Free Strike by Delilah S. Dawson Page A

woods, what with the crime wave.”
    â€œWe’re just going camping with some friends,” Chance says. He starts bagging his stuff up so we can get the hell out before we have to tell a bunch of stupid lies to someone who has no idea that she’s not an American anymore. Valor must be hiding what they’re doing from the media, or else she’d know exactly why we have survival gear.
    A crime wave? That’s what they’re saying? Scared people will believe anything.
    â€œHave fun. Watch out for bears.” She’s still chewing, hands on her hips, as we push our carts out.
    I’m putting my bags in Wyatt’s trunk when a guy gets out of a black sedan across the lot. In between the darkness and the credit card panic during checkout, I forgot to look for suits. In this country town, unless it’s prom weekend or you’re going to a funeral, there’s only one reason to wear a slick black suit. I go cold all over and turn around, pulling my gun out from my waistband and holding it low behind my back as Chance follows my line of sight and mutters, “Shit.”
    But the guy just walks past us, checking his phone. No sunglasses, no ear wire. Probably not even Valor, then. Or maybe offduty. He didn’t even look at me. But, well, I’m not special, am I? Just another dumb kid until I pull out my gun.
    â€œYou’ve got money left on Gabriela’s card, right?” I ask Chance.
    He eases his gun back into his jeans. “Yeah. Why?”
    â€œBecause I don’t want to eat whatever they’re serving at Leon’s house.”

    The drive to Crane Hollow is quiet, the car filled with the scent of burgers and fries. I’m worried about Matty, worried about Gabriela and Kevin, worried about what a rebel camp on Leon’s land is going to be like. We pass the road to my house, and my throat goes tight. The sky is dark and cloudy, but I still look for smoke. If Chance did what they asked and they still burned his house down and killed his parents, what are they going to do to my mom once they realize I opted out? Shit. I pull down the mirror and barely recognize myself. I look like I’ve been to war, like I’m haunted. Like I killed ten people this week, most of them innocent.
    â€œWe won’t let them hurt you,” Chance says, quiet.
    My head jerks up. “What?”
    â€œI’m just saying . . . I know we started off on the wrong foot when you shot my orphan, but whatever’s happening in Crane Hollow, you and Gabriela don’t go anywhere alone. I don’t trust that guy.” He scoffs. “Leon Crane. Who names a kid Leon?”
    â€œThe notary public married to a deer butcher,” Wyatt says. Heglances at me in the half-light. “And he’s right. You need to stay close. After those guys . . .” He trails off. I don’t know if he’s referring to the IT robbers who tried to rape me in the back of my truck or the thugs at Sherry’s house, and it doesn’t matter. Men are desperate now, and there are no laws.
    But I don’t want to sound like a damsel, so I say, “Whatever. I’ll just shoot anybody who gives me trouble. It’s worked so far.”
    We turn onto Crane Road at a light, and there’s a stark difference between the busy, well-lit highway and the curvy country road. There are no streetlights, and the grass is high on the shoulders, with heavy forest and barbed-wire fences in various stages of slow death along the sides. It’s always looked like this—like anyone who isn’t a Crane is unwelcome. If we kept driving down this road and made a few more turns, we’d end up at Alistair’s trailer—or the ashes of it. Instead, we turn at a collection of ramshackle mailboxes covered in NO TRESPASSING signs and bump along the dirt and gravel road toward the scattered buildings of Crane Hollow.

6.
    A figure steps from the woods to block