Part 25 (2/2)

I grab his father's revolver and spin toward Betsy. ”Get my mother and Ethan out. Clay and I will cover you.” Her eyes are round, cow-like. I grip her arm hard. ”Find a way, Betsy. Tell me you will.”

She blinks and nods, her curls bobbing slightly. There's no perky smile now. ”Okay,” she says.

Ethan's hand snakes around my arm. ”No, Riley!” He pulls me away from the door and the gunshots that crackle every few seconds. There's no time.

”I love you!” I hoist the revolver and run into the smoke-filled hallway.

I skid to a stop next to Clay, my eyes burning. He looks at me and frowns, but his attention turns to a bullet cutting through the smoke like an angry hornet. It zings past close enough to blow my hair back. Behind us a light shatters. I hear the whine of the gurney wheels as Betsy and Ethan push my mother down the hallway.

Everyone I love is in peril at this moment.

A guard rushes through the smoke, gray tendrils curling around him. I see the whites of his teeth before the barrel of his gun aims for my chest. Clay fires and the guard staggers into the wall, but not before he gets a shot off. There's a thunk and a spray of blood from Clay's thigh. He lets out a snarl of pain, but aims and drops the guard with a bullet to the brain. Clumps of red and gray splatter the pristine hospital walls.

A moment of silence. My eyes are streaming, but I lock them forward and peer into the smoke. Beside me Clay's fingers fly as he reloads. The silver chamber spins as the bullets drop in with quiet clicks.

Fifteen feet away, a head hops out of a doorway, then a gun. A guard rattles off a few wild shots. I duck. Plaster sprays into my already streaming eyes, patters against my face. Clay stands stock-still, raises his gun and fires. His bullet buries itself into the guard's shoulder. He disappears, screaming.

”Go!” he says, squinting through the smoke that seers his eyes like acid. He fires again, the bullet pings off something metallic in the distance. ”Go, Riley!”

”Not without you!”

He opens his mouth to protest, but a bullet zings between our two heads, hitting a light fixture that rains sparks on our heads.

A guard pops up ten yards away behind a metal bench. My finger draws back the trigger and my gun explodes, rocking my shoulder back. The bullet cuts through the smoke and hits the guard's vest. The guard staggers back, his mouth open. When he realizes he isn't dead, he smiles tauntingly. He lifts his gun to finish me. There's a crack beside me. The guard's neck springs a leak. His gun clatters to the tile. Blood patters the wall as the guard topples over the bench and sprawls on the floor.

I squint through the haze toward the wall of guards. Our victories are a drop of water in the ocean. The guards keep coming.

I shoot a look down the hallway. Betsy and Ethan round the corner and disappear. Thank G.o.d for that, I think. Time to go.

A gun cracks. A cry of pain pulls me out of my thoughts. I look over. Clay's hand is tucked to his chest. The palm is such a b.l.o.o.d.y, shredded mess, I can't tell what's happened. His revolver clatters to the floor. I reach for him, but the guards smell their victory. Bullets fill the air like lead rain.

”Come on!” I scream, dragging him away. ”Run!”

He turns and stumbles along side me. Bullets zip past, slicing through the smoke, spraying plaster and shards of light casings on our heads. Something punches into my calf. I stumble, but Clay's good hand on my arm steadies me. Then a bullet smashes into his shoulder and he goes down on the tile.

”Clay!” I scramble over to him and drag him forward. He's drenched in blood. One pant leg clings to him in a red sopping mess. His white t-s.h.i.+rt is soaked through from his shredded hand. He stares up at me, his eyelids fluttering.

”Go,” he croaks.

I slip my arms under his and drag him backward along the tile. His boots leave two red tracks on the floor. Ahead the pounding of footsteps sounds like a giant crus.h.i.+ng wave. We're about to drown.

I grunt and tug, but it's no use. They'll soon be here. My eyes are already streaming, but the sobs that shake from my chest are new. ”We gave 'em a good fight,” I whisper. I lean down and kiss the top of his blood-speckled head. Beneath the blood and smoke and gun powder, there's still a trace of his familiar scent. I'll take it with me wherever this path ends.

A door pops open across the hall. Through the haze, I can just make out Dr. Rayburn's shocked face behind his bleary gla.s.ses.

”Good G.o.d,” he says. Then his eyes flick to where the guards are breaking through the smoke. ”Come on.” He waves me over. I heave Clay over with all my might, but my wounded calf has stiffened and doesn't seem to work. Rayburn scuttles out, puts his hands under Clay's armpits and drags him into the door. I limp after.

The door slides shut. Dr. Rayburn mutters over the keypad, frantically punching b.u.t.tons until the lock clicks. He stands against the door, breathless. His white lab coat is streaked with Clay's blood. He adjusts his smeared gla.s.ses and runs a trembling hand through his greasy hair. ”Door won't hold them for long.” He nods toward the back of the room. ”We got a truck.”

We're in the same storage room where Rayburn handed me off to Clay and the Sheriff. There's an idling supply truck by the open garage door. I stare out into the fresh night air on the other side of the door. Can that really be freedom? My mother's lying in the back of the van, still hooked to her IV. Ethan sits beside her, holding her hand. When he sees me he waves and then frowns. He starts to climb out but I shake my head and hobble forward. Betsy, who's busy chucking supplies into the van, stops when she sees me.

”Oh my heavens, are you hurt?” She waddles over and reaches.

I shake her off. ”Help me get Clay into the van!”

Her eyes go wide at the sight of him. She grabs Clay's b.l.o.o.d.y boots. I take his arms. Rayburn jumps in the van's driver's seat. The engine revs.

Fists pound on the door. Rifle b.u.t.ts slam into the metal, denting it. If Rayburn was right, they'll be here in seconds and my legs won't move any faster.

My wounded calf throbs, but Betsy and I double-time it to the van. It seems like a million miles. My back finally b.u.mps into the van's b.u.mper. I hoist myself up and then reach down for Clay's arms and draw him inside. He's so heavy and my arms so weak. Ethan reaches down and takes an arm. Together we heave Clay upward. Betsy pushes on his legs, her pudgy face red with strain.

The door flies open. Guards pour in like insects. They're coming.

”Come on!” yells Rayburn, looking in the rear view.

It's a swarm of guns and arms and angry faces. And black gun barrels. Hands reach out and grab Betsy's pudgy arms and legs. They drag her backward into the mound of guards. Rayburn hits the gas.

”Betsy!” I scream.

I drag Clay into the van as we bounce out of the storage room and into the parking lot. I get a glimpse of Betsy's terrified face in the sea of guards. So frightened. Then Rayburn takes the corner.

She's gone.

I scramble toward the van doors. I gotta go back for her.

Ethan's hands grab my waist. I turn my tear-filled eyes toward him. ”Let me go!”

Then I see them, Clay and my mama both unconscious on the van floor. Ethan's terrified face is speckled with blood. ”Riley,” he says quietly. ”We need your help, too.”

I fold into his arms. He holds me as we speed through Albuquerque's darkened streets.

Now it's my turn to cry.

Chapter Twenty-Eight.

We drive for eight straight hours.

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