Snowbound

SEVENTY

Fidel finished patting down Kalyn. She was already sweating, her hands restless with nervous tremors.

The man began to shift back and forth on the balls of his feet like a prize-fighter. He grinned. “We go a few rounds? Hand-to-hand combat?”

Kalyn backed slowly away. He pursued.

She asked, “Where’s Javier?”

“Don’t worry. He’ll be along.”

Fidel faked a lunge, drew back into a boxer’s stance, and jabbed, his reach longer than what seemed commensurate with his height.

She slipped the punch, thinking, Next time you better fire back.

He smiled. “You’re quick. Still, I am going to knock all of your teeth out of your mouth and shatter the bones in your face. Do you know what’s going to happen after that?”

Fidel charged. Kalyn sidestepped, his elbow catching her above the left eye. She staggered back, blood sheeting down her face in a flood of warm pain, then turned, sprinting for the Browning. She could see it against the library door, glinting in the firelight.

Fidel whistled. She froze. He came forward, holding the Mossberg at waist level.

“¡Vamos!”

She was twenty feet away, point-blank range for a shotgun, no way to miss unless you set your mind to it.

“¡Vamos!”

Kalyn walked back toward the hearth.

He said, “Get down on the floor.”

She complied, watched him jog over to the library door and pick up the Browning. Fidel pocketed the clip, ejected the live round, then dropped the empty pistol on the floor. He returned and stood over Kalyn, pumping the shotgun again and again. For a moment, she thought he was fucking with her, then wondered if he was confused, unsure of how to operate the weapon. When she saw the shells falling on the stone, she understood.

He slung the shotgun across the lobby, where it slammed into the wall.

“Get up.”

Kalyn struggled to her feet, her head in agony.

The blade caught a sliver of lantern light as the Alpha moved toward her.

Will inched the shotgun barrel toward the corner as Javier spoke.

“I will disarm you, your wife, and Kalyn, immobilize you, and let you watch me slowly and methodically take her apart.”

“What has my daughter done to you, Javier?”

“She is loved by you. That is plenty.”

Devlin gripped the shotgun. Nothing to do but trust she’d pumped it several hours ago. She stood at the door, found the lock in the darkness, slowly turned the dead bolt.

She grasped the doorknob, trying to remember if it had squeaked when she’d opened it before. Turn it slowly. Slower than you’ve ever done anything in your entire life.

The knob turned. Painstakingly, she pulled the door open—just an inch so it could clear the frame. A ribbon of light stretched across the floor, and Devlin let the doorknob ease back into place.

The man’s voice sounded close, a few feet up the corridor.

She pulled the knob again, opening the door another inch, light texturing the exterior. It was chewed up by buckshot—a swath of damage near the floor, another at the top of the door frame. She peeked around the corner, glanced up the corridor. Javier was squatting down along the wall beside a black duffel bag, his back to her, a cigarette dangling from his lips. In one hand, he held a pistol fitted with a silencer and a long magazine. In his other hand was a small device that reminded her of an oversize PEZ dispenser. Javier crouched ten feet from the stairwell, where, under the archway, Devlin’s father was hunched down with a shotgun.

When he saw her, his eyes went wide and he shook his head and mouthed, “Get back inside that room.”