Edge of Anarchy (Edge of Collapse, #4)

by Kyla Stone

Bishop stepped forward. The crowd parted around him. “You need to take a long, hard look at the people surrounding you, Chief Sheridan. The things you think you’re controlling aren’t so in control.” “Now, that’s uncalled for—” “It’s about control,” Bishop said. “The consolidation of power in the guise of public safety. It’s an age-old game that’s been played a thousand times throughout time on government stages large and small. The erosion of our rights is the slow death of freedom. We’re the frogs basking in the warm pan bath while the water boils us to death, and some of us don’t even realize it.”

“This is wrong. Real people are being hurt here. Real people are dying. Don’t you see that?” “What about turning the other cheek? Isn’t that what you preach? What about peace and harmony?” “All of those things are important,” Bishop said quietly. “But this is tyranny.”

Gran was like a whole different person. Suddenly sweet and polite and gracious. Well, who knew how to act around a woman who’d returned from the dead? Quinn sure didn’t. Should she ignore Hannah’s five-year disappearance altogether? Just pretend she’d been on an extended spa vacation or something? Pepper her with questions about her trauma? Stick to small talk and ask her about the weather? It was weird for everybody. Probably weirder still for Hannah herself.

Quinn stood still. She held out one hand, palm up. She hadn’t realized how much she wanted this magnificent creature to like her—to approve of her—until this moment. Ghost left Milo and padded across the living room. He halted in front of her and sniffed her hand. The room fell pin-drop quiet. Quinn didn’t move. His hot breath warmed her palm, his whiskers tickling her skin. His black nose was warm and dry. He was different than most dogs. All the dogs she knew were jumpy, energetic, friendly, and eager to please. Ghost was regal. A solemn, serious dog. His eyes shone with a keen intelligence. He pressed his muzzle against her hand. His plumed tail swept slowly back and forth. “That means he likes you,” Hannah said with a pleased smile. Quinn couldn’t help herself; she beamed.

“Great Pyrenees aren’t herding dogs like some people think,” Hannah explained. “They’re livestock guardian dogs. Their job is to protect the flock. Usually that’s sheep and goats, sometimes chickens. Or their human family. I suppose it’s not outside the realm of possibility for a Pyr to consider cats his flock.” “Good luck with that, Ghost,” Quinn quipped. Everyone chuckled, even Liam.

Quinn plugged the iPod into the speaker on the mantel. She clicked through the various artists, searching for something good. She skipped over “Eye of the Tiger,” “Dancing Queen,” and “I’m a Believer.” She stopped on a Beatles song, remembering how Milo had told her they were his mother’s favorite band. She hesitated, then pressed play. The soft strums of “Blackbird” filled the room. Paul McCartney’s haunting voice and acoustic guitar blended in perfect harmony.

Tears streamed down Hannah’s face. She sang the last line about waiting for this moment to arise. Milo went to her. Not hesitantly, not awkward or uncomfortable or nervous, but full tilt. Arms opened wide, he flung himself at his mother. Hannah wrapped her arms around him and drew him close, burying her face in his dark curls. They held each other tightly, like they never wanted to let go. Quinn’s chest filled with warmth. Her eyes were wet. She felt like crying and laughing at the same time. She knew how much this meant to Milo. She knew how much Hannah must need this.

The more time she spent around Hannah, the more she liked her. Hannah was both different and the same. Still genuinely kind and thoughtful, but also strong and brave. The bravest woman that Quinn had ever met. She liked Liam Coleman, too. He looked dangerous. It wasn’t just the weapons strapped everywhere, but the rugged jaw and the intensity in his dark eyes, his lean body radiating strength, competence, and power. She felt safer every time she was in a room with him. She imagined him as an assassin or terrorist-hunter. He probably knew sixty exotic ways to kill a person. Maybe one day he could teach her some, if she could ever work up the guts to ask him. And Ghost. If she ever had a dog anything like Ghost, she’d think she’d died and gone to heaven.

Quinn Riley wasn’t squeamish. She’d hunted squirrels, raccoons, pheasants, and deer. Gran and Gramps had made sure she knew how to gut and skin an animal and cook it for food. She’d survived the Crossway massacre by spreading the still-warm entrails and blood of another human being over herself and Milo. She wasn’t squeamish, not by a long shot. Rats, though. They were a different story. Ever since she was six and a big black rat had scuttled across her pillow in her mother’s junky trailer, she’d hated—

He wasn’t expecting that. He’d expected her to keep fleeing, not turn and fight. He shifted to the right at the last second. The sharp ends of the hedge trimmers sank into his lower left side beneath his body armor. He let out a shriek of agony and jerked back. Instinctively, she let go of the shears. Damn it! Another mistake. She should’ve held on. Should’ve yanked them out and used them to defend herself.

