She stared, stunned. It all happened so fast that her brain barely had time to process it.
Desoto took hold of Blair and yanked him up. Blair flung out his arms defensively. His mouth gaped open.
He was yelling something, but Quinn couldn’t translate the words. Her ears were still ringing.
Three quick blasts followed the first two. Blair fell back and sagged against the banister. He clutched feebly at his chest, staring down in shock at the three new holes in his flawless wool coat.
A few feet away, Mrs. Blair cowered on the porch, her hands over her head, weeping.
The man and woman with the sleds were already fleeing down the center of the road. They’d left their sleds—and Mrs. Blair—behind.
Outrage burned through Quinn’s fear. Whatever crimes these people were guilty of, it didn’t warrant death. Not like this, with these maniacs acting as judge, jury, and executioner.
This wasn’t justice. She knew that much.
She longed to stop it, to freaking do something, but it was too late. She was no match for their guns.
For once, she held herself back. Gran was right. They needed to wait until the right moment to act. And it sure as hell wasn’t now. She and Milo needed to get the hell out of here.
“Milo,” she whispered. “We need to go. We need to go before they see us—”
Mrs. Blair fell over her husband’s lifeless body.
Desoto aimed his rifle at her. “Do you need to die, too?”
Mrs. Blair screamed.
Milo pushed away from Quinn. She was too stunned to hold on.
He ran toward the white house, toward the murderers masquerading as militia.
“Milo! No!” She grabbed at him, but he was already out of reach.
“Leave them alone!” Milo screamed. “Stop hurting people!”
On the porch, Desoto turned in their direction. The muzzle of his weapon swung with him.
Without thinking a coherent thought, Quinn sprinted after Milo. Legs pumping, lungs burning, panic sparking bright.
Her hand found its way into her pocket, nudging aside the iPod and coiled earbuds and closing around her slingshot.
Luther grasped Mrs. Blair beneath her arms and lugged her down the porch steps. He pushed her into the snow. She landed on her hands and knees.
“Run!” he shouted. “Go!”
Mrs. Blair scrambled to her feet. She ran down the driveway erratically, arms flailing, tripping in the snow, falling, and then pulling herself up again.
Quinn didn’t take her gaze off Desoto. He strode down the porch steps, carrying the rifle low, not exactly pointed at Milo but not pointed away from him, either.
“Milo!” Quinn shouted.
Brave, fearless Milo acted like he didn’t even see the gun. He ran straight at the fake soldier and pummeled his stomach with his tiny fists. “Go away! Leave us alone and go away!”
With his free hand, Desoto shoved Milo away from him. Hard. “Get the hell out of here!”
Milo almost lost his balance. He stumbled, then regained his footing and launched himself at Desoto again.
Quinn skidded to a stop ten feet away. “Don’t you dare lay a hand on him!”
Desoto ignored her. He dropped his rifle. He seized Milo around his thin neck with both hands and lifted him clear off the ground.
Rage streaked through her veins. She pulled the slingshot and a few rounds of ammo from her pocket with shaking hands. She planted her feet.
Milo’s face turned red. He beat weakly at Desoto’s muscled arms.
Desoto grimaced. “I warned you, you little—”
Quinn fitted her wrist guard, loaded the steel ball into the pouch, and drew the tapered bands taut, to her cheek, just below her right eye.
She canted the frame horizontally, lined up her sights with Desoto’s ugly flat face.
She did not weigh the consequences. She did not think about anything but nailing her target. Her angle wasn’t right to strike an eye with a direct shot. She lowered her sights slightly, zeroed in on a new target.
Someone was shouting. She didn’t hear them, didn’t comprehend their words. Sound drained away. Everything drained away.
Everything but her rage, her hate, and her absolute focus.
Quinn exhaled—and released.
The quarter-inch steel ball launched with tremendous velocity, whizzing through the air at a couple hundred feet per second.
At twenty feet away, Quinn did not miss. She never missed.
She shot Sebastian Desoto in the throat.
The steel ball struck him below and just to the right of his Adam’s apple. It was not a bullet. It was not powerful enough to break the skin, but it could still do damage. And it would certainly hurt like a mother.
Desoto flinched. His eyes bulged. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
He released Milo. The boy dropped to the snow in a crumpled heap.
Desoto’s hands went to his neck. The nasty purple bulge was already the size of a marble.
“What did you do to me?” he snarled hoarsely. His words came out raspy, like his throat was sandpaper.
Quinn already had another round loaded and the band strung to her cheek. It thrummed with tension, but her hands were steady.
“Your voice box is badly bruised,” she said with a calmness she didn’t feel. Her heart jackhammered against her ribs. “Nothing is broken, unfortunately.”
Milo scrambled to his feet. He stood between Desoto and Quinn, nervous and indecisive. He looked scared now. Good. A little fear never hurt anyone.
“Milo,” Quinn said, “get behind me right now.”
He obeyed. He scampered to her side without a backward glance.
“I’ll kill you!” Desoto croaked. He lunged for the AK-47, grabbed it, and started toward her.
She tightened her grip on the slingshot and kept her aim true. “Take another step, and the next one I unleash will pierce straight through your eye socket.”
Desoto halted. Eight feet away now. He raised the rifle and pointed it at her chest.
Quinn’s legs went weak and shaky. She could barely hold herself upright.
She did not back down. She couldn’t afford to.
“If you’re lucky,” she said, “it’ll just turn that eye to jelly and stop there. If you’re not, it punches into your brain. It’s just a little steel ball, but inside your soft, squishy brain? Who knows what important functions it’ll scramble? I assume you enjoy speaking and thinking? Remembering your own name? Taking a piss by yourself?”
Desoto aimed at her head. “Not if I shoot you dead first, you little whore—”
“Enough!” Luther appeared out of nowhere. He stepped between Desoto and Quinn. He held up his free hand, palm out, in a placating gesture. In his right hand, he held his rifle pointed at the ground. “Slow this rodeo down, okay? That’s Chief Sheridan’s son right there.”
Desoto’s expression didn’t change. “What’s the police chief got to do with us?”
“Come on, now,” Luther said. “Sinclair wouldn’t like it. You and I both know that. And what the superintendent doesn’t like, Sutter doesn’t like.”
Desoto sneered. “For now.”
“For now,” Luther acknowledged. “You really don’t want to hurt these kids. We’ve done enough. It’s enough.”
Desoto blew out a frustrated breath. He lowered the AK-47. His gaze never left Quinn’s face. His eyes narrowed with barely restrained rage. The welt on his throat bulged with his every swallow. “This isn’t over.”