Mari Mancusi - Scorched

“Well, yes, the girl’s right about that,” Sheriff Bob blustered, looking nervous and unsure. “I’ve known Charlie Foxx for fifty years. He’s good people. He’d never intentionally—”

“Search the barn,” the first agent interrupted, evidently bored by the glowing tribute for the man he’d been sent to hunt down. He pointed to the ladder. “You check the loft. I’ll finish up here.”

Trinity sucked in a breath, watching the suited man start toward the ladder. In a moment, he’d be up there and Connor had nowhere to hide. He had his gun, but if he shot it, he’d give his position away to agent #2. The barn would erupt into a war zone, with she, most likely, the first civilian casualty.

She had to do something and fast.

Her eyes fell to the sheriff’s revolver, dangling from its holster. Her grandpa was always teasing him about forgetting to secure it. “Someday you’ll shoot yourself in the foot,” he’d say. And suddenly she knew exactly what she had to do.

She started to stagger, waving her arms wildly around her. “Oh God,” she moaned in an overloud voice, attracting the attention of the agents. “I feel dizzy! I think I’m going to—ohhh!”

She threw herself backward, with as much drama as she could muster. As predicted, the chivalrous Sheriff Bob dove to catch her. Not an easy move for a man of sixty-five, clocking in at more than three hundred pounds, but the sheriff, to his credit, gave the rescue his all.

Sorry, Bob , she thought, as she allowed herself to collapse into his meaty grip, letting her arms flop to the side like limp spaghetti.

“Never mind her,” the first agent instructed. “Get moving.”

But Trinity’s fingers had already wrapped around the sheriff’s gun, yanking it from its holster. She leapt to her feet, flicking off the safety, aiming the firearm at the two men.

“Drop your weapons. Now!” she cried.

The agents froze, looking at one another doubtfully. Trinity waved the gun, hoping they couldn’t detect the fact that her hands were shaking like crazy.

“Do you even know how to use one of those?” the first agent asked, evidently not quite buying her “I’m a crazy killer and you should be scared of me” routine. Which wasn’t all that surprising, she supposed, seeing as she’d never actually shot at anything but the zombies in her video games.

“She certainly does.”

Trin looked up in surprise as Connor dropped down off the ladder with an easy grace.

He trained his own gun on the agents and gave them a cocky grin. “In fact, you might have seen her handiwork, back at the museum. Man in black? Head blown to smithereens?” He snorted. “The girl’s completely cracked. If I were you, I’d do as she says.”

The agents exchanged unhappy glances but reluctantly obeyed, gingerly lowering their weapons to the floor before straightening up again. Trin shot Connor a grateful look, a rush of adrenaline surging through her. He gave her a curt nod as he deftly kicked the surrendered guns across the barn and out of reach.

Now get the sheriff’s handcuffs , she heard his voice in her head. She still didn’t know how he was doing that, but now wasn’t the time to ask.

“Bob, I need your handcuffs,” she said in a terse voice, turning to the white-faced sheriff. She held out her hand.

“You don’t want to do this, Trinity,” Bob blurted, sounding as if he were still in shock. Not surprising, she supposed. After all, the last two minutes had probably contained more action than the poor guy had seen since taking office forty years ago. “Please. For your grandpa’s sake, just put down the gun.”

“Handcuffs, Bob,” she repeated apologetically. She felt bad to freak him out like this, but what choice did she have at this point? “And then turn around and walk out the door. Get back in your car and drive back to the station. Pretend you never saw us.”

She could feel Connor’s hard stare at her back—he obviously disapproved of letting the sheriff just walk away. But for Trin, this was nonnegotiable. She looked at Bob with beseeching eyes. “Please. Just go,” she begged. “Find my grandpa. Make sure he’s okay.”

Please believe me , she begged silently. I don’t want you to get hurt.

For a moment the sheriff didn’t move. Then, with a heaving sigh, he handed over the cuffs and walked out the door. A moment later, she heard the engine roar to life and the car pull away. She knew he could be calling for backup, that they had to act fast. She approached the agents, cuffs in hand.

“You’re going to be in a lot of trouble,” the first agent said.

“Really? And here I thought you were going to give me a medal,” she muttered as she worked to cuff him to a nearby post. Connor followed suit, commandeering some old rope from the back of the barn to secure his buddy to the ladder. Trin had to admit, his knots looked good. Futuristic Boy Scout, perhaps?

Once both men were secure, she turned to her partner-in-crime, drawing in a breath. “Now let’s get out of here.”

“Walk slowly,” Connor instructed. “As if nothing’s wrong.”

Trinity forced her steps to slow, trying to still her racing heart as they walked down Old Oak Grove’s Main Street as if on a casual Christmas Eve stroll. She even managed to force out a “Merry Christmas” to Mr. Jenkins as he hurried home to meet his wife and daughter. She imagined her neighbor stepping into his warm, cozy house, probably with a fire in the fireplace and a hot meal on the stove. Baby Ava crying “Dada!” and holding up her little arms for him to scoop her up and give her a welcome home hug. A normal, family Christmas that Trinity had always wanted so badly—and seemed destined never to have.

A lump formed in her throat.

Walk , she scolded herself. As if nothing’s wrong.

But everything was wrong, and the enormity of what she’d just done hit her hard and fast. Had she really just stolen a policeman’s gun, then turned it on two Homeland Security agents before taking off with stolen property? How many laws had she broken in just that five-minute stretch alone? How much jail time would she face for those crimes if caught? She imagined herself on trial, up on the stand, telling the jury a wild story about a boy from the future, trying to stop the dragon apocalypse. At least she’d probably end up in Shady Brook rather than prison given that story, along with her mom’s history. Though the thought didn’t make her feel much better.

“So what now?” she demanded, turning to Connor and allowing the anger to well up inside her, displacing her fear. It was the only thing she could do to force herself to keep moving, to not curl up into a ball and pray the nightmare would just go away.

“We have to find someplace safe,” he told her, shifting the pack he wore to keep the egg from plain view. “So we can regroup and figure out a plan.”

A plan. Right. “You didn’t think to make one of those already?” she replied bitterly. “You know, before you decided to travel two hundred years into the past to save the world?”

He cringed, and she regretted her words immediately. It wasn’t his fault things had gotten so out of control. She had been the one who insisted they go to her house, the one who’d called 911. In fact, the majority of the mess they were in now was directly her fault. Not Connor’s. All he’d done was save her life and protect the egg. She should probably be a little more grateful.

She opened her mouth to apologize, but he cut her off. “You’re right,” he said slowly. “You’re completely right. A true soldier is prepared for all possibilities. I wasn’t and I’ve put you in danger because of it. I’m sorry.” He gave her a rueful smile. “Is it too much to ask for a second chance? I’d like to make things right.”