Quinn struggled weakly. She scratched and beat at his hands and tried to pry his forearm from her throat. She cursed helplessly against the gag. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you.” Desoto grinned. He leaned in closer. “Too bad we don’t have more time. You’re a mouthy little slut, but you’ve still got some worthwhile parts.” She wanted to claw his eyes out. To bite and scratch and kick until she was free, and he was dead. Deader than dead.

This close, he could hear voices. Low murmurs. A female voice, muffled, making low cries of terror. An aggressive, threatening male voice. A second male voice joined the first, this one higher-pitched, anxious and apprehensive. Liam’s heart rate accelerated. He had two targets to take out and a hostage to save. He couldn’t fire indiscriminately. He needed to be precise and exact. He didn’t know Quinn Riley well, but she was feisty and tough. She wasn’t Hannah, but he still felt a responsibility to keep her alive. No one was hurting women and children on his watch. No way in hell.

If he had the luxury of time, he could wait for one of them to exit to relieve themselves and eliminate the threats one by one. He could start a fire and flush them out. He discarded each option in a fraction of a second. He did not have time on his side. The decision was made in a heartbeat. Go in hard and fast, using the element of surprise to his advantage. No matter how trained or skilled the combatant, there was always a fraction of a second of reaction time. Inside that delayed reaction, he’d have to make his move. Time to go.

“If she gets even a nick from that blade,” Liam hissed, “I’ll gut you slowly. I promise you that.” Quinn’s eyes flashed wide and white, laser-focused on Liam. Fear in her face. Dark blood staining her forehead. She yelled something, but the gag stifled her cries. Anger surged through him. He was going to kill this man for hurting a defenseless girl. Right here, right now.

His entire focus narrowed to a single point. He was in the zone, a killing machine. Lightning fast, Liam sidestepped. He used the edge of his hand to deliver a powerful strike to Desoto’s throat, crushing his windpipe. Desoto gagged. Liam seized the top of the man’s knife hand, bent his wrist inward while simultaneously pulling him off-balance and twisting the knife. Liam forced his hand backward and drove the karambit through the top of Desoto’s throat and up into his brain.

The adrenaline dump hit him, and his legs went to Jell-O. He leaned against the rear shelves with a weary sigh. Fighting took so much out of him. Killing, even more. He was tired. He was hurting. But he could manage it, put it in a box. He still had work to do. He did a quick systems check. Twelve rounds in the magazine. He exchanged the half-spent magazine for the full one in his back pocket. He’d reload it tonight. He was running dangerously low on ammo. He needed to fix that problem, and soon. Especially if more assassins were coming.

In contrast to his initial impressions of Noah Sheridan, Liam had taken an instant liking to Bishop—a rarity for him. Bishop had lost the people he’d loved most in the world, just like Liam. They were both military vets, both bereft, unmoored in a cold and merciless world.

She felt like she still hadn’t regained her footing. They were all standing on thin ice, just waiting for the next crack to show itself. She watched as Ghost loped across the snowy yard, a flash of white against white. In the moonlight, he’d never looked more like his namesake. He glanced at them, tongue lolling, before resuming his patrol of the property. He slept during the day and remained alert and watchful at night. Just like Liam. Both of them protectors to their core. Her mouth felt dry. She shifted on the swing, the slats digging into her back. “You can protect us.”

The EMP had made the world a much smaller place. No more road trips. No more jumping on an airplane and zipping across the country in a few hours. No more phone calls, FaceTime, or Zoom meetings. No stores to visit or restaurants to enjoy. The world had shrunk to the borders of Fall Creek. And for Hannah, it was even smaller.

They were making items to barter with other people in the community for canned goods, split firewood, toiletries, gasoline for generators, and other supplies. A bit of an underground trading post had sprung up, with tough, practical Molly at the heart of it. She didn’t give anything away, but she traded her expertise, teaching neighbors and friends how to build bucket toilets, solar ovens, and Amish buckets to retrieve water from their wells. Day by day, she felt herself drawn to the warmth and kindness of these people. It surprised her how quickly she’d come to care about each of them, how in such adversity, community meant everything.

He hesitated in the doorway, glancing back a final time. The chest freezer in the corner drew his gaze like a terrible magnet. There was no electricity to keep it running, but the freezing temperature had served its purpose. The body inside should still be cold enough to keep it from decomposing too much.

His heart jackhammering against his ribs, Julian looked downriver. Just before the bend that rounded the peninsula of woods loomed the bridge that crossed Fall Creek and led into town. The bridge where he’d stood that day. The blizzard raging around him. The brick in his hands tied to the rusty antique key. The key that had unlocked the cage that held Ray Shultz and the Carter brothers. The maniacs who had unleashed a rain of carnage, death, and destruction upon Crossway Church.

