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It was the same nightmare. Johanna recognized that fact even
as her limbs twisted in sweat soaked sheets.
Small cries of distress slipped from her dry lips. Her eyes moved erratically
behind closed lids. Being able to anticipate the unfolding horror didn’t make
it any easier.
She saw Sam flinch. His dark eyes turned to her, as they
always did, not understanding what was happening—not understanding why he held
his guts in his hands. The room exploded in flame. Sam was still screaming, but softer now, his
brain and heart losing the battle for survival. The killer turned to her. He
was laughing, had been laughing since they’d broken down his door. The survivalist cabin reeked of blood and
offal. A spark jumped from an overhead beam. It landed in the pale man’s hair,
setting it alight. His laugh rose in
pitch.
She shot him, once, twice, three more times. His burning
clothing swirled like a cape. He raised his arm, fell upon her and carried them
both to the floor. Embers dropped from his arms as they descended in flaming
arcs, stabbing her. When it had actually happened she’d only felt the first
three punctures of the blade into her chest. In the nightmare she felt all
twenty seven.
He stopped, leaned over and kissed her forehead. Lips like
branding irons seared her skin. “Be seeing you, Nota.”
Then he was gone, the ceiling beam collapsed on Sam’s body,
and she jerked awake, screaming.
