed it.

Molly said it would be enough to get them through the spring into planting season as long as they conserved wisely—and if they could establish a community garden, work hard, and get crops growing as quickly as possible.

The militia had left behind eighty-seven noncombatant family members—partners, children, and elderly parents. They’d been searched, stripped of potential weapons, and were currently being held in a couple of houses in Winter Haven.

They’d freed Darryl Wiggins, but James Luther, the turncoat militiaman with a sickly father, was still under house arrest. They weren’t quite sure what to do with him, either.

The residents of Fall Creek were angry, devastated, and grieving. Everyone was suspicious and resentful, pointing fingers and casting blame. They wanted vengeance for all they’d lost.

Bishop said it would take time to heal, to put away grievances and come together as a community. Hannah believed they would do it.

Liam wasn’t so sure, but he was willing to try. For Hannah, for the people he cared about, he would try.

Hannah unzipped her coat and lifted her face to the sun. “Winter might finally be ending.”

“Not likely.” He squinted and looked up at the sky. “Is it even March yet?”

“It’s March first,” she said.

“You remember. Most people are already losing track of the days.”

“I tracked the days in the basement,” she said softly. “I made lines on the wall. Over fifteen hundred of them. Every day was a battle I won. It mattered. I knew I’d made it that far, that I could make it one mark more. I could always make it one day more.”

How he longed to hold her, to do everything he could to ease the pain she carried, to quiet the haunting memories.

He knew a little about that. Some wounds never healed, not fully. There were ways to contain the pain, to put it in a box. To not only live with the scars, but to come to terms with them. To find peace. He was starting to believe that it was possible.

“I made it,” Hannah said. “And now we’ve made it. We’ve made it this far. That’s something.”

It was, but that didn’t mean he could relax. Not for a day, not for a minute. They’d already lost more than any two people should ever have to lose.

Enemies lurked beyond the gates. Some known, others unknown.

Rosamond was dead. Noah was dead. The militia defeated.

But Sutter had escaped. He was on the loose somewhere, his knowledge of Winter Haven’s existence a clear and present danger.

Sutter’s militia was nothing compared to the large, organized gangs armed with military-grade weapons roaming the Midwest. Fall Creek was located thirty minutes from the Indiana-Michigan border. If states began skirmishing for resources, would they be in the line of fire?

They weren’t prepared for something like that. They didn’t have enough people to protect this place.

Liam feared no matter what they did, it wouldn’t be enough. “Just because the militia is gone doesn’t mean we’re safe.”

“We’ll never be safe. Safe doesn’t exist. Not after the collapse, and not before. You do the best that you can, and you live the life that God gave you.”

“You sound like Bishop,” Liam said wryly.

She flashed him a mischievous grin. “That man rubs off on you.”

“That he does.”

“You’re still worried,” Hannah said, reading his mind.

“I’ll always worry.”

“A greater truth was never spoken,” she quipped, then grew serious. “Look around us. Look what we’ve accomplished. How far we’ve come. Give us six months. Give us a year. Imagine what we can do.”

“You have so much confidence.”

“I know the people I have confidence in.”

“And if it’s not enough?”

She lifted her jaw, her green eyes flashing with that familiar determination. “We’ll make it enough.”

As the sun went down behind the trees, the kids went inside to play a card game with Molly, Ghost trotting in after them, shaking snow everywhere.

Liam and Hannah remained outside. Liam still had a few minutes before guard duty called. He wanted to spend every minute with Hannah.

Together, they stared out at the darkening night. The trees rose silent and tall as sentinels, the frozen river glinting beyond.

He felt her presence beside him, warm and solid and radiating a sense of calm, of peace. Just being near her soothed his scarred soul.

This was what he had fought for. This made it all worth it.

He cleared his throat. “I thought I was saving you, you know.”

She glanced up at him.

“Back in the forest, in the cabin.”

She gave him that wry smile, her lips tilting in that way he loved.

“I wouldn’t be here without you. I wouldn’t have…all this.” He spread his hands wide, suddenly unable to explain the emotion thickening his throat.

These people, this place. Her. He didn’t have the words to explain how she’d found a way into his cold, dead heart. How she’d brought him back to life.

