J.D. Cunegan

DISCLAIMER: This is another preview of my upcoming novel Summertime, Assassins, and Other Skullduggeries. As the author, I hold all applicable copyrights.

I never hear the shot.

I do hear the tire explode. The right front, to be exact. I also feel the explosion because that’s when this pathetic excuse for a motor vehicle teeters on its side and skids along the road.

There’s no traffic on this slice of I-5, and for that, I’m thankful. Or I would be, were I not holding onto anything my hands can dig into, convinced the van falling onto its driver’s side is going to be the death of me.

As assassin deaths go, I could’ve done better.

But when the vehicle crash-lands and screeches along the pavement, I find…I’m not dead. Not only that but I haven’t been thrown from my seat. Because for all that’s wrong with this godforsaken van, the seat belt is as strong as ever.

Almost too strong. It’s digging into the side of my neck, and I can tell it’s gonna leave one of those sexy red lines in my skin.

Good thing I’m not trying to impress anyone these days.

The van skids for what feels like forever, and I squeeze my eyes shut as the sparks fly. Whoever decided fingernails on a chalkboard made one of the world’s worst sounds clearly never heard the agony that is sheet metal grinding against asphalt.

The momentum of the crash tries to fling me clear to the driver’s side, and I almost bite the tip of my tongue off trying not to cry out when the seat belt finally gives and my shoulder slams against the glass.

I had expected to shoulder-slam into Lola—who was, you know, driving the freaking van. But instead, my weight hurtles into what appears to be the world’s strongest glass. My eyes squeeze shut, my teeth grinding together so hard I’m probably shedding enamel. Let my dentist fuss at me six months from now; he’s not the one in a life-or-death situation.

I smell the leak of gasoline and cradle into myself. The van is shedding speed as quickly as it’s leaving sheet metal mangled along the highway. I almost don’t notice the vehicle stop, and it takes several minutes before I open my eyes again.

At least, I think it’s minutes. Maybe mere seconds.

Or maybe I’m just dead, and my brain hasn’t caught up yet.

Amazingly enough, all my limbs are still intact. I feel the warm trickle of blood along my forehead. The shoulder that introduced itself to the driver’s side window is barking up a storm, but I think the thing’s still in its socket.

Preliminary analysis tells me nothing’s broken. Just scrapes and cuts, all of which will heal nicely. Assuming there’s not a bullet to the brain in my future.

The windshield’s shattered.

Shards of glass everywhere, covered in dark red. I swallow thickly. There’s a lump in my throat that won’t go away. That’s not my blood. Which means it’s…

Hoo boy. Okay.

Gritting my teeth, I crawl back up across the passenger’s side and climb out the window. The glass had blown clean out in the rollover, and the relief I feel when my boots find the ground—even if it is aged pavement that needed a fresh coat two decades ago—is immeasurable.

A bullet zips past me and punctures the side of the van.

Oh look, I’m being shot at. Again.

The sad part is twice in one day isn’t even my career high. Not even close. Turns out, when you kill people for a living, you occasionally find yourself on the receiving end of attempted violence.

The only difference is, this time, I’m being targeted because I didn’t kill anyone. So there’s that minor detail of taking a job and not following through.

It’s not my fault I was hired under false pretenses.

A flock of birds scatters with the gunshot, honking their collective displeasure as they head north. I watch with a twinge of jealousy because flying away in an instant would be a big help right now. Especially since my driver is nowhere to be found.

This wouldn’t be the first time Lola pulled a disappearing act on me, but it would be in record time. I realize I was in the middle of trying not to die as the van toppled over and slid along the highway, but I also like to think I’d notice if the woman driving said van just up and bolted.

Apparently not.

Another gunshot rings out, and this time, I feel the rush of the bullet passing by. It’s little more than a warm, soft breeze against my right cheek, but it’s enough to have me breaking into a full sprint.

Not that I know where I’m going—the road stretches as far as I can see with no exits or evidence of humanity in sight, and the only thing keeping me company right now is a massive forest, trees packed so tightly together that even as I slither in between them, I’m convinced I’m running to my death. Because sense of direction has never been one of my strengths, and if I’m a killer, I’m looking to turn my prey around and get them lost before delivering the final blow.

