Born To Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

But she’s alive! There’s still time!

“Hang on!” he ordered brokenly. “Hang the hell on!”

Using the shovel to drag himself forward, he pulled himself closer toward the doorway, to the frigid air blowing snow into the stable. Somewhere behind him, he heard the uneven footsteps of the killer, but he kept moving, didn’t care that the rifle might be trained on the back of his head.

Through the doorway he crawled into the night, the cold a welcome slap to his swirling senses.

He saw her then. Unmoving. A crumpled form lying in the snow just outside the building, strands of her hair being lifted by the wind.

NO! NO! NO!

Oh, dear God . . . let her still be alive.

“Kacey,” he choked out. “God, please ... Kacey.” Again he heard a noise behind him. The wounded footsteps of the assassin. Was the bastard going to kill him now?

He thought he saw her move. Oh, sweet Jesus! Yes, there it was again: one foot was twitching. He crawled closer, to where he could see the rest of her body, and noticed a terrifying, spreading darkness staining the snow beneath her. “Why?” he whispered, fury tearing through him. Why had she come to his rescue?

“Too late, lover boy,” the big man behind him was saying, breathing hard. Far in the distance—too far—sirens shrieked over the howl of the wind.

Exhausted, breathing hard, Trace looked over his shoulder and saw a huge, shadowy shape fill the doorway. The rifle was at his shoulder, night goggles covering his eyes, but he leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb. Trace saw dark splotches begin to color the snow beneath the man’s left arm. So the pitchfork had done some damage.

“You’re dead now, you son of a bitch,” the killer warned, his voice a watery hiss.

That’s when Trace noticed the gun in the snow.

Lying at the end of Kacey’s fingers, its barrel pointed away from her.

Still holding the shovel as protection, Trace lunged, one arm outstretched. He missed, his fingers brushing the gun’s muzzle and causing it to spin, burying deep in the snow.

The killer laughed, a gurgling, demonic sound that echoed through the night. “Nice try, bastard!”

Click!

Trace sprang.

Swinging his shovel, the blade knifing through the air, he landed in a drift a foot from the gun. Snatching up the weapon, he nearly passed out in the process. All he could think about was Kacey. Sweet Kacey. How she’d tried to save him and died in the process.

“Say your prayers, cowboy,” the killer ordered, hobbling closer, his rifle aimed straight at Trace. “You’re gonna get to join your girlfriend.”

A tremendous growl erupted from inside the stable.

The killer glanced back, momenta

rily distracted.

Both dogs catapulted through the open doorway.

Snarling, ears flattened, heads low, fangs showing, they split: one turning left, the other right. They determinedly circled the killer, and snapped and lunged, like hungry wolves ready to bring down prey.

“Shit.” The killer didn’t hesitate, just took aim at the bigger dog.

Bonzi!

“No!” Trace yelled, trying to stagger to his feet and falling backward.

Bonzi leapt, exposing his big chest and belly, white teeth flashing against his dark lips.

BLAM!