Forty-five long, silent minutes later, a blue Ford Taurus made its way slowly through the resort, easing to a stop in front of cabin number 10.
A man in a jogging suit got out, carrying a small dog kennel.
Austin. Jesus. It was Austin himself. What the hell.
He spotted us, held up a hand in either a half-wave or as a sort of white flag, and moved toward us.
Anderson, recognizing him, swore loudly and pointed his gun at me, probably thinking Austin was still my boyfriend and he'd value my life over Don's. He didn't get a chance to test that theory.
Don's hands had been behind him, his head down as though he'd passively accepted his fate. He felt the gun leave the side of his head.
In one smooth action, he half-rose, driving his head and a shoulder backward into Anderson's midriff, kno
