The Big Finish Read Free

they’d drilled for this contingency, joking at what seemed like a senseless precaution. But when they reviewed it a while ago, there was no laughter.
    Running from danger was their only option. Weeks ago they’d voted to outlaw weapons, and they’d tossed the group’s single handgun in a river in Marsh Fork, Kentucky. Cassandra wasn’t happy about parting with her .38, but the group had spoken. Four to one against her. Having guns led to laziness and lack of ingenuity. If they couldn’t resolve their conflicts peacefully, what good was their entire mission? Guns were antithetical to all they espoused.
    Above him a breeze stirred the limbs. Flynn lifted his head and listened to them rustle, tried to make out any human sounds the wind might be concealing. Around him the strawberry scent of evergreen was banished and overwhelmed by the harsh reek of hog manure. The stench of it had given Jellyroll and Caitlin headaches all week. Their eyes reddened and Caitlin’s throat was raw. But their suffering was nothing compared to those in the communities living downwind of the farm. It’s why they’d come. To give voice to the voiceless, stand against the powerful.
    Most of all they were here to mobilize the locals and bring attention to the outrageous crimes committed against them. Only they hadn’t counted on unearthing something like this. Their discovery had been unintentional but they saw immediately how volatile their information was.
    It was well after midnight. Flynn was in the middle of a reverie about Thorn’s oceanside house in Key Largo, surrounded by dazzling blue waters that teemed with manatees, brightly colored reef fish, and rolling tarpon, and the sky above it thick with pelicans and ospreys and roseate spoonbills, a gorgeous, Technicolor, heart-soaring vision.
    When the intruders came, the rustle of the dried leaves jerked him alert and Flynn barely stifled a panicky yelp.
    After he steadied himself, he leaned out for a glimpse.
    Twenty feet away, out on the dirt track, the point man was carrying an automatic weapon and crouching low. The man flanking him held a shotgun. The man in the lead wore night-vision goggles, training them forward as he moved toward the campsite.
    Silently, Flynn came to his feet, pressing his back to the pine. He raised the whistle to his lips. If he blew it now with the men so near, there’d be no escape for him. If he waited till they passed, the others wouldn’t have time to get away.
    Shit. He’d set up the watch post too close to camp. He saw that now. Stupid mistake. Should have realized it long ago and moved farther up the trail.
    Halting, the point man seemed to sense a presence nearby. In the moonlight Flynn saw the snowy bristles of his flat-top. A guy in his sixties, Burkhart was his name, the duly elected sheriff of Winston County and head of security at Dobbins hog farm. A cold-eyed guy with a military bearing, he’d confronted Cassandra in town a few days ago. Reached out a big hand and trickled his fingers across her cheek. Drawling with mock courtesy, a threat masked in avuncular concern. It might be better if she and her friends stopped stirring up trouble and got their sweet asses out of town and didn’t return. This, he told her, will be your one and only warning. You’re a grown lady, so you’ll have to decide, but he’d hate to see any harm come to such a sweetheart.
    When Cassandra knocked his hand away, the man laughed, calling her a spitfire, and grinned into her eyes as though they’d forged an intimate bond.
    Flynn moved behind the tree, squatted down and patted a hand across the ground. He risked another peek around the trunk. Both men had halted. They’d begun to scan the area, panning their weapons in a slow circle.
    On the ground a few feet away Flynn found a rock—something from his storehouse of Hollywood clichés. Toss it into the nearby brush, misdirect the bad guys, and while their heads were turned, make a run. Most of the clichés