CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Riggs

He squinted at the arena lights, his stomach full of dread.

Back here again?

The dirt arena was untouched, the tractor lines pristine. Strangely enough, the standard smell of hay and horses was missing. Instead, the building held a coppery stench.

Riggs turned. The horses stood in their stalls.

Eerily quiet.

A high-pitched neigh pierced the air, angry and tortured.

He spun.

The arena was no longer empty. A lone stallion stood on the far end.

“Aspen?” He’d know that gray and white speckled coat anywhere. “What are you doing out? It’s not your turn yet.” He moved forward, holding a carrot to coax him over. Then he tripped. He looked down. A jagged rock rolled away, as if a strong breeze blew.

But there was no wind.

When Riggs looked up again, a rider sat in Aspen's saddle. A knight from the show. Light glinted off his boot spurs.

Jackass.

“How many times have I told you—”

The knight dug his spurs into Aspen’s flanks.

The stallion shrieked, and reared up. Then charged forward.

Dirt kicked up under his thundering hooves.

Riggs swore he could hear the pounding of the horse’s feet, but there was no vibration.

The knight lifted a lance, held it straight out.

Poised to strike.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Riggs shouted.

His feet filled with lead. They wouldn’t move, no matter how much he tried. A rushing flooded his ears.

Aspen was only two strides away. His nostrils flared.

Riggs dodged aside at the last second, grabbing the lance as it slid by. He forced the momentum to the ground, the tip spearing into the dirt.

The knight jumped from the saddle and rolled to the ground.

Aspen trotted off into the darkness of the stables.

The knight stood, not a breath from his helmet nor a wrinkle in his red tunic. There were no eyes in the slit, just an empty shadow.

“Come on, man. The show’s over. Knock it off.”

The fighter lunged. His ice cold fingers wrapped around Riggs’ throat.

He gagged, all oxygen cut off. No matter how many punches he threw, the knight didn’t relent.

None of his defense maneuvers worked, his body felt like bags of sand.

Riggs grappled in the dirt, and his fingers found the sharp edges of the rock. With every ounce of strength he had left, he grabbed the rock and bashed it against the knight’s head.

The metal clanged through the air, and he let go.

Only long enough to readjust his weight. He jabbed his fingers into Riggs’ shoulder, right over the scar.

Knives ripped through the muscles.

Riggs howled.

He slammed the rock against the dented helmet, and rolled him over. Then threw a fistful of dirt in the facial slit.

As the knight grabbed for his face, he ripped off the helmet and started throwing punches. As fast as he could with his waning strength. When his shoulder screamed from the onslaught, he stopped.

The knight had a face, now pale, bloodied, and cold.

Murphy’s face.

Riggs reared back. His stomach somersaulted, and threatened to heave.

His friend’s dead eyes locked onto him. The blue lips moved, as if saying something, but the world had turned silent.

As he stood over the knight, he realized the tunic wasn’t red. The fabric dripped with fresh blood. The coppery smell amplified.

The blood dripped from his hands, as well. He wiped them on his jeans, nausea ripping through his body. But the red only spread more.

“It doesn’t come off.” The coarse words ripped through the air and echoed off the walls like a death whisper.

“What do I do?” His mind was in a panic. Hearing his friend’s voice like that struck a new level of fear.

Murphy wasn’t wearing the knight’s tunic anymore. He lay there, bleeding out, in his field gear in the Afghan desert.

“What you always do,” the frigid voice replied. A trickle of dark blood oozed from the corner of his mouth. “Run.”

Riggs jolted. Winced. “Run?”

“Run until your feet stop.”

Riggs jerked awake.

A ceiling fan spun overhead.

A cold sweat covered his face and neck, and his palms tingled.

He looked over.

Skylar slept soundly beside him, her arm curled under her pillow. So much like a cherub.

His mouth was dry, like he’d sucked on cotton balls. The clock glared an angry red, 3:55 a.m.

He carefully climbed out of bed, as not to wake her. Then retreated to the bathroom to splash water on his face. Then drank a gallon straight from the faucet.

Jesus Christ, help me.