Home > Anarchy at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys #4)(7)

Anarchy at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys #4)(7)
Author: C.M. Stunich

My breathing is controlled, nice and quiet, but I can’t help the shivering. It’s cold out here, and I’m covered in blood. My face hurts, and everything is damp and wet; my clothes are rapidly becoming soaked. Even the damn blackberry bush above me is dripping down the back of my hoodie, cold fingers of water sliding down my spine.

December in Oregon, what are you gonna do?

When the woods are silent long enough to satisfy me, I stand up and keep going, intending on putting distance between me and my pursuer.

I make it all of fifteen feet before somebody comes at me from behind.

The guy—whoever the fuck he is—wraps his arm around my neck. But if he thought this was going to be easy, then he doesn’t know what it’s like when you live for someone other than yourself.

When I fight, I’m not fighting for pride, or because I’m some macho dickface with something to prove. I’m not even fighting to survive. The only reason I fight is for the people I love. And when you’ve got motivation like that, you can break necks like you were born to do it.

Using the slope of the hill and the bodyweight of my attacker, I throw him forward and over my shoulder. His back hits the ground hard, and he grunts. It’s the only sound he manages to get out before I’m driving my elbow into the front of his throat.

The man gags, hands reaching up to grab at me, but I pull back quick enough that his fingertips do little more than graze my face. Bet he has weapons on him though. As soon as he recovers from the element of surprise long enough to remember that, I’m screwed.

As he pushes himself up to a sitting position, I grab for his belt, fingers feeling for a gun or a knife of some sort. It’s too dark to see much, but he’s got the advantage since he already knows where, exactly, all of his weapons are. This is going to be a tough one, Aaron, I tell myself, but then I think about Bernadette again. I think about our girls. If I die here, the course of their lives will be irrevocably changed, and that’s not fair to them. Not at all.

When the guy feels me going for his belt, he reacts just the way I thought he would, reaching for a gun in a shoulder holster under his armpit. I just assume there’s two of them, going for the other side and feeling this spike of adrenalized elation when my fingers clench around the butt of a gun.

An elbow comes back, hitting me in the chest, but even though the impact hurts like a bitch, I don’t move, yanking the gun out of its holster and then falling back on my ass to put some space between us. By the feel of it, I can tell it’s a semi-auto of some sort. The most common safety location is at the rear of the slide, but not always. My fingers fumble for it in the dark, but I can’t find anything.

Come on, man, come on.

My attacker is already turning around toward me, using the sound of my breathing to find me in the dark. With few options left, I heft the weapon up in both hands and point it at the shadow I see moving across the silver edge of the moon. It’s the only target I have to aim at. Please, for the love of god, let this be a Glock or a Walther P99 or something without a safety.

I pull the trigger, and blessedly, the weapon discharges, knocking the man back enough that he loses his footing and slips. His body rolls down the hill. I can’t see much, but I can hear the foliage rustling, branches cracking, distant grunts and cries.

And then everything goes silent.

My body is tensed and ready to run, the surge of adrenaline keeping me from feeling any of my injuries as I clench the gun in my left hand and start to move. Part of me wonders if I should try to follow the man down the hill to make sure he’s dead, but there’s too much risk in that.

I have to keep moving.

This time, I veer directly into the road. I don’t have time to stay in the trees. If Ophelia—or whoever—sent one guy after me, it won’t be long until there are more.

At least now, I have a loaded weapon to use. That helps. That helps a hell of a lot.

The terrain levels out, and I’m left standing at a T intersection, the dirt road curving up the hill behind me, and a paved road laid out perpendicular to it. A green sign directs me back toward Springfield—twenty-five fucking miles away.

“Son of a bitch.”

I should’ve checked my attacker’s car for a radio or a phone of some sort, but I guess I’d rather walk twenty-five miles than risk getting caught. Tucking the weapon into the pocket of my hoodie, I start to jog. My adrenaline stays with me for about a mile and a half of that, and then the pain starts.

The next time a car drives by, I duck into the trees, but that doesn’t stop whoever it is from slowing down and stopping.

“Aaron!” a voice calls out, shaky and unfamiliar. It’s that David guy again. Guess the bloodstained hoodie and jeans gave me away. I step out of the woods, removing the pistol from my pocket at the same time. “Whoa, where did you get that?” he whispers, his eyes locked on the gun as he swallows several times to clear his throat.

“Give me your keys,” I tell him, and he looks up at my face. “And your phone.”

