He held up his hand to block the sunlight. He called behind him, “Michelle, I’ll need you to join me.”

Michelle robotically picked her way over the back seat. She flinched away from Carter. She avoided Sara’s questioning look. Her pants were still hanging open when she jumped out of the car. The gravel must’ve been sharp on her bare feet, but she gave no reaction.

What had they done to break her so irrevocably?

“Let’s go.” Dash indicated that Michelle should walk toward the van. He’d tucked his hand into the opening between his shirt buttons, fashioning a sort of sling. The bullet had missed his humerus. There was muscle damage that would make it hurt when he moved, but he could still move.

Carter mumbled, “What’s he doing?”

Sara knew what he was doing, even as she silently prayed that it would not happen.

The delivery man came out of the building. His dolly was empty. He had his back to them as he closed the service door. Dash reached into his holster and pulled out Will’s gun. The delivery man turned around, and that was the last movement his body voluntarily made.

Dash shot him twice in the face.

Sara watched the closed door at the rear of the building. No one came out. They hadn’t heard the gunshots over the music. Or they’d heard them, but this was the type of neighborhood where gunfire was not unusual.

Carter said, “If you tell him what happened back there, I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Sara looked into the mirror. “That you abandoned Hurley? Or that your bro Hurley tried to kill you?”

Carter’s eyes slid toward the front. He silently watched Dash and Michelle load the dead delivery man’s body into the van.

Carter said, “I figure it’ll take less than ten minutes for me to fuck that bad attitude out of your mouth.”

Sara felt her throat constrict. She looked at her fingers wrapped tightly around the steering wheel. She had transferred blood from Dash’s shoulder wound onto the leather. Merle’s blood had to be mixed in there, too; Sara had touched his head wound at the crash site. Carter’s leg had probably bled in the back seat of her car. Vale had provided his own DNA in the front.

She told Carter, “Enjoy that burning sensation you’re feeling in your balls.” She locked eyes with him in the mirror. “Once that knife is out, that’s the last time you’ll feel your scrotum.”

Vale gave a sharp wheeze as he inhaled. “Sh . . . shut up . . .” He pointed his revolver at Sara. His hand was steady. “Walk a-around . . . the front. The front . . . of the c-car.”

Sara reached for the door handle. She saw the time on her watch.

2:17 p.m.

She didn’t pull the handle.

Her Apple Watch.

The back door opened. Carter slid out of the car, careful not to bump the knife. He clicked the door shut. He stood outside the car, waiting.

Sara’s mind raced through the options as she slowly pulled twice on the handle. The watch had both cellular and GPS. She could make a phone call, but the speaker would play the caller’s voice. Sending a text was too cumbersome. There was a Walkie-Talkie app, but she would have to tap the icon, scroll to the right person, and hold the yellow button long enough to send a message through.

She got out of the car. She moved slowly, trying to buy herself some time.

“Go around the front of the car and help Vale.” Carter showed her the Glock, as if she’d forgotten about it. “Don’t fuck around or I’ll put a bullet in your head.”

Sara tried to stall. “You should leave him. He’s going to die anyway.”

“We don’t leave men behind.”

“Does Hurley know that?”

He punched her in the stomach. The pain was an explosion inside of her body. Sara doubled over. Dropped to her knees. Her head started to swim. She couldn’t breathe.

“Get up, bitch.”

Sara pressed her forehead to the ground. Saliva dripped from her mouth. Her hands had automatically gone to her stomach. The muscles spasmed. She blinked open her eyes. The watch screen was glowing. She tapped the Walkie-Talkie button. Faith was the first name on her list. She held the yellow circle down and said, “Carter, do you—do you really think the cops aren’t going to spot a white potato chip van on 285?”

“Not your problem.”

Gravel crunched under tires. The van had pulled up.

Sara raised her head. The world tilted sideways. She could barely make it to her feet. The pain in her belly forced her to walk doubled over. She tried not to think about Will experiencing the same agony, but worse. She had to steady herself on the car as she made her way around to the other side.

