Instinct, Jason Hough [acx book reading TXT] 📗

over the curb and into the street. Pain erupts from my shoulder as it takes the brunt of the fall, but the roll is smooth, and I turn it into a stand and then, ultimately, a run. I’m on Main Street, the SUV bellowing Conaty’s orders is off to my left, parked diagonally, blocking the road. The doors are all open to allow her voice to boom.

I rush directly across the street, aiming at the SUV’s front grille as I squeeze off three more shots. One of the headlights explodes. The other two rounds clang into the metal bodywork.

The SUV’s remaining light stays stubbornly on. Conaty’s voice still drones from the sound system. “Kill Mary Whittaker! Kill Mary Whittaker!”

I stop now, near the center of the road. From here the parked SUV is almost side-on to me. I take more careful aim. One of the mercenary fuckers is beside the vehicle, and at the sight of my shooting posture he twists and spins around the rear, ducking down behind the bumper.

I don’t fire at him, though. I squeeze two more rounds off, both at the driver’s door and hopefully on into the dashboard beyond. No result. Conaty’s voice still blares. Only one round left. I take three long steps to my right so I can see in through the open driver’s side door, aim again at where the stereo is, squeeze, and feel the old pistol recoil.

There’s a shower of sparks from the dash. Indicators flicker, then vanish.

With them goes Conaty’s voice, too, as the vehicle shuts abruptly off. I start to grin, but the sudden bark of an assault rifle changes my mind and sends me sprinting again. The mercenary is firing from behind the vehicle. Even with the deafening series of cracks from the rifle I can still hear his bullets hiss through the air around me.

Somehow I reach the other side of the street unscathed, darting into a narrow alley between two boarded-up storefronts.

The alley is a straight run. Fifty feet of dank, shadowed nothing. Nowhere to hide, no cover to be found. I race down it, my lungs on fire from the effort. I don’t need to look back to know they’re only seconds behind me. I race on. Need to buy time.

Something punches me.

Pain erupts from my arm as a bullet tears through. A searing heat fills my mind with total agony. I stagger but somehow keep going, feeling the warm trickle of blood pouring down my left bicep and into the crease at my elbow. It feels like my arm is being sawn in half.

Another shot sparks off the brick wall beside me, just inches from my head, so close I can feel the shrapnel spray on my ear and cheek.

Consumed with pain, I almost don’t realize I’ve reached the end of the alley. It simply ends, no wall, no nothing. Just the wider back alley separating the row of buildings from the greenbelt.

I turn a sharp left. The rear of Flour Child bakery is beside me, a blur. Raccoons suddenly scatter from the enclosed trash area, hissing as they go.

The first of my pursuers rounds the corner a few seconds later, and from the calamitous noise and wild yip that follows, I guess he or she tripped over one of the animals. Someone else cries out. Confusion ripples through the mob, maybe enhanced by the sudden lack of orders from Conaty. Conscious thought starting to override their instinct to do her bidding. Maybe. I can’t stop to find out.

I force myself to slow down, though. Let them recover, let them close in. Let them focus on me instead of on Kyle. None of this will matter if they find him.

And her.

My left arm feels like it’s on fire by the time I reach the back of the police station. I stumble, already dizzy from blood loss.

There’s a small parking lot behind the building. Weeds poke up through cracks in the pavement. Faded lines delineate unused stalls. Once full of police cars when the town required a bigger force, these days the lot sits empty most of the time, as Greg prefers the visibility of parking out front, a habit he impressed upon me.

Right now only one vehicle is in the lot. Kyle’s huge custom Jeep, empty and dark. It’s in the first spot, right next to the back door.

“Thank you,” I whisper, and deliberately ignore the vehicle. I stagger toward the rear of the station instead, wincing each time I accidentally move my arm. Even the slightest shift in position brings a fresh wave of searing agony, like someone taking scissors to the wound and opening it wider and wider.

I reach for the back door.

It opens before I can grab the handle. Someone’s rushing out, and we almost collide. The look on his face is half surprise and half recognition. Perhaps my broken nose has bought a fraction of a second’s confusion. It’s all I need. One knee to the man’s groin and he’s doubled over and moaning. I kick him for good measure, then move into the dark building.

Behind me, those chasing are near enough to see the door close. One of them shouts, “She went in there! The police station!” Not for the benefit of the mob chasing me, but those around front, the ones with the rifles.

I make an immediate left, racing down the hall at the back of the station. If I can just make it to the weapons locker—

A figure rounds the corner ahead of me, blocking the way. An assault rifle coming up. I take the open doorway on my right and almost slip on the tile floor of the drunk tank. Somehow I have the presence of mind to kick away the wedge that holds the heavy door open. It swings shut behind me with a deep thud, plunging the room into darkness.

I flick Kyle’s flashlight on. Sweep the beam across the foul, stained tiles of the room. A dense odor of bleach makes my already