“You don’t want my phone,” he says, and I raise a brow, forcing my right hand to grip the weapon even though it hurts. David doesn’t need to know what bad shape I’m in. “My dad tracks me. He has all of that parent-spyware crap installed, too. But I can drive you into town. Nobody has to know about any of this.”

I give him a look.

“You came all the way back here to give me a ride? Sorry if I call bullshit on that.”

“No, I came all the way back here because my dad called me and said he was having trouble getting ahold of his guy.” David pauses and glances over at the woods, as if he can sense the carnage I’ve left behind.

“Right,” I say with a harsh laugh. “And that makes me trust you so much more.”

“Look,” David says, turning back to me, his breathing picking up, hands curling and uncurling as anxiety rides him like a wave. He's so damn easy to read. “My father and his friends …” He trails off, but when he looks me in the face, I can see it. I’ve been victimized, too. It’s implied. “I can’t do much, but I can at least give you a ride.”

I tap the Glock against my thigh. Nothing is ever free. There is always a price. What’s the price here? Too much risk, Aaron, I tell myself, but I’m tired, and my adrenaline won’t last forever. Pretty sure I fractured my leg. Maybe my face. Probably my wrist and hand.

“You drive. I’ll hold the gun. Don’t disappoint me, David.”

We head over to the car—a blacked-out Lexus LX—and I pause.

I know this car, somehow. This is the car that’s always picking Kali up from school. In the driver’s seat, there’s another boy. Clearly, David wasn’t driving. That’s when I remember what Bernie said: David doesn’t drive himself anywhere.

“Oh, please,” the driver says, rolling his eyes dramatically. “You think I’d help my boyfriend’s abusers? Get in the car. I’m Mack, by the way.”

I stand there for a moment, looking between the two of them.

“What about your phone?” I ask, wanting to call Bernadette, hear her voice, listen to her sigh with relief at hearing mine. We’re a tragic fairy tale, me and her. Childhood sweethearts rarely live to see the sunrise together.

“If I were you,” Mack starts, exchanging a look with David. “I wouldn’t take the risk.” He turns back to me. “I work for Tom; he spies on me, too. I watch plenty of gay porn on my phone though, so at least when he snoops, he’s got something to see.” The guy smiles at me, but I’m not exactly in a smiling sort of mood.

I just stare back at him; my face feels like it’s made of slate. Gray and immovable.

“Open the back door,” I say, gesturing with the Glock as David sighs and the other guy—Mack Holdman—taps his fingers on the steering wheel.

“At this rate, we’re only going to be able to make the after-party,” Mack grumbles, but I’m not getting in that SUV until I see that there’s nobody else hiding inside of it. After a quick inspection of the cargo area and the back two rows, I climb into the center seat and keep the Glock at the ready.

“If one of you does a damn thing to piss me off …” I start, but Mack just laughs as David shuts my door and then climbs into the front seat.

“Calm your dick, chestnut,” Mack says, starting the engine. “Trust me: we don’t like Kali anymore than you do.”

He hits the gas and off we go.

Either I’m making a huge mistake here which’ll cause my untimely death, or I’ll be arriving at the after-party in less than thirty minutes.

Checking the Glock’s magazine, I see that I have six shots left.

I’m in a mood, too, so these boys … they better pray for the latter.

Bernadette Blackbird

Kali leaves the building with Sara Young.

The sight of them together makes my teeth hurt. I can only imagine the lies that Kali’s spilling out that pretty mouth of hers. Thank you, Stacey Langford, for sewing that bitch’s lips together. It was way past due and unfortunately, too short-lived.

When they get into Sara’s Subaru, Vic and I follow after on the Harley.

“Will the others be okay without us?” I ask, thinking of Logan’s body and his two discarded mistresses. Vic nods, but he doesn’t have to state the obvious: of course they’ll be okay. We’re at Prescott High; this is our domain.

We climb on the bike and take off at a safe distance. Too safe, for my liking. Every now and again, I wonder if we’re going to lose them.

My arms curl tight around Vic’s waist, and I close my eyes. This is where I feel safest, where I feel most secure. In all the world, this is the only place I can truly be myself. Because Victor can’t see me, but he’s here. Because he doesn’t know if I cry.

I squeeze him even tighter, and he takes one hand off the handlebars, just to touch me. It only lasts a second, but that’s enough. That’s how Vic and I work. We don’t have to spell everything out in words. As soon as I said that fateful word—Havoc—I think we both knew.

   
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