After Jessa and Lincoln’s deaths, he’d thought he’d never want anything or anyone again. He’d thought he didn’t deserve it. Now he wanted it all. Hannah. Her children. Ghost. The friendship of Quinn, Molly, and Bishop. A home to call his own. The messy, painful beauty of a life fully lived.

She stepped closer, her green eyes bright. “People save each other, Liam. We saved each other.”

They stood with their faces lifted, blowing pale breaths that rose and vanished into the darkness. The feathered outlines of the treetops melted into the black sky and slowly disappeared until there was no horizon—it was all night, all sky, all blackness studded with incredibly bright stars. The whole universe set ablaze by starlight.

He was not a poetic or religious man, not one given to sentimentality. And yet, he found his chest expanding with gratitude, a sense of wonder filling him. At this world, this night. At her, the woman at his side.

“You belong here, you know.” she said. “Fall Creek is yours, too.”

He hesitated, unsure what to say. “If that’s what you want.”

She bit her bottom lip. “I do.”

“Then I’ll stay.”

She smiled. “Good.”

It took everything in him not to draw her into his arms then and there. He resisted the urge to tilt her chin up and kiss her properly.

Something held him back.

There would be a time to say what he needed to say, to make his intentions known. It needed to be the right time, done the right way. That wasn’t today.

Her husband had died only days ago. She’d nearly lost her son. Not to mention killing her captor or watching his sociopathic mother die in front of her.

Whatever decision Hannah made, he didn’t want it to be a reaction to trauma or grief. He wanted it to be real.

She needed to heal. That took time.

He would give it to her.

She looked up at him in the darkness, searching his face, his eyes. “I have a task for you.”

“Name it.”

“Your nephew,” she said softly. “You won’t be at peace until you find him. Find Jessa’s parents. If they’re willing, bring them back to Fall Creek. Bring the rest of your family home.”

69

SUTTER

DAY SEVENTY

Mattias Sutter inched forward, AK-47 in hand, crawling through slushy snow and rotted leaves on his belly and elbows until he reached the crest of the hill.

The growl of engines had snared his attention—more mechanical sounds than he’d heard at once in three months.

He was somewhere north of Grand Rapids. It had taken him fifteen days to travel a hundred miles on the 1982 Suzuki Quadrunner he’d stolen from Rosamond. Of course, he’d been forced to hole up for nearly a week to recover from his injuries and seek out some antibiotics.

That had taken time. And a few more bullets.

Luckily, the gunshot he’d sustained was a flesh wound. A through and through that pierced the fat and muscle of his left side below the ribs and exited with minimal damage—though it hurt like hell.

Keeping a thin tangle of underbrush between himself and his target, Sutter lowered the rifle and rested it against the root of a nearby oak, uncapped the scope, and peered down the slope.

About twenty-five motorcycles were parked in a large clearing about a hundred yards off the road. Another twenty old-model trucks, Jeeps, and ATVs made a circle inside the clearing. A dozen campers were hitched to several vehicles.

Smoke swirled from a bonfire in the center of the clearing. A tarp-covered table held the processed remains of a butchered deer. The rest of the deer was roasting over the fire.

Dozens of men and women were gathered around the cook site. They were dressed in regular clothing—jeans and cargo pants, leather jackets and coats—but everyone was heavily armed. There were no children that he could see.

Upon closer examination, they weren’t so much men and women as young adults. Some skinny, pimpled teens who should be in high school, but most were hard-looking guys in their late teens or early twenties.

Envy stabbed him. He’d once commanded a group like this, though his was smaller. He would have turned them into his own personal army—if Liam Coleman hadn’t destroyed his plans.

Dark fury burned in his gut. He hated losing, but unlike his cousin, he was also smart enough to swallow his pride and cut ties when prudent.

Revenge held no sweetness if you were dead.

The delicious scent of roasting meat mingled with campfire smoke reached him. Sutter’s mouth watered. He would kill every man here for a single bite of venison.

Unfortunately, there were well over a hundred of them and only one of him. It was better to make himself scarce. Opportunity would knock another day.

He covered the scope, lifted the rifle, and started to slow crawl backward, biting his cheek against the sharp pain in his side as he wriggled his hips and dug his elbows into the slushy mulch to leverage himself—

A twig snapped behind him.

