I cock my head toward the trailer, waiting for the sound to come again.
The three of us crouch under the windows, putting our backs against the rippled metal siding. On the other side of the front steps, Z, Grinder, and Jigsaw adopt a similar stance. Z points at the trailer in an exaggerated sweep of his arm, then cups his ear. Rock raises his fist to signal he heard it too.
“Carter has to be here,” I whisper. “They probably have someone guarding him.”
Rock nods. “Nice and slow.” He turns toward Murphy. “Stay here.”
Murphy opens his mouth as if he’s about to protest, then closes it.
A fresh dump of adrenaline surges into my blood stream. Tension knots my stomach. The weight of the gun in my hands offers some reassurance.
Rock and I creep onto the rickety boards that constitute the front “porch” of the ramshackle structure. We flank the sides of the door to avoid standing dead center, turning sideways to keep our bodies as thin a target as possible.
Murphy, Z, Grinder, and Jigsaw crouch below the stairs, out of sight.
Rock reaches out and strikes his knuckles against the flimsy door twice.
No answer.
I close my eyes, straining to hear what’s happening on the other side. A shuffling sound. My eyes pop open and I stare at Rock. He cocks his head toward the door.
The click-clack of a shotgun.
Fuck.
A blast punches through the trailer door, sending pellets and splinters exploding outward.
Searing fire slashes across my hip.
“Not again.”
Haven’t I taken enough fucking bullets in my lifetime?