No Exit by Taylor Adams 2

2:16 a.m.
Darby froze in the doorway.
Ed was murmuring something (“No signal this far from
—”) and stopped mid-sentence when he saw her, mid-step
near Espresso Peak with his Android in his palm. Sandi was
kneeling by the table, and she whirled to face Darby, revealing
a tiny shape standing behind her.
It was … it was Jay.
Oh, thank God.
The girl’s dark hair was speckled with snowflakes. Her
cheeks were rash-red. She was shrouded in Sandi’s
bumblebee-yellow parka, dwarfed by its saggy sleeves. This
was the first time Darby had seen the girl in full light, outside
of that dog kennel, and for a shivery moment, she wanted only
to close the distance between them, to lift this little child she
barely knew and squeeze her into a bracing hug.
You turned around.
Oh, thank God, Jay, we lost your tracks but you turned
around.
Sandi stood up, a black pepper-spray canister raised in a
knuckled hand, her eyes rock-hard. “Not one step closer.”
Jay grabbed her wrist. “No. She rescued me—”
“Sandi,” Ed hissed. “For Christ’s sake—”
The door banged shut behind Darby, jolting her back into
the moment. She tried to figure — how far behind her were the
brothers now? A hundred yards? Fifty? She caught her breath,
tears in her eyes, struggling to speak: “They’re coming.
They’re armed, and they’re right behind me—”
Ed knew who they were. “You’re sure they’re armed?”
“Yeah.” She locked the deadbolt.