She could smell herself now.
Sarah sat behind the wheel, Ghost across her lap. Her mouth tasted sour, tongue thick and coated, teeth filmed. She’d found a water bottle under the Jeep’s passenger seat, drank from it. Warm. Plastic-tasting. Better than nothing.
Saturday evening. The Jeep’s engine ticked as it cooled, parked on a dirt access road about a hundred yards from Thompson Auto Body.
The Jeep smelled like Miguel — old coffee and worksite dust — now laced with her own sweat.
The bruises on her hip and ribs had stopped throbbing constantly. Now they only spoke when she moved. Her shoulder was wet under the strap. Probably weeping.
She pushed the door open. Climbed out. Stood there a moment in the fading light, feeling her legs protest. That bone-deep exhaustion where even standing took effort.
Then she moved to the front of the Jeep. Set Ghost carefully on the hood, still warm from the engine.
Through the optic she could see Thompson Auto Body. The holographic sight framed the open bay — two men inside, one working under a hood while another stood near a toolbox. She flipped the magnifier into position. The image jumped closer.
Brett Kowalski. Stocky build, close-cropped hair, weight on his back foot. The same man who’d arrived late in that black Tacoma, Aaron Webb in the passenger seat.
The Tacoma sat near the bay entrance now. Front end crumpled, one headlight shattered, grille buckled inward.
She’d done that. Thursday night. Ramming through their vehicles before the fence, before the ditch, before the woods swallowed her.
The other man — younger, wearing coveralls — walked over to the Tacoma. Ran his hands over the crumpled hood, examining the damage. Turned back to Brett, gestured at the truck, clearly asking something.
Brett shook his head. Sharp. Angry. Waved the guy off.
The coworker shrugged, walked back toward the shop. Brett stood alone near the damaged truck. Pulled out his phone, head down, thumbing the screen.
Sarah’s eyes ached. Lack of sleep. Peripheral vision doing that thing where it fuzzed at the edges. She blinked hard, tried to clear it.
She thumbed the safety off. Adjusted her position — support hand down near the muzzle, rifle pulled tight into her shoulder, cheek pressed against the stock. The fundamentals were the same as pistol — stance, breathing, trigger control — even if the platform felt unfamiliar in her hands.
She found Brett in the reticle. The green dot centered on his chest, just left of the phone’s glow.
Her finger moved to the trigger. Took up the slack, felt the resistance.
Her heartbeat filled her ears. Drowned out everything except the throb of it in her skull, her teeth, in the backs of her eyes.
The reticle wavered. Drifted off-center with each beat. She tried to breathe through it — slow, controlled, the way she would before breaking a shot at a match — but her lungs wouldn’t cooperate.
This wasn’t paper.
This was a person. Standing there breathing. Checking his phone like everyone checked their phone. Alive.
Her finger trembled. The green dot jumped across his chest, settled, jumped again. A breeze she hadn’t felt before touched her face.
Slow down. Control what you can control, Mark’s voice said, distant now beneath her pulse.
But she didn’t.
Competitions were muscle memory. Controlled environments. Buzzers and steel targets and scores at the end. This was—
Brett looked up. Turned his head toward the access road.
Sarah’s finger jerked.
The rifle cracked. Recoil punched her shoulder. Dust kicked up ten feet left of the bay entrance — a small puff against the gravel.
Brett dropped behind the Tacoma. The coworker ducked inside.
Sarah reset the trigger. Found the dot again. But her hands were shaking now, the reticle dancing across the Tacoma’s bed, and Brett was already moving — low crouch, using vehicles for cover, scrambling toward the shop entrance.
He was gone. She came off the rifle slow, cheek leaving the stock.
Her fist came down on the hood. “No. No. No.” The metal boomed under her hand. Three small dents.
Then silence. The sting climbed her wrist. Her eyes went out of focus.
Not enough.
Broad daylight. An unsuppressed shot, and a man who’d seen where it came from. She grabbed Ghost off the hood, set it in the passenger seat, and got in. Started the engine, shifted into drive.
The shop receded in the rearview mirror. Brett somewhere inside, alive. Still breathing.
She drove without direction. West on County Road 14, then north when it intersected with Highway 6. The Jeep’s suspension squeaked over every bump. Engine knocking at idle. Everything mechanical and wrong-sounding.
The wheel was slick under her palms. Sticky. She wiped them on her jeans but it didn’t help.
The sun was setting behind her now, long shadows stretching across the road. She passed farms. Abandoned buildings. A gas station with half its pumps covered in plastic bags.
Night fell.
Sarah drove until she found a rest area off Highway 6. Gravel lot. Picnic tables. No other cars.
She pulled into a spot facing the road. Killed the engine. Locked the doors.
Sat there in the dark.
She’d had Brett Kowalski in her sights. Everything set up perfectly. Distance. Concealment. Stable position. Clear shot.
And she’d flinched. Pulled the trigger like a beginner. Threw the shot wide into nothing.
She knew how to shoot. Thousands of hours of range time, drilled in bone-deep.