“I’m not going to kill you. But you will face justice. Your fate will be up to the council—and to God.” Bishop gestured with the pistol. “Put the cuffs on yourself. But you come to me, Sinclair. You don’t think I see what you’re doing? Make sure you skirt that weak spot right in front of me.” He gritted his teeth like it pained him to say it. “You wouldn’t want to fall in.” Despair filled him. Bishop hadn’t fallen for it, after all. Julian was out of plays. He had no plan, no way to get out of this.

“You can’t do this! You can’t leave me to die!” Bishop just watched him, his expression impassive, unreadable. He wasn’t going to help. He was going to stand there and watch Julian die. “Where’s your faith, Bishop?” he cried. “Where’s your God now?” “God is love. Love is just,” Bishop said like a chant, a prayer. “God is justice. This is justice.” “No!” Julian screamed. “NO!” “Daphne Bishop,” Bishop said, his baritone voice clear and deep and booming. The sound echoed across the ice. It filled Julian’s ears and ricocheted inside his skull. “Chloe Bishop. Juniper Bishop.” Julian scrabbled at the ice with numb fingers, but it was useless. He was dying. He was going to die. “May God have mercy on your soul,” Bishop said. “For I have none left to give.”

Rosamond studied Mattias. Though they had been separated by distance for several years, she and her cousin had always been close. They’d been raised together; their fathers were brothers who maintained absolute control over their families and ruled with iron fists. They understood each other in ways that others never would. Mattias wasn’t invested in the town like Rosamond. He wasn’t driven by anger and resentment like Julian had been. He did not desire to rule or lead or usurp her role. He was cunning, and he was brutal. Like Rosamond, morals played no part in his decision-making. If he had any flaw, it was greed. He liked nice things. He was family, but it was still wise to keep him well-satisfied. And close. Rosamond raised her glass to Mattias. “Your loyalty does not go unnoticed, cousin. Nor unrewarded.”

Liam Coleman had finally moved out. Noah didn’t even care that it was to move into their old house. He’d rather have him gone for good, but at least he was out of their hair. It was a relief for Noah, and it was safer for Hannah. That man brought trouble wherever he went. Liam still couldn’t seem to stay away from Hannah. He’d stopped by earlier on the pretense of taking Ghost for one of his long walks. Hannah had been happy to see him. It had made Noah sick. At least he was out of the house. At least there was that.

He swallowed bile. It was just a child, innocent in all of this, but he could barely look at her. He hated himself for it, but it was true. He told himself it would just take time, like everything else. He told himself everything would be okay. As long as he had Hannah and Milo, that was all that mattered.

He wanted to hold her. To kiss her. After that first night when she’d pulled away from him, he’d been reluctant to try again. She needed time. He knew that. He hoped that was all it was. He hoped with all his heart that Liam Coleman had nothing to do with it. He was too afraid to ask. The answer might break him.

“I’m sorry. I know he was your friend.” He’d barely slept the last few nights, tossing and turning alone in his bed, his mind a jumbled blur. He didn’t want to believe that Julian was capable of such things, even with the evidence of Chief Briggs’ corpse staring him in the face. You know it’s true, a voice whispered inside his head. Julian had shot Billy Carter in cold blood. He had killed Nickel Carter at Crossway Church before the man could out him. Julian had claimed self-defense, but Nickel had recognized Julian—Noah realized that, now. The truth was, he didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to think about it. It was too terrible. Too awful. The friend Noah had trusted and loved was a murderer. He had been a part of the massacre that had killed forty-seven people and nearly killed Milo. Noah had believed Julian when he’d promised that he would defuse the situation—instead, Julian had betrayed him and ordered the deaths of Liam Coleman and Bishop. And not only that, a dark voice whispered in his mind. Julian was also Gavin Pike’s brother. Had he known what his brother had done? Could he have known about Pike? About Hannah?

“The militia are the good guys. That’s what you keep saying. So what’s the problem? Are you telling me that I should be afraid of them?” Noah swallowed. “No. Not you. You’re safe.” She hated that she didn’t trust him completely. She hated that she wished Liam were here instead. It made her feel guilty. It was still the truth. The house felt emptier without Liam here. She felt his absence like a hole in her heart. How quickly he had become a critical part of her life, as precious to her as family.