Sutter’s heart stuttered. He twisted, wrenching his upper half to raise the rifle. He was too slow, too late.

Something cold and hard pressed against the back of his skull.

“Drop the gun,” a young, raspy voice growled.

He dropped the rifle. Hands grasped him and hauled him up. Footsteps crunched as more of them approached from behind and to the sides.

Thirty seconds later, they had him on his knees, frisked him, and relieved him of his knives, pistol, and long gun as well as his pack and ATV key fob.

A skinny teenager with oily, acne-scarred brown skin duct-taped his hands behind his back. He barely looked fifteen, a crossbow slung across his back and a hatchet at his hip. “You spying on us? You just made the biggest mistake of your life, numb nuts.”

Twenty armed teenagers surrounded him. Five aimed rifles at his face. In addition to their guns, most of them were bristling with bizarre weapons—spears, crossbows, scythes, clubs, and axes.

A flicker of fear flared through Sutter.

“There’s only the one ATV,” a girl called from down the hill. “He’s alone.”

A young man strode forward, a long sword tucked into a scabbard on his right hip, the wicked-looking curved blade of a sickle slung on his left side. He was barely out of his teens, maybe twenty, tops. Tough and wiry, with a narrow, greasy face and deep-set eyes beneath a thick ledge of a forehead. His stringy wheat-blond hair clung to his skull in clumps.

“Whatcha want us to do with him, Xander?” the skinny teen asked.

Xander barely glanced at him. “What do we do with anyone who ain’t us? Kill him.”

Sutter had been down before. He wasn’t out until he was dead. “You don’t want to do this.”

Xander grinned, revealing straight, slightly yellowed teeth. “I most definitely do.”

“You want the honors?” asked a big guy carrying a huge spiked mace that looked like a medieval melee weapon stolen out of a museum. “Or should I get rid of this mouth breather?”

The way the others deferred to him, Xander was clearly the leader. He had a wild, almost unhinged gleam in his eyes. The shine of someone who enjoyed destruction—watching it, meting it out.

“Wait.” Sutter kept his expression neutral. It was important never to show fear. If he could survive the next five minutes, he stood a good chance of turning this whole crap show around. “I have something you’ll want to hear.”

Xander sneered. “I doubt it.”

“You’re looking for food, water, and shelter?”

“Nope.”

Sutter blinked. “No?”

Xander watched him impassively. A few boys behind him snickered.

“How about electricity?”

Xander raised his arms and spun in a circle. He moved like a feral cat, quick and darting. The others watched him eagerly, with anticipation. They knew what was coming. “Do we care about electricity?”

“Death to electricity!” a girl shouted, an ice pick attached to her belt. “Death to power!”

The others took up the cry, laughing, cackling like hyenas. “Death to power! Death to power! Death to power!”

Xander squatted in front of him so that their faces were level. The rank stench of unwashed bodies assaulted Sutter’s nostrils. “We don’t need anything you obsolete old men have to offer us. The things you treasure—your corner offices and big fancy houses, it was all a lie. Now, there’s nothing for us. No college, no jobs, no future. So we’re tearing it all down. Brick by brick, light bulb by light bulb.”

“Death to power!” several teens chanted. A couple of them let out eerie howls, raising their battle axes and rifles affixed with bayonets, punching fists high in the air.

They were anarchists. They were crazy. Why destroy the very things that made life worth living? He didn’t understand it. Didn’t understand them.

But everyone wanted something. Everyone.

“You need fuel for your vehicles, at least. Don’t you?”

“Kill him already!” several of them shouted. “Use the sword! Use the sword!”

Xander raised a single hand. The rabble behind him fell silent. “Where?”

Maybe they didn’t care about the conveniences and comforts of the old world, but they were hungry. Sutter recognized the hard shine in their eyes, the way their fingers twitched on their machetes, crossbows, and daggers.

Theirs was the kind of hunger that never went away. The hunger of ravaging locusts who devastated everything in their path.

If they wanted something to destroy, he would give it to them.

“I know a place,” he said, making sure he didn’t sound too eager. “These days, it’s like paradise on Earth. It’s called Fall Creek.”

The End

I hope you enjoyed Edge of Defiance! Don’t miss the next book in the Collapse series, Edge of Survival!