But this wasn’t the range.
Her stomach turned. She opened the door, leaned out, spit. The taste in her mouth was metallic, mixing with the sour coating on her tongue. She spit again. Dragged the back of her hand across her mouth.
She tried to summon Mark’s voice. It wouldn’t come.
Like he was pulling away.
Or maybe she was.
Her fists clenched in her lap. She looked down at them like they belonged to someone else.
The tears came — hot and sudden, blurring the dashboard.
Her shoulders shook. She bent forward and let it come. No sound. Just the ragged pull of breath.
When it finally eased, she sat back.
Her shoulder throbbed where the sling had worn the skin raw. She reached back, touched it carefully. Tacky under her fingers. Definitely weeping . She’d need to clean it. Cover it. But Mark’s first aid kit was mostly depleted from Friday morning.
Her whole body ached. Two full days of running, hiding, sleeping on barn floors and cold ground. Barely eating. The hollow feeling in her stomach had gone from sharp to dull. Something she’d learned to ignore.
She pulled Mark’s bag onto her lap. Unzipped it. Felt around in the dark until she found the purple elephant. Pulled it out. Held it against her chest.
She didn’t know if Ana and Sofia had made it out. Didn’t know if they were safe. Didn’t know anything except that Mark was dead.
The elephant smelled like Sofia — that kid smell, slightly sweet, mixed with laundry detergent. Sarah pressed her face against it.
Rain started. First a few drops against the windshield, then steady. It filled the Jeep, rhythmic and close. Water streaked the glass, blurring the rest area lights into soft halos.
Headlights poured into the lot. A sedan pulled up near the restrooms. Engine cut. Doors opened.
A man stepped out, then reached back to help a small girl from the rear seat. Maybe six years old. Pink jacket. She said something Sarah couldn’t hear.
They hurried toward the restroom building, the man’s hand on her shoulder.
Sarah watched through the rearview mirror, the elephant against her chest.
Five minutes later they emerged. The girl ran ahead toward the vending machines near the picnic shelter — excited, bouncing on her toes, pointing at something inside the lit display.
The man called after her. Loud. She didn’t stop.
He closed the distance fast, caught her hand, spun her around. His other hand came down — not hard, just a pop on her bottom, but firm enough to make his point. His voice carried across the lot — sharp, angry.
The girl’s face crumpled. Started to cry.
He picked her up, carried her back to the car, settled her in the back seat. Closed the door. Stood there a moment in the rain before walking around to the driver’s side.
The sedan backed out. Taillights disappeared into the dark.
Sarah’s eyes stayed on the empty mirror.
She was nine. The range behind their house. Autumn afternoon, leaves turning gold and red. Her father had set up targets at fifty yards — paper plates stapled to hay bales.
“Breathe,” he said. “Steady hands, steady mind.”
She shouldered the .22, the way he’d shown her. Lined up the sights. Her finger settled on the trigger.
“Don’t anticipate the shot,” he said. “Just squeeze. Smooth.”
She tried. The rifle cracked. The bullet hit dirt three feet low and left.
Silence.
She started to lower the rifle. He put his hand on the barrel, kept it up. His palm smelled like motor oil and sweat, pressing cold and hard against the metal.
“Again.”
She reset. Tried to steady her breathing. Her hands were shaking now.
The second shot went wide right.
“Jesus Christ, Sarah.” His voice had changed. Not instructional anymore. Hard. “I just showed you. Were you even listening?”
“I’m trying—”
“You’re not trying hard enough.” He took the rifle from her hands. “You know what happens if you can’t shoot straight? You know what happens if someone breaks into our house and I’m not there?”
She shook her head, shoulders drawing in.
“You die. That’s what happens. You freeze up like you just did, and you die.”
Her eyes burned. She tried not to cry but couldn’t stop it.
“Don’t.” His face hardened. “Don’t start that. Crying doesn’t fix anything. Get it together.”
She wiped her face with her sleeve, tried to breathe, but the crying wouldn’t stop.
“I’m trying,” she managed.
“Try harder.” He walked away, rifle over his shoulder. “We’re done for today.”
She stood there alone among the leaves, the targets untouched downrange, her face wet and her hands still shaking.
Sarah blinked. The rain was still drumming against the Jeep. The elephant damp where her face had been pressed against it.
She set it back in the bag. Zipped it. Set it on the passenger seat next to Ghost.
Around midnight she gave up on sleep. Just sat there in the dark, watching the occasional car pass on the highway. Headlights crawling across the Jeep’s interior, then gone.
Her mouth tasted worse now. Sour and stale. She found the warm water bottle again. Drank. Yep, still tasted like shit.
Everything hurt. Her shoulder. Her ribs. Her hip. Her head pounding from dehydration and exhaustion and stress.
She took out Mark’s cigarettes. Held the pack a moment.
Then shook one loose. Lit it. Drew in.
You know how to do this.
A veil of smoke drifted from her lips.
Outside, the highway kept moving.