Now, with Teddy gone from sight and the impending threat bearing down on them, Darla felt more than just anxiety crawl across her skin—her instincts told her to run, hide, leave everyone else to deal with this on their own. She and Teddy could make it on their own out there. There was a small wooden door in the basement that opened up to the backyard; she could easily leave Dean, overpower Ainsley, and take her child and run.

She couldn’t. Despite the growing anxiety, Darla was loyal.

Reluctantly, she took her position in the upstairs bathroom, arranging the blinds at an angle and scanning her vantage point.

“I’ll be right next door,” Dean said by the door. “We both take a shot or no one takes a shot. One knock for ready, aim. Then a long three count and fire.”

“Just go,” she snapped. “I got it.”

He looked like he had wanted to say something else, but instead he just took in a deep breath and disappeared in a flash.

Down in the yard, Spencer stood at the edge of the King’s lawn—which was now shaggy and long, with myriad stocks of dandelions blowing in the wind.

“Helicopters landed,” he shouted. “Down at the park two blocks away. Arrival immediate.” Then he discussed something with Joey, who paced along the edge of the driveway, hitting his free hand against his leg.

From her second-story window, Darla saw the crowd first.

Tiny specks of black and brown, crouching and running in formation along the sidewalk; the sound of their shoes hitting the pavement echoing up the road like little bursts of gunfire. Clap-clap-clap. They moved like military, tight together, ducking and using the area as their shield. This was no rag-tag group of civilians.

She counted.

Seven. Eight. They moved so quickly that she couldn’t tell. There was no way that she could take them out before they saw her; and even though Dean had been using his afternoons to target practice, she didn’t trust his shot either.

“This is going to end poorly,” Darla whispered to herself and she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Her thoughts went to Teddy. “Keep him safe. Just keep him safe,” she whispered to no one in particular. She forced herself to keep her gun steady on the approaching storm.

Three houses down, Spencer saw the visitors and he called for Joey to get back. The two of them backed themselves up onto the King’s front porch. And they raised their guns as a welcome.

Then the men stopped moving. From the back of the group, an unarmed man made his way to the front; he looked at the King house, his eyes scanning the yard, making note of the two men waiting for him, and as he looked upward, Darla ducked, careful not to disturb the blinds. She hoped he had not seen her, hoped she had not immediately blown their cover.

Through the open window, the conversation drifted to her.

“Lower your weapons. Disarm,” the man called. “I am General Charles. We are here for Ethan King. We have no beef with you. I repeat, lower your weapons.”

“General Charles,” Spencer repeated. “Welcome to our humble neighborhood. You see…I’m not exactly sure on whose authority you are acting. Seeing as how there’s no government, or laws, or…a population.”

“I’m not asking, sir,” the General continued. “We are here for Ethan King. And we will acquire him with or without your help.”

“Ethan’s indisposed at the moment. You get me.”

Darla’s heart thumped in her chest. Why had she let him be the face and voice of this operation? Because, she realized, she never thought this moment would come. Throughout all of Spencer’s planning, Darla had thought he was a total paranoid crackpot.

But he had been right.

He’d said they would come armed. Prepared. And as enemies.

Her sense of foreboding increased.

The General was silent. He spoke in low tones to the people around him. Darla hesitated and then pushed herself against the wall and rose slowly to peek at the action. The men moved into position around the perimeter of the yard. All guns trained on Spencer and Joey. The General appeared unarmed and unafraid and his arms were crossed against his body.

“What is it you think you can acquire? What leverage do you think you have over us?” The General said.

Darla peered downward. She could see Spencer and Joey a few steps down now. Standing on the cement steps, Joey and Spencer both scanned their guns over the crowd. Joey bounced his leg and even from a story above, Darla could tell he was a sweating, twitchy mess.

“We want protecting,” Joey blurted and Darla heard Spencer’s sharp voice of dissent.

“Protection,” the former principal amended. “We want food and shelter.”

“How many of you am I offering immunity to?” the General asked.

Spencer didn’t bite. “What you see is what you get.”

“I’m here for Ethan…and the child,” the General said and he took a step forward.

Darla started to let out a yell, but she forced herself to stand silent; she clamped her hand over her mouth and watched—her eyes darting between Spencer and the General.

“What child?” was Spencer’s reply. “You’ve got the wrong house.”

The General turned and nodded. And a single shot rang out.

Joey crumpled to the ground beside Spencer’s feet; his body tumbled forward along the cement and came to rest upon the steps—his legs on the landing, his chin against the ground. Blood pooled and poured from a wound in his head, staining the gray sidewalk a bright crimson. Spencer addressed the body with coldness. He stared down at Joey’s unmoving form, and then he looked back up at the General.

“Oh,” Spencer replied. “You mean that child.”

“No,” Darla gasped and her heart caught in her throat. “No, no.” She thought she was yelling, but no sound was coming out.

Darla heard the knock.

Dean had knocked against the wall.

Ready, aim.

And Darla scrambled. Tossing her gun to the floor, she scampered out of the bathroom and over to the room next door.

“Dean! Dean!” she whispered. “Hold your fire. Hold your fire!” She crashed into the bed, out of breath.

Startled and shaking, Dean lowered his arm and pushed himself away from the window.

“Three,” he said with a quiver. “Jesus, Darla, they shot Joey.” He was white as a sheet.

“I saw,” Darla answered. She put her head down on the bed. “We can’t shoot them…we can’t let them know we’re here. They want my boy…I’m going to get Teddy…”

“There’s no time,” Dean told her, shaking his head. “Darla—”

Darla held her hand out. “Give me your gun. Give me the gun!” He obliged and Darla gripped it in her hand. “I need your help. You have to help me. Create a diversion…or…”

They stopped talking. From downstairs they could hear the stomp of feet, the rush of people. There was shouting and barking of orders.

A voice called, “Downstairs. In the cellar! Grab the boy!” and a second voice shouted, “We’ve got Ethan! Ethan, sir!”

They heard another single gunshot ring out.

“No, no, no,” Darla screamed and she started to rush into the hallway. Panic flooded her and Darla felt numb; an intense primal yell began to bubble out of her and her vision went foggy. Dean lunged after her and grabbed her arm, yanking her backward into him.

“You can’t,” he said. “It’s suicide. You can’t,” he repeated.

They heard the footsteps on the stairs.

“My child—” Darla started and she spun again. Dean grabbed her and dragged her backward. The men were upstairs. One door banged open. Then another. She looked at Dean, her eyes pleading. “My boy.”

“I lost my boy too,” Dean whispered, his eyes darted back and forth, staring at her. He was fierce, intense. “We’ll get them back. We’ll get them back. We’re no good to them dead. You hear me? You’re no good to Teddy dead.”

Darla shook her head. “No,” she turned to bolt again, but Dean held her. “Please, let me go.”