No Ordinary Day | Book 2 | No Ordinary Getaway

leave it.”
John turned to Emma, hoping she would understand. She witnessed Dane’s men firsthand and saw the destruction at Zach’s place. “You know staying is suicide.”
Emma wrapped her good arm around her middle. “Will it make any difference if we leave? If they are hell-bent on finding us, then running only delays the inevitable, doesn’t it?”
Gloria leaned forward, propping her elbows on the kitchen table. “We survived this attack. Can’t we survive another?”
John twisted around and pain shot through his side. He bit back a wince. “You were lucky this time, that’s all. Simpson was inexperienced, a relative newbie, and Dane underestimated the pair of you. It won’t happen again. When Nick fails to check-in…” John shook his head. “Dane will be furious. He’ll come down heavy and fast. He won’t make the same mistake twice.”
Emma stared at John, eyes pleading for another option. He didn’t have any. As he stared out at all their faces— Raymond’s deep scowl, Gloria’s indecision, Emma’s begging—anger welled up inside him.
The room fell into uncomfortable silence. The longer it stretched the harder John found it to breathe. Ever since the power went out in the elevator, he’d been surrounded by people who refused to face the facts, refused to accept reality, who always second-guessed his decisions, or faulted him for making tough choices. Well, forget it. Forget it all.
Without another word, he stormed over to the kitchen and slammed open a drawer. He pulled out a steak knife and turned toward the master bedroom, narrowly missing Raymond’s shoulder as he ducked inside. The knife sawed through the plastic zip ties lashing Nick’s lifeless body to the chair, and as the last one gave way his friend tumbled forward. John crouched and tucked his shoulder beneath Nick’s arm before staggering upright. Pain radiated from his wounded side, focusing his attention and dulling the anger.
He emerged from the bedroom with his heavy, awkward load, and half-stumbled toward the front door. “Where’s the other body?” he asked, as he hovered on the threshold.
Gloria pointed northwest. “About a hundred yards past the wood pile into the trees. He’s dressed all in black, but you should be able to find him.”
John nodded his thanks before stepping out into the afternoon sun. It didn’t take long to find Simpson’s remains. A crow perched on the edge of the dead body and John shooed it away as he dumped Nick on the ground. His head lolled to the side, vacant eyes open and unseeing.
Crouching in front of the two bodies, John stared past them into the forest. A wind rippled a branch, sending lime-colored leaves fluttering in all directions. Nature didn’t care about John, the bodies at his feet, or the boss he used to think of as a father. He pressed his palms against his closed eyes until the world faded into spots floating across a sea of black.
What am I doing? He dropped his hands and stared at the blood crusted across Nick’s shirt. They had laughed together, fought side-by-side, been almost as close as brothers. Even after returning to the states, Nick stuck by him. Always around when he needed a friendly face at the bar, never one to tell him to stop or get over himself.
But then Dane came along and everything shifted. Slowly at first—conflicting schedules here, last-minute assignments there. John frowned. When was the last time he’d sat around with Nick and been himself? Two years? Three?
He swiped a hand down his face. Dane siloed each one of them, trapping them into their own private echo chambers of guilt and remorse and efficiency. He’d never stopped to think about it before. The loneliness of the job. The horrors he’d kept to himself. John rocked back on his heels. It had been so long since he’d made a single decision for himself. So long since his daily life wasn’t planned out—bouncing from one assignment to another, home just long enough to regroup.
Had Nick been as isolated? As alone? John turned back to stare in the direction of the cabin, unsure of his next move.
Emma barely tolerated him. Gloria was indifferent, and Raymond hated his guts. Only Holly seemed to genuinely want him around, but she had no choice, teenagers never did. And what would he do with a fifteen-year-old and a dog? John was no father.
He stood in a rush and the forest floor spun in his vision. Dane would kill him so much as look at him. He not only failed the mission, but he failed Nick and Simpson. It didn’t matter if John changed his mind, or apologized, or even carried out the job. He was as good as dead.
What did that leave? A solitary existence, always on the run, trying to outlive whatever apocalyptic landscape the country devolved into? Leaving Emma and everyone else to their deaths?
He held his head in his hand. If they wouldn’t listen, his choice was already made. They rejected me, not the other way around. He kept talking to himself, convincing the part of his brain that still cared to leave and never look back. Even if it guaranteed Emma’s death, leaving was the right call. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Something cold and wet nosed his hand. John jumped, almost falling over as Tank barreled into him. “What are you doing here?”
Tank nuzzled him again, adding in a head butt to his thigh as he forced his nose beneath John’s hand.
“I thought you were in the cabin, resting.”
Tank stepped back, favoring his left front paw, and John’s chest constricted. “Did you… miss me?”
The dog wagged his tail and barked a single time. John’s mouth fell open. A dog shouldn’t be the tipping point, especially not one he’d only met a few days before, but as Tank leaned against his side, staring up with his dark chocolate eyes, John changed his mind.
He couldn’t leave Emma and the others even if they hated him, even if he only prolonged the inevitable. Emma saved his life and