Noah rubbed his face. Deep shadows rimmed his eyes. “Rosamond gave these people their places here. She has the right to take them away.” Hannah stared at him, so taken aback for a moment that she didn’t know what to say. “Are you serious?” Noah didn’t answer. “That doesn’t even make sense. The Stanleys were here when I first moved to Fall Creek. This is their home. Not borrowed, not taken over temporarily. Theirs.” “The militia has decided that Winter Haven is too difficult to protect with potential dissidents in their midst. They’re redistributing housing to fit security needs—” “Are you listening to yourself? Are those your words or someone else’s?” Noah swallowed. “This is out of my control, Hannah. This is happening, whether we like it or not.” She narrowed her eyes. “I thought you were the chief of police.” “I am, but—” “How is this not under your purview? How can you allow this to happen under your watch? These are people we know! This is Fall Creek. Your town. Your citizens. Your friends!” Noah’s mouth thinned into a bloodless line. “The militia has been granted certain authority during this crisis—” “The militia?” Hannah asked. “Or Rosamond Sinclair? Or are they the same thing, now?”

“Do you think I want to do this? Do you think I like this? That I agree with it?” “That’s what I don’t understand. Help me understand.” His face clouded. “I have to do this, Hannah. I don’t have a choice. We don’t have a choice.”

“You know she’s dangerous. You say one thing, but I can see the truth. You’re running around trying to put out fires, but you aren’t going to the source. It’s all going to blow up in your face, Noah.” He looked bewildered, haunted. A man torn apart. She recalled a phrase from her college days, in a Psych 101 course she’d taken: cognitive dissonance. Noah’s mind couldn’t allow both truths to coexist: the very people he depended upon for his son’s life were the people destroying his town and endangering his loved ones. To admit that his mentor Rosamond and his best friend Julian were corrupt was too terrible a reality to face. And so he didn’t. Hannah had no such qualms. She had defeated one enemy only to discover another rising from the ashes of the first. Rosamond Sinclair was as bad as her son, albeit in a different way. She was responsible for misery, death, and destruction. She would be responsible for more. Just because Noah didn’t want to face it didn’t make it any less true.

Noah stepped back into the house and stood between Milo and the opened door to shield his view. He rubbed his face with the back of his arm. “Everything’s fine, buddy. I promise. Why don’t I tuck you back into bed?” Milo looked at Hannah. “Will you do it?” She didn’t have to force a smile. Not for Milo. Never for Milo. “Sure, baby. I’m right here.” Ghost trotted after them as she took her son’s small hand and led him back to his room. Milo clambered into bed and squeezed himself against the wall. He gave her a shy glance, the painful longing of a boy for his mother so apparent on his face that she nearly wept.

Hannah had suffered and lost too much not to live free. She knew what oppression looked like. Chains weren’t always visible. She wouldn’t go back to that. She wouldn’t raise her children in bondage. She would fight with everything she had in her—with teeth, nails, and blood. With her own life.

Two nights ago, the militia had raided Winter Haven. Twenty-seven families were rousted from their beds and driven from their homes. Only the militia and those few citizens who’d proven their loyalty to Rosamond Sinclair had been allowed to stay. People like Darryl Wiggins and Noah Sheridan. The community food bank remained open—and well-guarded—at the middle school, but the militia maintained an updated list of who was approved to get supplies, and who was turned away. At least a quarter of the town had made it on the blacklist for one reason or another. With the Crossway church supplies gone, people were already going hungry.

“I’m in,” Bishop said without hesitation. A few people looked at him in surprise. “I didn’t think you were a man of violence, pastor,” Mike Duncan said. “In this fallen world, violence is an unfortunate necessity,” Bishop said. “The question is not whether violence is good or bad. But what is violence in service of? Is what you’re fighting for worthy?” He half-turned from the window, his expression grave but determined. “No one else should lose their family. To me, that is worth fighting for.”

Liam understood that Rosamond Sinclair and the militia would not stop. He knew their kind. They were corrupted by greed, drunk on power. They would not relent until they’d seized as much power as they could. And then they would take even more. With their bump stocks that modified semi-automatic rifles into near automatic weapons, they would mow down anyone in their path. No one was safe. Not Atticus Bishop. Not feisty Quinn, and especially not Hannah. If Rosamond Sinclair ever discovered that she and Ghost were the ones who really killed her son, both of them would be set firmly in her sights.

Liam couldn’t look away. Something warm and bright unfurled inside his chest. He finally understood it, his role in all of this. Why he hadn’t been able to bring himself to leave Fall Creek, even after he’d safely delivered Hannah and Charlotte home as he’d promised. His particular talents were needed in this broken world in ways they hadn’t been before. His skills were needed. He was needed. He was the sheep dog. The guardian. The one who stood between the innocent and the wolves who would devour them. This was who he was. Who he’d always been.

Everyone looked at each other, nodding in grim approval. They understood the odds stacked against them. Close to fifty armed men against a rag-tag group of citizens. They were outmanned and outgunned. They were willing to fight anyway. And Liam would lead them.