What lines will you cross to survive?

Preorder book six in the Edge of Collapse series on Amazon HERE.

Three months after an EMP attack destroys the U.S. power grid, chaos still reigns.

Starvation, disease, and the brutal cold have killed millions. With the end of winter finally in sight, the town of Fall Creek, Michigan balances on the precipice of disaster.

They have suffered and sacrificed. But to forge a future worth living, they will have to face the darkness within themselves. Each must decide--will they retain their humanity or choose survival at any cost?

Join my newsletter for first access to exclusive sales, audiobook and ebook freebies, and all my new releases. You’ll also receive two of my books for free!

Join my VIP list HERE to get your free copy of Chaos Rising, the Collapse series prequel.

Stay tuned after the ‘About the Author’ section for the first chapter of No Safe Haven, a stand alone novel set in the Last Sanctuary universe.

Run to save your life—or stay and fight for what’s yours…

Isolated at her family’s wildlife refuge in northern Georgia, Raven longs to escape. Instead, she spends her days shoveling manure for bears and wolves—until her father contracts the deadly Hydra virus.

When a dangerous gang tracks her to her refuge, she’ll have to fight for the animals and her home.

Buy it on Amazon HERE or read on for the sample chapter!

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Some of you probably thought this was the last book in the Collapse series. Surprise! As I wrote Defiance, I realized the characters weren’t done yet. They have more story to tell.

Hannah and Liam have come so far, but they haven’t completed their emotional journeys yet. And Quinn, poor Quinn. I fear her road will be a difficult one.

Rosamond Sinclair has gotten her comeuppance. The militia are defeated. And Noah, well, his willful blindness ended up costing him everything.

Noah has been an incredibly complex character to write. Some people see him as fundamentally good with tragic flaws. Others couldn’t stand him from book #2. I set out to write about a generally decent person who makes increasingly bad choices for all the right reasons.

Whether you see him as good or bad, the repercussions from his decisions (or lack of them) has caused tremendous pain and heartache for many people. And the fallout isn’t over.

Fall Creek has survived so much already! Can they make it through the winter and begin forging a future for themselves? Or will new enemies arise to threaten what they’ve built? We’ll have to see in book six. :-)

Thank you so much for your dedication to this series! I enjoy reading messages and reviews from so many readers who’ve fallen in love with the residents of Fall Creek. Hannah, Liam, Quinn, Milo, Bishop, Molly and the others sometimes feel like real people inside my head.

Ghost is the fan favorite by far. Mine, too! I greatly enjoy writing him. For those who don’t know, I based Ghost off of a Great Pyrenees we had named Shadowfax, after Gandalf’s white steed. Shadowfax was 140 pounds and taller than my six ft tall husband when he stood on his hind legs. :-)

Anyway, until next time, please stay safe and healthy!

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As always, a huge thank you to my fabulous BETA readers: Fred Oelrich, Melva Metivier, Wmh Cheryl, Jessica Burland, Sally Shupe, Jenny Avery, Jose Jaime Reynoso, Randy Hasting, and Kevin D Baum. Your thoughtful critiques and enthusiasm are invaluable.

To Michelle Browne for her line editing skills! Thank you to Cheree Castellanos, Joanna Niederer, and Annette King for proofreading.

Once again, a heartfelt thank you to George Hall, a real life Special Forces hero who helps me bring the character of Liam to life. Liam would not be who he is without George.

Thank you to our armed forces who put their lives on the line to keep us safe and protect freedom around the world.

And of course, thank you to my readers who’ve donated some great name suggestions to this book:

Donald Jameson for the suggestions of Vik.

Stacey Kesler for donating her last name to a member of the militia.

Corinne Marshall as the tough veteran hardware store owner.

Sarah Tomlin for the old farmer, Albert (Bert) Edlin.

To my husband, who takes care of the house, the kids, and the cooking when I’m under the gun with a writing deadline. To my kids, who show me the true meaning of love every day and continually inspire me.

Thanks to God for His many blessings. He is with us even in the darkest times.

And to my loyal readers, whose support and encouragement mean everything to me. Thank you.

