Murphy's Law (Roads Less Traveled Book 2) by C. Dulaney

into its leather case attached to my saddle, grabbed up the reins, and kicked Daisy into a hard run. The others quickly turned tail and followed, off the road, around the hill of death, and back onto the pavement, straight on ‘til Gasco.
     
    * * *
     
    “Remember what I said…pull yourself up to relieve the blood flow when she’s gone,” Devon said under his breath to Kyra, demonstrating by bending at the waist and using his strong abdominal muscles to pull himself up, his face nearly touching his knees.
    Their hands were bound behind them, their ankles fixed firmly to the rafters above. That weasel, Shakes, had helped that crazy girl haul them in there and tie them up. It had been a struggle, and wouldn’t have worked if that burned-out sonofabitch hadn’t remembered seeing several sets of chain-hoists in part of the wreckage out back. All it took then was a swift kick to Devon’s face to knock him out, and upsy-daisy. Kyra was left conscious as she was hoisted into the air. But Shakes got his; after helping her take care of them, and foolishly showing her how to use the hoists, the crazy girl had gone to work on him.
    Payback’s a bitch, Shakes.
    “I’m trying,” Kyra whispered back.
    She’d never thought much about muscles before, never had reason to. Now she was wishing she’d spent a little more time working out and a little less time dieting and trying to stay skinny. After grunting and only making it partly to her knees, Devon hissed beside her; his cue that Shannon was returning. They quickly let themselves fall back into prone, hanging positions, pretending to be unconscious. Shannon walked back into the dilapidated room, ducking to miss a broken two-by-four, and stopped in front of the carcasses to admire her handiwork.
    She had watched Shakes very closely when he’d used the heavy metal chain things to put the bitch and the bossman up in the air, then she had used them to hang the rest of the bad men, so she could peel them upside down. Guts were oh-so-fun to watch when they spilled out that way.
     
    * * *
     
    Jake scrunched his nose. “Goddamn, do you smell that?”
    We were approaching a gently sloping hillside at the far end of the field behind the Gasco Stop-N-Shop off route 17. I stuck my finger in Jake’s face and made a shushing sound.
    “Do you always have to state the obvious? Be quiet.”
    We’d tied the horses up at the gas station. A risky move, yes, but we were going to need as much stealth as possible to pull this off. As far as I knew, they could have recruited more criminals to their cause, and on the other side of this hill could be a battalion of piss-and-vinegar thugs. Our jacket pockets were loaded with all the ammunition we had left after several encounters of the dead kind on the way there, which amounted to pretty much two reloads each, not counting our sidearms. We’d be fine as far as those were concerned.
    We crouched down and started up the bank, bent low at the waist and our heads so low the high grass tickled our noses. So far things had been very quiet, which surprised me and left a bad feeling deep in my gut.
    They’re not here .
    We neared the very top of the ridge, and I use that term loosely. We may have been in eastern Ohio, but the hills and valleys were nothing like what we were used to. This hill had a very gradual slope, a wide top, then I assumed another gradual, long slope down the other side. Rolling hills, some would call them. Anyway, we neared the top of the ridge and were trying to decide how best to crawl or walk across the wide area when a sudden shout cut through the air.
    “No!” a male voice yelled.
    It sounded like it had come from below us. We hit the ground and held our collective breath, on our bellies with our rifles in position to start firing on whatever might break the crest of the knob. I looked down the line at the others, catching their eyes, judging their state of panic or lack thereof. Mostly they were in the same shape as me;