T W E N T Y F O U R
Blood splatters my face, the warmth of it sticking to my skin, and I wonder if I’m dead.
I slowly open my eyes, and then realize what has happened. I am not dead; I was not even fired upon. The slaverunner was shot from behind, in the back of the head, and his brains splattered all over me. Someone shot him. Someone saved me.
Logan stands behind him, his g*n outstretched, still smoking. I can’t believe it. He’s come back for me.
Logan offers his hand. I take it. It’s huge and rough, and he pulls me to my feet in one swift motion.
“GET IN!” he screams.
I run to the passenger side and jump in. Logan jumps into the driver’s side, slams the door, and before I am barely in, he pulls out, gunning the Humvee. It slips and slides in the snow as we peel out.
The other s
