“Shoot.”
I winced at his choice of phrasing. The gun was still pressed against the small of my back, stuffed inside the waistband of a pair of jeans I’d found in a duffel bag. They could have belonged to anyone—the Levi’s 501s—but the fit was close enough so I’d taken them, along with a spare shirt. It was better than trying to catch a ride in a blood-splattered hospital gown.
I spit out my next question. “What . . . What day is it?”
Chuck just shook his head. Not in a sad way, or even a shocked way, but more in an I’d-stumped-him way. “When you kids say you’re lost . . .” He slid a sympathetic gaze my way and then up at his mirror to look back at Thom. “Man-oh-man, girl. Thursday,” he said. “It’s Thursday.” When I frowned, mentally, trying to get my bearings he took pity on me and added, “The first.”
My breath came out in a whoosh. “The what?”
“July first.” He sat a little straighter than before, his eyes darting to where my hands were gripping the sides of my seats. My knuckles had gone bone white. “You okay?” He sounded nervous, and maybe he was right to be. The chill in my bones had spread to my skin and I was swallowing back my own stomach acids. I hadn’t puked after shooting four people, or even when pieces of Blondie sprayed all over me when Eddie Ray killed her. But the possibility was real now. “You don’t look so good. Should I pull over?”
I leaned forward, taking slow and shallow breaths. After a second I released my death grip and held up my hand.
“Kyra?” Thom asked from behind me.
“It’s okay. I’ll . . . I’ll be okay.” They were the same words I’d whispered to myself over and over after I’d rescued him at the asylum. After I’d shot Natty.
Five days, I repeated in my head.
How was it possible that I’d been kidnapped almost a week ago? How had I not noticed the passing of an entire week? Felt the knifing pain that came each and every daybreak?
But I knew how . . . the IV drip. The drugs.
“One of you got family out west?” Chuck asked, still trying to pry information from us.
The word “family” brought a whole new kind of pain. A week was a long time to lose track of my dad. I had no idea where he’d gone after I’d been taken from that diner.
Hopefully he and Tyler had gotten in touch with Simon and they were all together now, someplace safe.
Where? I had no clue. Blackwater was out of the question—Agent Truman and his Daylight Division had seen to that. And since they didn’t know that Thom had never been the traitor we’d all believed he was, there was no way they’d go back to Silent Creek.
That left me with no idea where to start looking.
But Thom and I needed a place we could lay low until we sorted things out, and because our options were limited, we planned to take advantage of the code word—the one Natty hadn’t been able to pry from him. Silent Creek might be reeling, and it might even be compromised, but it was the only place Thom felt safe.
He trusted his people and their ability to hide us until we could figure out our next steps. We had to hope the NSA hadn’t found them, and that we could get there without being captured.
“Something like that,” I told Chuck, not an outright lie. My family was in Washington State. They just weren’t who we were planning to see.
Swinging his face to me, he grinned. “Can’t blame a guy for tryin’.” He turned back to the road. “Better get comfortable. Even if we drove straight through, it’d be ’bout another sixteen or so hours ’til we reach Portland, and that’s as far west as I go.”
I settled back, smiling to myself when I said, “That’s close enough, Chuck.”
SIMON
GRIFFIN’S SOLDIERS HAD ALREADY CLEARED THE basement, but five minutes after hearing the sound, Griffin and I were back down there. It was worse in the basement than even upstairs—darker and moldier. Scarier than fuck, basically.
I wasn’t above admitting it wouldn’t take much for me to crap my pants at that very moment.
But if there was even a chance Kyra was down here, it would all be worthwhile.
Even if Jett hadn’t been working to decipher his map—check that, reverse star chart—the delay meant he and Ben had more time to pilfer whatever they could of the high-tech components the group had been using—radio equipment, computer hard drives—anything they could grab and stuff into a duffel.
I couldn’t fault him. When we’d fled Blackwater, we’d had to leave behind the entire array of computer and communications equipment Griffin had amassed over the years. All that remained was the laptop Jett rarely let out of his sight.
I tried to stay focused on the job at hand, finding whatever had made that noise, but my mind kept drifting back to Eddie Ray.