ALSO BY KYLA STONE

The Edge of Collapse Post-Apocalyptic Series (EMP):

Chaos Rising: The Prequel

Edge of Collapse

Edge of Mayhem

Edge of Darkness

Edge of Anarchy

Edge of Defiance

Edge of Survival

The Nuclear Dawn Post-Apocalyptic Series (Nuclear Terrorism):

Point of Impact

Fear the Fallout

From the Ashes

Into the Fire

Darkest Night

Nuclear Dawn: The Complete Series Box Set

The Last Sanctuary Post-Apocalyptic Series (Pandemic):

Rising Storm

Falling Stars

Burning Skies

Breaking World

Raging Light

Last Sanctuary: The Complete Series Box Set

No Safe Haven (A post-apocalyptic stand-alone novel):

No Safe Haven

Historical Fantasy:

Labyrinth of Shadows

Contemporary YA:

Beneath the Skin

Before You Break

Audiobooks:

Nuclear Dawn series:

Point of Impact

Fear the Fallout

From the Ashes

Into the Fire

Darkest Night

Edge of Collapse series:

Chaos Rising

Edge of Collapse

Edge of Madness

Edge of Darkness

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

I spend my days writing apocalyptic and dystopian fiction novels, exploring all the different ways the world might end.

I love writing stories exploring how ordinary people cope with extraordinary circumstances, especially situations where the normal comforts, conveniences, and rules are stripped away.

My favorite stories to read and write deal with characters struggling with inner demons who learn to face and overcome their fears, launching their transformation into the strong, brave warrior they were meant to become.

Some of my favorite books include The Road, The Passage, Hunger Games, and Ready Player One. My favorite movies are The Lord of the Rings and Gladiator.

Give me a good story in any form and I’m happy.

Oh, and add in a cool fall evening in front of a crackling fire, nestled on the couch with a fuzzy blanket, a book in one hand and a hot mocha latte in the other (or dark chocolate!): that’s my heaven.

I love to hear from my readers! Find my books and chat with me via any of the channels below:

www.KylaStone.com

www.Facebook.com/KylaStoneAuthor

www.Amazon.com/author/KylaStone

Email me at KylaStone@yahoo.com

PART I

NO SAFE HAVEN SNEAK PEEK

1

Silence could drown a person.

At least, that’s what Raven Nakamura’s mother had said three years ago, the day she left for good.

Her mom didn’t have it quite right, though. It wasn’t silence. There were more sounds than Raven could count—the whirring of insects, the breeze rustling the elm and maple trees lining the flagstone paths, and the constant calls, screeches, hoots, bellows, grunts, and growls of the numerous and varied exotic animals that lived here.

Maybe it was isolation that could drown a person.

More likely, her mom was full of crap, telling herself whatever would justify leaving her daughter behind.

Raven watched the swishing tail of the Siberian tiger lying twenty feet below her. He blinked at her with yellow eyes that shone with a vicious, uncanny intelligence. A seven-year-old male, Vlad weighed over five hundred pounds and stretched nine feet from nose to tail.

He was a creature of incredible power and beauty. Rippling orange fur striped with luscious inky black. A great, thickly maned head. Enormous paws that could rip a man’s face off. Every inch of him formidable—and exquisitely lethal.

The tiger was just fine with isolation. They were solitary creatures by nature, nomads of the jungle. Or, in this case, of Haven Wildlife Refuge, the family zoo Raven’s father owned and operated in the rolling hills of northern Georgia.

Raven wasn’t afraid of being alone. She vastly preferred it to human contact of any kind. She’d gotten that from her father. It was her mother who couldn’t stand the loneliness. Who’d hated it so much she would rather leave her daughter behind and seek companionship elsewhere than stay.

Raven gritted her teeth. Usually she was successful at keeping thoughts of her mother buried in a dark corner of her brain, shoved somewhere down deep. Out of sight, out of mind.

Except for today. October sixteen. Raven’s eighteenth birthday.

Ironically, the only person who remembered was the one who’d chosen to leave. Also ironic, her scattered, emotional, depressed mother had managed to send the package three weeks early. Which was fortunate, since the postal service drones hadn’t delivered the mail for nineteen days.

Scraps of clouds drifted across the sun, shining brilliantly in the cobalt sky. It was sixty-five degrees. She was dressed in her usual cargo pants, black work boots, and a loose T-shirt. Her mask hung loose around her neck, just in case.

