A tall teenage boy walks out of one of the adobe huts carrying an armful of logs toward one of the campfires. I barely recognize him in jeans and T-shirt. I’ve only ever seen him in skins and furs. It’s Kenai, and behind him is Nome, wearing shorts and a tank top. My heart feels like it’s going to explode. I have missed them so much that I’m overwhelmed with emotion, and have to restrain myself from shouting their names.
As Nome bends over to pick up an armload of logs, I hurl my backpack to the ground, reach inside, and in seconds have assembled my crossbow. I hold it up to my eyes and aim to Nome’s left, and a second later my bolt is lodged in the clay doorway, inches away from my friend. She turns to see what flew past her, and spotting it, pulls it out from where it is lodged and inspects it. Her head jerks up as she looks around frantically, and it’s not until I cautiously stand and wave that she sees me, drops the logs, and sprints in my direction.
“Oh my God, Juneau! Is that you?” she yells, and in an instant I am wrapped in a suffocating bear hug with a face full of blond hair. “We all knew you were coming. We just didn’t know when,” she says, searching my face as if she isn’t sure it is me. “Oh, Juneau, your hair,” she murmurs, and touches my pixie cut as tentatively as if it were made of snakes.
Others are running in our direction. Kenai reaches me and wraps me in his strong arms. “Junebug. You’re here,” he says.
“I missed you guys so much,” I say, and then look over their shoulders toward the huts. “There aren’t any guards?” I ask, and Nome pulls back from our hug and shakes her head.
“They’re all back at the ranch house,” she says. “They figured they didn’t need to guard us once they seized all our amulets and took Badger after our last escape attempt.”
“Why Badger?” I ask. “He’s so young!”
“Exactly,” Nome says darkly. “Too young to try to escape.”
“Whit stopped by this morning,” Kenai says, his nose wrinkling in disgust. “He told us to let you know that after you meet with Avery, Badger will be free to come back to his mother.”
My father comes out of one of the adobe huts, and looks straight at me. I want to go to him, but I can’t move. As he runs toward me, Nome and Kenai step back to leave him room. His face is haggard. He wraps me carefully in his arms, and pats me on the back in that reassuring way he did when I was a little girl. “Oh, Juneau,” he says, pulling back and looking intently into my eyes. “I told you not to come.”
“But you knew I would,” I say, and though I feel tears threatening to spill, I repress them and raise my chin in defiance. My father sees me do it, and he knows: I’m here for the fight.
“Yes,” he says sadly. “I knew you would.”
32
MILES
MY CALCULATIONS ARE WAY OFF. FOR ONE THING, the boundaries of the ranch aren’t anywhere near where the gas station guy drew them on the map: I’m forced to backtrack twice and drive a lot farther east than I had expected. For another thing, no local roads seem to lead to the ranch.
At one point, the main road comes within view of the perimeter fence, and inside the compound I see what looks like an airstrip in the middle of a field. Avery’s hot-shot customers probably arrive by private plane. But by road, the ranch seems unapproachable, which I know is impossible if all these army guys are coming and going. They must have to know exactly where the front gate is, because there’s no signage, and no trace of an entry.
I park the truck at an abandoned rest stop, hike a mile back to the perimeter fence, and begin following it heading south. Finally, an hour and a half later, I get to what looks like the main entrance. It’s a security gate with a guy in a booth and a lifting bar to let cars in and out.
To one side is a big sign with AVERY RANCH painted in scrolling letters. The road is lined with trees, and I take advantage of them to hide as I make my way to the gate. Finally I am standing within ten feet of the security booth, and I can see the guy inside playing a game on his computer. He stops and takes a big swig of Coke, and then puts the empty glass bottle on the window ledge outside the booth. Propped underneath his chair is a big-ass machine gun.
I look behind me at the twenty-foot fence. I can’t climb it—it’s electrified. This security gate is the only opening I’ve seen. If the guy weren’t there, it would be easy to duck down under the bar and slip my way in. It seems that, besides monitoring the cars driving in and out, Avery’s not worried about people trying to break into the compound. No one would be suicidal enough, I think. A crazy Texan and his private army? Who would want a piece of that?
For the first time today, I realize that what I’m doing is actually dangerous. Sweat beads on my forehead, and my palms are clammy. Great. I’m not even inside the gate, and I’m already petrified. Which is probably a good sign: It suggests that I am, indeed, sane.