Without Mercy - Lisa Jackson [186]
“Save me,” Shay groaned as she approached, nearly stumbling over Eric Rolfe’s dead body. She glanced down at him and her expression turned dark. “Serves you right, bastard,” she said just as Flannagan, astride Omen, burst across the lawn.
The black horse plowed through the snow, sending up a spray of powder. Behind him, the entire herd ran wildly through the grounds, kicking up more snow, dark legs flashing, eyes bright.
“What the hell?” Trent said, but got it. In desperation, Bert Flannagan had come up with the harebrained idea that a stampede would stop the ensuing attack. Eyes bright, Flannagan held a gun in each hand and the reins in his teeth, like some damned Hollywood version of an anti-hero riding to save the day.
Like an avenger from hell, he headed straight for the weak group of TAs who were surveying the bloody scene, then climbed off his horse and scooped up all their weapons.
“Hey!” Meeker said. “Leave everything. We got it.”
Flannagan did as he was told and eyed the small cluster of remaining TAs. “Guess I missed the action,” he said.
Trent said, “A day late and a dollar short.”
“Always these days, it seems,” Flannagan said, stuffing his pistols into holsters and eyeing the carnage as if he were sorry not to have been a part of it.
Meeker looked at the vigilante. “You’re in time for clean up.”
“My luck.” Flannagan said unhappily.
“Who would have thought?” Jules whispered as she eyed the bloodied snow. Ortega, still alive, was whimpering.
“I’ve got him,” Flannagan said, no doubt a trained medic, though Jordan Ayres, the nurse, dressed in a snowsuit, had left her post in the clinic and, with a bag in hand, was hurrying toward the injured students.
Trent inspected the body of Eric Rolfe. The kid was dead, staring sightlessly upward, his face still showing signs of the hatred that had burned deep in his guts. Trent wondered what had happened to the boy to make him such easy fodder for a homicidal fanatic like Spurrier. Had Rolfe been hard-wired wrong from birth? He reached into the stiff, frozen pockets of Rolfe’s jacket and discovered a set of keys to the handcuffs.
“Here we go.” Trent planted a kiss on Jules’s forehead as she rubbed her wrists and took the key to Shaylee, who, now that she had no one to kick to hell and back, was breathing hard, staring at her sister in disbelief.
“You and the cowboy? Really?”
“Looks like.” Jules hazarded a glance at Trent. No man on earth had the right to appear so damned sexy, especially after the hellish night they’d just endured. Quickly Jules unlocked Shay’s wrists. “How about that?”
“Yeah,” Shay said rubbing her wrists and managing a fake, un happy grin, “How about that?”
Jules hugged her fiercely. The sky was lightening rapidly now, the sun chasing away the stars and reflecting on the churned snow.
“God, I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Me too.”
“I was afraid…really scared that they had…” She swallowed hard, the words hard to say. “I mean I thought they might have killed you, too. When I saw Maeve I was sure there were others and you…”
Jules blinked hard, tears burning her eyes.
“Hey. I’m okay.” Shay said. “But I told you this place was sick and twisted. You get it now, right? So why don’t we get the hell out of here? Take me home.”
“As soon as I can,” she promised, swallowing the lump in her throat. “As soon as I can.”
Shay was nodding to herself, the aftereffects of being held at gun-point, in fear for her life, taking hold. “Good. That’s good. I have to get out of here. Hey, why don’t you give me those,” she said indicating the small key that unlocked the cuffs. “I’ll spring Nell.”
“Sure.” Jules handed her the keys.
“First things first, though.” Shay marched up to a whimpering Missy Albright, pulled a pair of handcuffs from Tim Takasumi’s hands and clipped the cuffs on the taller girl herself. “Serves you right, you bitch!” Shay said, giving Missy a push, then catching her by the pockets.
“That’s enough!” Meeker ordered and Shay, fists clenched, grudgingly backed away.
“I