It was a beautiful fall day, too beautiful for the dark tangle of emotions knotted inside her.

She held the small unopened box in both hands. She didn’t want to know what it was. But also, she did. She’d rather hurl it into the tiger enclosure so Vlad could rip it to shreds as part of his daily enrichment activities.

But if she threw it away unopened and unread, the little niggle of curiosity tugging at her would remain unassuaged. This was the last birthday she’d ever have here, which meant this was the last present from her mother she’d likely ever receive.

Raven shifted on the tiger house roof, leaning over the edge to catch a glimpse of her hiking backpack slumped against the steel wall. She’d spent the last week packing, stealthily scrounging supplies—snare wire for small animal traps, single person tent and sleeping bag, life straw and water filtration tablets, a tin cup, plate, and pan, flint and spare lighter, compass, toiletries, hunting knife, granola bars, and a few self-heating meal pouches.

She may have packed in secret, but she needn’t have worried. Her father noticed nothing unless it had to do with the exotic animals or the maintenance of the refuge. He barely noticed her unless he was instructing her in one of his favorite subjects: survival skills, hunting and zoology, or how best to scrub black bear urine out of concrete.

And now, with the keepers failing to show for the third week in a row, her father was pulling sixteen-hour-a day shifts just to keep it all running. She was right there with him, working until her fingers blistered, until her bones ached with exhaustion. But to him, it was like she didn’t even exist.

She ignored the pang between her ribs. It was just as well.

Today she was leaving.

She’d had enough. Enough of people that only hurt you. Enough of this place that once seemed fascinating and magical, but now only held dark memories of disappointment and regret.

She knew how to survive on her own. Knew what berries were poisonous, which plants and nuts and mushrooms were edible, knew how to track game and set snares, how to construct a shelter in the rain or start a fire a dozen different ways.

Her family owned a hunting cabin fifty miles away. It was deep in the woods, far from humans, far from the chaos gripping the overcrowded cities. Most importantly, far from her dad and the sharp, bitter memories of her mother.

A person could be loneliest around other people. Living, working, and breathing right next to someone else, someone who was a stranger but shouldn’t be. A loneliness that hurt more than actually being alone. Maybe that was what her mother had meant.

It was time to go, to strike out on her own.

No matter how much she wanted to, she couldn’t leave the gift unopened. She despised herself for her weakness, but she couldn’t stop herself. She needed to open it.

Raven set aside the attached letter and slid her fingernails between the cardboard flap of the box, slicing through the tape. She dug through the balls of Styrofoam and pulled out a small knife.

The handle was off-white, a polymer imitation of ivory, and carved in the shape of a howling wolf. The blade was short, slightly curved, and sharp. It was a whittling knife, for the animals Raven used to carve and display on her bedroom windowsill.

She hadn’t carved anything in three years. Not since the day her mother left.

Raven sighed, disappointed in spite of herself. What had she expected? Last year, her mother had sent a ridiculous hoverboard, as if she’d forgotten Raven wasn’t ten anymore. The year before that, an old, preowned SmartFlex, which was useless because she already had one—just as old, just as preowned, that she kept stuffed in a drawer.

Her mother didn’t know her anymore.

She flicked the blade closed and shoved the whittling knife into her pocket. She didn’t want it, but she couldn’t leave it on top of the tiger house. A strong wind might blow it into the enclosure and Vlad, who ate everything, would swallow it whole.

Her gaze landed on the white square of the envelope. Only her mother actually wrote letters instead of messaging. But then, the internet had gone sketchy weeks ago. Nothing was working anymore. Maybe her mother was smarter than Raven was giving her credit for.

Her stomach tightened. She didn’t want to read it. What was the point? It would only make her feel like crap.

Almost against her will, her fingers crept toward it. Giving in, she grabbed the letter, ripped it open, and skimmed her mom’s familiar precise, flowing script with eyes that had suddenly grown traitorously blurry.

There were the usual miss-yous and love-yous, each one like a stab to Raven’s gut. A few lines toward the end caught her eye. I’m coming to get you, her mom had written. With everything that’s happened, it is too dangerous for you there.