Vale had already opened the door. His lips looked bruised. His eyelids drooped. He was decompensating faster than she had hoped.

“Gimme,” Carter said, grabbing the revolver away from Vale.

Sara had no choice but to help the injured man from the car. Vale’s arm went around her shoulder. His other arm was still looped around his chest, his finger jammed inside the gunshot wound.

“Hurry up.” Carter waved the gun to get her moving.

Vale tried to push himself up with his legs. He was muscular, much heavier than he looked. Sara took a step away when he was expecting her to step forward. Instinctively, she tried to keep him from falling, but she could not move quickly enough.

Vale landed on his back. What little breath he had left was knocked out of him. He gasped for air. His eyes were wild.

Sara went to her knees. She didn’t give a shit about Vale. She didn’t want to be punched again. She pretended to examine him—looking at his pupils, pressing her ear to his heart. His shirt was raised. Blood dribbled in a steady stream from the gunshot wound. Bright red, not venal blood but arterial. The bullet had entered through the axilla, where all the nerves and arteries were bundled.

Dash was out of the van. He helped Vale sit up. He told Sara, “A hand with my friend, if you don’t mind?”

There was something weirdly commanding about his polite, calm tone. He wasn’t helplessly panicked like Vale or blinded by anger like Carter. Dash struck Sara as the type of person who could wield his moods like a sword. She didn’t want to ever find herself on the sharp end.

Along with Dash, Sara used her shoulder to raise Vale to standing. They got him to the van. He was able to crawl on his own into the back.

Sara felt Dash’s hand on her shoulder.

“Let’s take that off, please, ma’am.”

He had noticed the watch.

Sara turned the face down as she undid the strap. Instead of handing it to Dash, she threw it into the woods.

“Thank you,” he said, as if this was exactly what he’d wanted to happen. He motioned for Michelle. He didn’t have to give her instruction. She silently helped move the delivery man out of the van and into the BMW.

Why was she so compliant?

“Gonna fuck you up,” Carter whispered to Sara. He edged into the van on his ass, dragging his stiff leg across the floor.

The driver’s side door shut. Michelle put on her seat belt. She turned on the ignition. She put both hands on the wheel. She stared straight ahead, waiting to be told what to do next.

Why?

“I just need another coupla three seconds.” Dash had managed to open the fuel door to the BMW. He pulled an emergency road flare out of his pocket. He struck the top, which was like a giant match head. Burning white sparks shot out like a sparkler.

He told Sara, “You might want to hurry.”

Sara got into the back of the van. The last thing she saw before she closed the sliding door was Dash jamming the burning flare into the mouth of the gas tank.

He jumped into the front seat. “Go.”

Michelle hit the gas. The van lurched. They took a sharp turn around the building.

Gasoline burned, but only the fumes could cause an explosion. Dash had timed it right. They were fifty yards away when the shock of the blast reached the van.

If the police found the BMW, all the forensics would be burned away.

The blood on the steering wheel. The blood on the seats. The delivery man’s body.

All gone.

“Shit,” Carter muttered. “Shit-shit-shit.” The knife had shifted despite his best efforts. He was cupping his groin. He glanced over at Sara, a helpless look in his eyes.

She looked away.

Dash called, “We good, brothers?”

“Yeah,” Vale mumbled.

“Hell, yeah,” Carter said, though his voice was hoarse.

Sara listened to the steady drone of the wheels on the road. She reached into her empty pocket. She used her thumb to methodically clean beneath her fingernails.

She had scratched Vale’s back when he fell down, gouging out rows of his skin.

At the site of the car accident, she had touched Merle’s head wound and rubbed her fingers clean on her shorts. She had run her palm across Dash’s wounded shoulder. She had transferred Hurley’s blood from the back seat of the Malibu. She would put her hand in the pool of blood seeping out of Carter’s leg when they eventually dragged her out of the van.

Sara knew the statistics. They were taking her to a second location. Statistically, her chances of survival had been cut to roughly 12 percent.