“Motherfucker,” I groan, putting my back against the trunk of a tree. My leg is starting to go numb from the pain, and my right arm is a mess of fire. It hurts to even curl my fingers into a fist. When I lean my head back, I can see a glimpse of the silver-edged moon through the trees.

I wish I had some idea of where, exactly, I am. Even just a general sense of direction would be nice. Instead, I push up off the tree and continue to navigate half-blind and dragging my right leg through the foliage.

Dew-dotted ferns soak my jeans and leave me shivering as I continue to trace the winding dirt road down the hill. The terrain is rough. It’d be a challenge on a good day. And today, well, let’s just say today is not a very good day for me.

Not thirty minutes into this mess, I hear a car on the road and let out a string of curses that’d make even Bernadette blush. The thought makes me smile, but it’s a grim one. As soon as the people in that car discover the house, I’m in deep shit.

Run, Aaron. Forget the pain and just go.

I start to move as fast as I can, pushing my adrenaline reserves to the limit. If I fall and hurt myself any further, it could be a death wish. Chances are if I break a leg, I’m not dragging myself out of these woods alive. Besides the very obvious threat of humanity, there are coyotes, cougars, and bears out here.

Twice, I stumble, but manage to avoid serious injury, using the trunks of trees to haul myself to my feet as I careen down the hill at a pace that’s decidedly dangerous.

Even worse though, is the sound of that car circling back down the mountain.

Not long after, I hear it: the crashing of boots in the woods, the cracking of sticks, the rustling of brush. Ducking low, I huddle beneath the reaching limbs of a blackberry bush. The tendrils are like alien arms, reaching out into the darkness. They’re dotted with thorns, and I’m sure I’m bleeding, but it’s sure as fuck better than getting found by some of Ophelia’s goons.

Whoever it is that’s in the woods with me—Charter Crew, one of those hired thugs, whatever—is moving quickly, but not quietly, like they’re so certain that I can’t have gone far that they’re not even trying.

That much I pick up right away. Oh, and the fact that there’s only one of them, too.

Good sign.

I wait for the sound of their boots to pass by my hiding place as they follow the road down the hill. After long enough, they’re likely to switch to the other side and continue their search there. That’s when I can start moving again.

My breathing is controlled, nice and quiet, but I can’t help the shivering. It’s cold out here, and I’m covered in blood. My face hurts, and everything is damp and wet; my clothes are rapidly becoming soaked. Even the damn blackberry bush above me is dripping down the back of my hoodie, cold fingers of water sliding down my spine.

December in Oregon, what are you gonna do?

When the woods are silent long enough to satisfy me, I stand up and keep going, intending on putting distance between me and my pursuer.

I make it all of fifteen feet before somebody comes at me from behind.

The guy—whoever the fuck he is—wraps his arm around my neck. But if he thought this was going to be easy, then he doesn’t know what it’s like when you live for someone other than yourself.

When I fight, I’m not fighting for pride, or because I’m some macho dickface with something to prove. I’m not even fighting to survive. The only reason I fight is for the people I love. And when you’ve got motivation like that, you can break necks like you were born to do it.

Using the slope of the hill and the bodyweight of my attacker, I throw him forward and over my shoulder. His back hits the ground hard, and he grunts. It’s the only sound he manages to get out before I’m driving my elbow into the front of his throat.

The man gags, hands reaching up to grab at me, but I pull back quick enough that his fingertips do little more than graze my face. Bet he has weapons on him though. As soon as he recovers from the element of surprise long enough to remember that, I’m screwed.

As he pushes himself up to a sitting position, I grab for his belt, fingers feeling for a gun or a knife of some sort. It’s too dark to see much, but he’s got the advantage since he already knows where, exactly, all of his weapons are. This is going to be a tough one, Aaron, I tell myself, but then I think about Bernadette again. I think about our girls. If I die here, the course of their lives will be irrevocably changed, and that’s not fair to them. Not at all.

When the guy feels me going for his belt, he reacts just the way I thought he would, reaching for a gun in a shoulder holster under his armpit. I just assume there’s two of them, going for the other side and feeling this spike of adrenalized elation when my fingers clench around the butt of a gun.

An elbow comes back, hitting me in the chest, but even though the impact hurts like a bitch, I don’t move, yanking the gun out of its holster and then falling back on my ass to put some space between us. By the feel of it, I can tell it’s a semi-auto of some sort. The most common safety location is at the rear of the slide, but not always. My fingers fumble for it in the dark, but I can’t find anything.

Come on, man, come on.

My attacker is already turning around toward me, using the sound of my breathing to find me in the dark. With few options left, I heft the weapon up in both hands and point it at the shadow I see moving across the silver edge of the moon. It’s the only target I have to aim at. Please, for the love of god, let this be a Glock or a Walther P99 or something without a safety.

I pull the trigger, and blessedly, the weapon discharges, knocking the man back enough that he loses his footing and slips. His body rolls down the hill. I can’t see much, but I can hear the foliage rustling, branches cracking, distant grunts and cries.

And then everything goes silent.

My body is tensed and ready to run, the surge of adrenaline keeping me from feeling any of my injuries as I clench the gun in my left hand and start to move. Part of me wonders if I should try to follow the man down the hill to make sure he’s dead, but there’s too much risk in that.

I have to keep moving.

This time, I veer directly into the road. I don’t have time to stay in the trees. If Ophelia—or whoever—sent one guy after me, it won’t be long until there are more.

At least now, I have a loaded weapon to use. That helps. That helps a hell of a lot.

The terrain levels out, and I’m left standing at a T intersection, the dirt road curving up the hill behind me, and a paved road laid out perpendicular to it. A green sign directs me back toward Springfield—twenty-five fucking miles away.

“Son of a bitch.”

I should’ve checked my attacker’s car for a radio or a phone of some sort, but I guess I’d rather walk twenty-five miles than risk getting caught. Tucking the weapon into the pocket of my hoodie, I start to jog. My adrenaline stays with me for about a mile and a half of that, and then the pain starts.

The next time a car drives by, I duck into the trees, but that doesn’t stop whoever it is from slowing down and stopping.

“Aaron!” a voice calls out, shaky and unfamiliar. It’s that David guy again. Guess the bloodstained hoodie and jeans gave me away. I step out of the woods, removing the pistol from my pocket at the same time. “Whoa, where did you get that?” he whispers, his eyes locked on the gun as he swallows several times to clear his throat.