Her heart lurched in her chest. She fumbled for the envelope and rechecked the date stamped on the front. Almost three weeks ago. Her mom said she was coming. For the first time in three years.

So where was she?

I’ve messaged your father so many times, but he connection here has been spotty this last week. I don’t know how long it will last. Hopefully, you have been sheltered from most of it, but things are bad. Everything is falling apart out there. I’m worried this is it. The end.

The Settlement is a safe place for us. There are good people here, and it is well-fortified. Until I come, wear your mask. Be careful. If for some reason, I’m prevented from reaching you, then come here. Find good people you can trust. Whatever you do, don’t be alone. I love you.

Raven balled the letter in her fist and crumpled it between her fingers. Her hands trembled, her knuckles whitening. Had her mother really found a safe place? Was she really going to leave it to come for Raven?

Raven clenched her jaw. Old pain sprouted in her gut, tangling her stomach in knots. What did her mom know? She thought she could ride in on a white horse and save everyone when she hadn’t even bothered to visit in all this time. She was the one who ran off—who was she to decide to care now?

No thanks. Raven could handle things just fine on her own. She’d been taking care of herself for years, since long before her mother had left. Aiko Nakamura had abandoned her daughter long ago, seeking

Still, despite her anger and resentment, Raven’s breath quickened as she stared at the letter. If her mom had really tried to come, she hadn’t made it. Had something happened to her? Raven knew the commune where her mother had found refuge was near Elijay in the north Georgia mountains. It was dangerous for a woman to travel alone in the best of times, especially through gang-controlled Atlanta.

But now?

There were a hundred things that could have gone wrong, a hundred threats, from the roving gangs of thugs and killers, the hungry, desperate people driven to steal or worse, the millions of coughing, feverish infected spreading the virus.

Raven tried to tell herself she didn’t care, that it didn’t matter. But of course it did. Her mother was still her mother, no matter how thick and bitter the distance between them.

A frantic shout splintered the air.

Raven jerked her head up, stiffening. She wasn’t supposed to be on the tiger house roof—ever—and if her father saw her hiking backpack…but no, it was the head zookeeper, Zachariah Harris. He was stumbling along the path at the top of the hill near the bobcat enclosure.

Raven hadn’t seen him in days, since he first started coughing. Her father had insisted he quarantine himself, holing up in his loft above the Grizzly Grill, the park’s restaurant.

She’d tried to bring him food and water, wearing her N95 respiratory mask and plastic gloves, but Zachariah had locked the door and shooed her away. “Your father would kill me,” he’d said with a grunt and a pained laugh that swiftly dissolved into a phlegmy, wracking coughing fit.

What was Zachariah doing? Why had he left his room? Was it possible he was getting better? If he had the virus, it was unlikely, from the vlogger reports inundating the newsfeeds the last several weeks. The same hope she’d clung to all week flared through her—maybe it wasn’t the infection. Maybe he’d only contracted the flu.

She took a steeling breath, slipped to the edge of the roof, crouched, and leapt to the ground. It was a long drop, but she softened her legs and curled into a roll before scrambling to her feet, brushing off twigs, pine needles, and mulch.

She whistled one long note, two short ones—Vlad’s signal for food.

Behind the tiger house, in an area off-limits to visitors, she could get right up to the eighteen-foot fence. The rest of the enclosure was circled by a deep ditch surrounding a perimeter wall that was six feet high on the tiger’s side, but only four feet high on the visitors’ side, giving the illusion of close, unobscured proximity.

Vlad usually lounged on a rock shelf beside his shallow bathing pool, a waterfall streaming above him. The rocks were a polymer replica airbrushed to look authentically aged and weathered; the waterfall poured from a hidden PVC pipe.

Vlad sauntered over and eyed her, ears pricked, waiting impatiently. She pulled a piece of dried venison from her cargo pocket. Normally, tigers only ate raw meat, but Vlad had developed a taste for jerky. She took several steps back and hurled it over the fence. Vlad’s head snapped toward it. He pounced and inhaled the venison in a blink.

Vlad prowled back to the fence and pressed his enormous body against it, chuffing eagerly for a good petting like some hugely overgrown house cat. Tigers didn’t purr when they were happy or content; they chuffed, which sounded like a cough.

