Free The Blood Guard (The Blood Guard series) by Carter Roy Page A

Blondie and Slicked-Back Hair, and that’s when I saw what was headed our way.
    “Hey!” I shouted at Greta as I ran toward her. But she wasn’t listening.
    Greta scooped up the Tesla gun and took a stance like a cop in a movi e — f eet wide, both hands around the weapon, arms locked. “Stop now or I’ll shoot!”
    “Greta!” I grabbed her collar in my fist and yanked her toward me, hard.
    A wall of wind slammed us backward against the pavement as a blue eighteen-wheeler semitrailer skidded past, its brakes locked. In its wake was a cloud of smoke thrown up by the skid.
    We sat on the concrete, coughing.
    “What happened?” Greta asked. She tucked the Tesla gun into her jeans, pulled her shirt down, and staggered to her feet. Then she helped me up.
    “Dawkins!” I called out. “Jack!” I waved the smoke away, but there was nothing to see: just an enormous trailer truck in the middle of the gas station off-ramp.
    The driver had stopped his vehicle, but only after it had skidded over the spot where Dawkins and Mr. Clean had been fighting. Had they escaped? Rolled to the other side, maybe? I jogged alongside the wheels, shouting, “Jack? Jack?”
    Greta followed. “They got away, right? Ronan, tell me they weren’t there whe n — ” And then she shrieked and clutched my arm.
    I saw what she was looking at.
    An arm was sticking out from beneath a set of four giant tires, the leather jacket unmistakable, the fingers of the hand relaxed, and open. The wheels rested nearly flat on the pavement. Anyone underneath them wouldn’t be getting up ever again.
    We’d found Dawkins.

C H A PT E R 9 :
    GRAND THEFT AUTO
    I don’t know how long we stood there, staring. Long enough that the big rig driver, a portly man with muttonchop whiskers, swung down out of his cab and came to stand beside us. “They were in the roa d !” he kept saying.
    “We have to get out of here,” Greta said, dragging me backward by the hood of my sweatshirt. “He’s gone, Ronan. We can’t help him.”
    “But.…” I couldn’t stop staring at Dawkins’ empty hand. I felt sickened knowing that he was under those wheels, sure, but that was only part of it. Mostly, what I felt was alone. The only connection I’d had to my parents had been this crazy kid with the weird accent, and now he was gone.
    “I’m going to be sick,” I said.
    “No, Ronan, you’re not,” Greta said, yanking my arm again. “You are going to come with me.”
    She pulled me past a bunch of senior citizens in fanny packs and sun visors who were piling out of a turquoise tour bus and joining a thick ring of onlookers. In the commotion, everyone seemed to have forgotten about the Cadillac.
    “Keep edging back,” Greta said quietly beside me. “We’ll disappear in the crowd.”
    “There they are!” someone said. “Take them, Mr. Four.”
    A hand caught my right arm and twisted it back so hard that I yelped. I found myself face-to-face with Slicked-Back Hair.
    Mr. Four, I guessed.
    He was clean-shaven, his face weirdly slack-jawed and waxy looking. I couldn’t tell how old he was. Definitely past thirty.
    He stared at me, unblinking, his eyes full of nothin g — n ot hatred, not satisfaction at having caught me, just emptiness. I felt cold metal as he snapped handcuffs onto my wrists.
    Next to him was Blondie. Her slow smile made my mouth go dry. “Children, we’re going to have to take you in for questioning.” She held up her badge again, and the people around us cleared a space. “There’s nothing to see here,” she announced. “Just two officers of the law apprehending a couple of young criminals.”
    “Let go of me,” Greta snapped, twisting and trying to break the woman’s grip.
    The woman smacked the back of Greta’s head with her open palm, then plucked the Tesla gun out from under her shirt, saying, “Aha!”
    Around us, the crowd murmured.
    Spinning Greta around, Blondie cuffed her, too, and pushed her toward the SUV. Mr. Four