I wonder who this person is. Are they looking to collect on Hunter’s bounty? Are they out on a personal vendetta? Or is there some hunter out there who thinks I’m a deer?

Whoever it is, I’m not giving them that satisfaction. They want me dead, they’re gonna have to earn it. I haven’t lasted this long by being an easy mark. Sure, there’s professional etiquette to consider—it takes a lot to convince one assassin to take out another—but this is also a profession rife with people of questionable morals.

Surprising, I know.

I bounce off the trunk of an evergreen, slamming into the same shoulder that minutes ago became intimate with auto glass. It’s a sensation I hope to never relive because one more good whack is probably going to separate the thing, and I have neither the time nor the energy to pop it back in place.

It’s bad enough I’m on the run. By myself. With no weapons. If I’m being primed as an easy mark, this is a good way to do it: disarm and isolate me, lead me to an unfamiliar environment. Whoever Hunter Bailey hired, they’re good.

I find rhythm in weaving between the trees, even as they’re so close together I can barely squeeze by. Branches and leaves reach out and grope for me, and I shiver at the sensation of Mother Nature’s touch. For every branch I slap out of my face, two more smack me in the side, on my thighs, across my ass. New cuts have formed along my arms, and I nearly stumble face-first into a bed of leaves when one branch whacks me in the stomach.

But I keep my footing.

Which is good because I hear footsteps behind me.

I’m being chased. I’m prey, and my attacker is gaining ground. Their steps are heavy and spirited, and they’re wearing the kind of curb-stomping boots one would expect from an outdoorsman. Whoever’s after me, I at least know it’s not Lola. She’s not much of a runner, for one thing, and she never owned a pair of shoes that didn’t come with at least a four-inch heel.

Still, I don’t like not knowing what became of her. Every possibility is worse than the last. I force myself to keep running. I can’t do anything for Lola right now, and stopping will almost certainly mean death. I’m not about to let Hunter Bailey win his sick little game so soon. Or so easily.

Even though my lungs are on fire, even though my stomach’s threatening a violent revolt, even though the trees seem to be actively lashing out at me now…I keep running.

Sweat be damned. Lack of air be damned. The ankle I just twisted on an exposed root be damned.

I didn’t scream just now. You did.

(Okay, it was me.)

The ankle is what does me in; not only do I stop running, I lose my footing entirely and stumble into the leaves with all the grace of a newborn giraffe. I roll onto my backside, eyes frantically scanning my leaf-filled surroundings in hopes of locating my pursuer before they have a chance to deliver the killing blow.

If I’m gonna go out, then I deserve to look whoever does the deed in the eye. Never mind the fact that I seldom, if ever, give my victims that same courtesy.

It’s not hypocrisy. It’s survival.

My ankle throbs. I grab fistfuls of dried leaves, instantly wondering where they all came from in a forest where practically every tree is an evergreen. Ignoring the crunch, I train my ears to find anything my eyes miss.

I hear the snap of a branch, a heavy boot no doubt twisting the aged wood in two. I hold my breath, try to ignore the bead of sweat trickling down the side of my face. My own trembling makes the sensation even more acute.

I dare not breathe, even as my lungs beg for it.

Breathing means noise, and noise means I’m compromised.

Another snap. Another branch rendered toothpicks. My eyes dart to my right. Where I think the sound came from.

I catch movement, and my heart skips a beat. It’s not often I feel fear, not this deep and this visceral. It’s coursing through my veins, making my entire body shudder.

A bead of sweat drips off the tip of my nose. Or maybe it’s blood; there is that wound on my forehead. Another drop, and this time, there’s the hiss of pain. Sweat mixed with blood. I cringe and gnash my teeth together again.

No whimpering. No groaning. No screaming.

Not that it matters. Because my pursuer has found me.

And it is so not who I was expecting.

“…Samantha?!”

Summertime, Assassins, and Other Skullduggeries releases this Friday, November 10, on Kindle, Nook, Kobo, Apple iBooks, and paperback. Pre-order your copy here!