Carefully, on full alert, she pushed her fingers between the chain-link and scratched his thick fur along his flank, far from his dangerous jaws. He chuffed encouragingly as she felt the solid bulk of him, his muscles taut as cables beneath the lush softness of his fur.

No matter how tame he acted, she could never let her guard down, not for a fraction of a second. Vlad was a magnificent creature; he was also a voracious, powerful, and efficient predator. Once, she’d seen him take down a hawk in mid-flight a full twelve feet off the ground.

And this particular tiger had an appetite for his human keepers. At his last home, Vlad’s uber-rich owner would parade him before his aristocratic, elite friends on a gold chain during decadent parties until the tiger attacked two people, killing one and horribly maiming the other in the time it took for a security guard to raise his tranquilizer gun and dart him.

Maybe that’s what they deserved for forcing an obstinate tiger to socialize. More likely, they’d taunted and abused him to the point of desperation until he finally struck back.

She withdrew her hand, and the tiger turned his great head, ears flicking, and gave her a lazy stare, as if affronted.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she muttered.

Another yell drew her attention. Zachariah was closer now, staggering toward her. There was something…off about him, something wrong in the jerky way he moved, in the ashen pallor of his face.

Instinctively, she took a step back. She pulled the mask hanging around her neck up over her nose and mouth. She cursed herself for leaving her gloves in her room.

“Zachariah,” she said. “I thought you were sick. I thought—” Her voice broke off, her throat closing like a fist.

The Zachariah she knew was a spry and cheerful black man in his sixties, his skin the color of rich, damp earth, his face scored with deep wrinkles, his eyes always sparkling with humor. Zachariah had worked at Haven as head zookeeper for fifteen years, as much a fixture as Vlad or Electra, the park’s elderly, arthritic bobcat.

This Zachariah was something different.

His bloodshot eyes bulged, the veins bursting until his entire eyeball glistened crimson. Blood smeared below both of his eyes and around his gaping mouth. His skin was gray, his face both simultaneously gaunt and bloated and gaunt.

Red-specked foam glistened at the corners of his mouth. A fetid stench emanated from him, one with which she was well-acquainted from living among carnivores—the rancid odor of rot, of decomposing, maggot-riddled flesh.

Raven took another step back. A small part of her registered that she was too near the fence, but the horror crashing through her blotted everything else out.

She swallowed the acid rising in the back of her throat. “Zachariah, you should lie down—”

Zachariah didn’t seem to hear her. He lunged at Raven, seizing her arms with an impossibly iron grip.

Behind her, Vlad gave a tense, uneasy growl.

“Help me!” Zachariah screamed only inches from her face. Blood-flecked spittle struck her cheeks, landed in her eyelashes.

His hands on her bare arms were burning. His whole body radiated a terrible heat. She tried to jerk away, but he was strong, impossibly strong. “Let go!”

“Save me!” he shrieked.

Terror spiked through her. The mask was a flimsy thing, useless this close. If a single microscopic droplet entered her system through her mouth, nose, eyes, or ears—she knew what happened. She’d watched the newsfeeds reporting the overrun hospitals, the millions of sick, then billions, all dying and dead.

Zachariah coughed again, splattering phlegm into her face. His cheeks were hollowed, spidered with swollen, pulsing purple-black veins.

Behind her, Vlad was working himself into a frenzy. He slammed against the fence, letting out a savage, rumbling growl.

“Back away!”

She looked up, still half-frozen in shock. Her dad was running up the path from the direction of the lodge and the park entrance.

He waved his arms wildly. “Get away from him!”

Finally, Raven wrenched her arm free. She stumbled back, her spine striking the fence for an instant—Vlad snarling, hurling himself at the chain-link—before she regained her senses and staggered away.

Vlad’s massive claws scraped against metal inches from where her head had just been, the fence shuddering from his considerable weight. The tiger wasn’t focused on her—his piercing yellow gaze swung between her father and Zachariah, his ears flattened, tail lashing.

Raven leaned against the wall of the tiger house, gasping for breath. “Dad.”

Her father stood between her and Zachariah, a tranquilizer gun gripped in both hands. He pointed the gun at Zachariah, the man he’d worked with every day for over a decade. His expression was taut, his eyes blazing. “He has it, Raven. He has the Hydra virus.”

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