Chapter 62 The Hunter – Seven
THE HUNTER
SEVEN
Somehow, we make it away from the villa and the Costa Brava without interference or incident.
I can't help the needling feeling that the only reason is because he wanted us to, and I'm not fucking ready to think about what that means yet.
We switched cars three hours ago and doubled back, ditching the gear and showering off the blood to head inland toward the Girona airport. But every mile we've put between Ro's last known location and where we're headed has felt like another nail being hammered into her coffin.
There has to be a trail here.
Something that can lead to where she's been taken.
Rationally, I know Ambrose wouldn't leave a loose end for us to find, and I saw with my own eyes that he left not a single member of his staff alive to question.
But…I can't leave without trying. Shouldn't we try?
Atticus pulls off the highway toward the airport, and I watch a plane fly overhead, taking off into the night.
Nope.
Can't do it.
"Stop the car."
Atticus's forehead wrinkles. "What?"
"Pull over."
"Sev—"
"Okay then—" I unbuckle my seat belt and start to open the passenger door when Atty curses and finally pulls off the road to a barrage of honking horns behind us.
"Fuck, Seven," he snaps, grabbing me by the sweater to stop me from jumping out of the car. "What are you doing?"
"I can't do it, man."
"Do what?"
"Leave."
I throw my hands through my hair, feeling little bits of dried, crusted blood still stuck to my scalp that didn't wash off in the motel shower.
"You have to have something to go on, Atticus. Any kind of lead—I don't care what it is—just something. I can't fly across the ocean when she could still be here."
"We don't have time for this, Sev," Elijah argues weakly from the back seat. "We're already wasting time."
"We haven't heard from Céline since we told her to get out of Boone. She might need our help, too. And Ellie? We have to get back. We need to regroup. It's not just Julian—I have the footage from E's English lesson with Aurora. There could be more clues there."
My black sweater tears when I pull away from him, the heat clawing back up my spine.
I can't afford to think about Ellie. Or Céline. Not yet.
We don't know they're in imminent danger right now.
We do know Ro is.
"Wait," I say, stopping with one foot out the door. "You said more clues. What do you mean? Did you already get something from going over the footage while we were still at the villa?"
And not fucking say anything?
"It might not be anything," he rushes to say. "I need to look into it, Sev. I need to get home. I need to get a hold of my contacts—get my hands on my computer. We need—"
"What is it? Tell me."
"Seven." Eli's tone has shifted. It's sharp now, and it punches through my armor more than Atticus's blunt growls ever could. "Get back in the car."
"I can't, E." Then to Atticus, "Give me the lead."
His hands tighten on the steering wheel. He sighs.
"I'm not asking you to stay with me," I hiss. "You guys go. Go check on Cee and Ellie. Talk to Julian. Do what you need to do. This is what I need to do."
Elijah pinches the bridge of his nose. "Sev, you don't even speak the language."
"The language I intend to use is a very universal one."
"We ditched our gear fifty miles back," Atticus argues, but I show him he's wrong, pulling my hooked blade from where I stashed it in the side of the passenger door. It glints in the headlights of the passing cars until Atticus shoves it out of sight.
"This is all I need. Now give me the lead, or I'll find my own."
Atticus slams his palms on the wheel, then sags in his seat and digs into his pocket for the stack of passports under our newest aliases. He thumbs through them roughly and hands me mine.
When I go to grab it from him, he doesn't let go. "Forty-eight hours," he says. "I'm booking you a flight home in forty-eight hours from now. Don't make me waste more time coming back here to drag your ass home."
"The lead?"
"Coyote," he says. "In my military training, there were stories about a guy with that code name. They said he defected. Went dark. I think he had connections in Spain."
"Road Runner," Eli mutters from the back seat, and I remember that weird shift in conversation during their English lesson. Wile E. Coyote was the one chasing Road Runner.
"I could be misinterpreting. It could be nothing," Atty argues.
"Or it could be something."
I pull the passport from Atticus's fingers and throw up my hood, turning away from the road. If I only have forty-eight hours, I won't waste them.