Chapter 32 Lily
Lily
Raven moves around the camp speaking with his men, inspecting the product, and every so often staring at me. I’m not sure why—I’m not going anywhere. He made sure of that.
He still has his shirt off, and it still bothers me. The prick tore out my nose ring.
My thoughts swirl. He made something of himself. The drugs, the cartel—damn it. I’m screwed.
It’d be my luck that I’d end up in the hospital after all these years and one phone call did me in. Is he really out here for me? No. It can’t be. All of this—
I examine the tables of drugs that must be Jackpot and something else. He mentioned it being the perfect mix.
The crew moves continuously, their boots grinding into the damp forest floor, and their heads on a swivel.
As the night gets colder, the smell of the pine grows, but it does little to mask the chemical bite of gas and acetone.
Not to mention, they all stink.
Each time a man walks by, I get a whiff of body odor mingled with their breath that smells like cigarettes. My lungs rebel, and I hold my breath until they move on.
A sagging tarp sits over the crates stacked between two tall pines. They aren’t closed all the way, but open enough to reveal the plastic-wrapped bricks of powder. Occasionally, a man will walk by and load up another crate of bricks or cut into random fresh packages to test the product.
Nearby, a rusted-out barrel burns low with all the extra trash: cardboard, plastic wrap, paperwork. They are organized, I’ll give them that.
As the smoke rises, I wonder how anyone doesn’t see it through the woods, but then halfway up the curls fizzle out. It doesn’t even reach the tips of the pines.
I shift, the chains biting into my forearms, the cold metal slick with my nervous sweat and black dirt. Waiting until no one is watching, I twist and pull to loosen an inch—anything.
The rough bark splinters through the thin fabric of my uniform and I huff out a growl in frustration. The more I move, the more the rusted links shave tiny metal shards, yet they refuse to budge.
Something shifts in the darkness behind me, and I slow my ministrations to listen. My breathing stalls as I wait for the rustling noise again. There’s another snap—somewhere beyond the tree line, and a new panic blooms in my gut.
I can’t decide if I want it to be Noah or would prefer to know he’s safe somewhere, and I don’t know what’s worse: the idea someone may be coming or the thought there’s something stalking the camp in the woods. Something that sees me as a convenient snack chained to the tree.
Glancing over my shoulder, a shadow shifts in the night, growing larger and larger, and then it moves.
Four legs. A long snout. Shaped low to the ground. It immediately registers—it’s an animal. Not Noah.
Glowing eyes catch the slant of moonlight streaming through to the forest floor, and a sleek, muscular form steps into view. A dog.
It’s dark, but the coat is tan—oh hell. Max!
I glance at Raven, gauging his attention, but he’s caught up in conversation.
Max stops several feet away, nose to the ground. Then his head snaps in my direction and he scents the air. I don’t breathe. I don’t move. Worried he’ll jump and make noise enough to alert the men.
Almost as if knowing, Max approaches slowly, most of his body hidden behind the tree. He sniffs and nudges my shoulder.
“Hi,” I whisper.
Max looks around, lowers his head, and growls into the camp.
“Shh, Max.”
He growls louder, cutting through the scrape of hands and thuds of objects rattling the line of plastic tables.
My mind races, and I try again. “Nien.”
His mouth snaps closed, but it’s too late.
Against the shuffle of papers, the crinkle of plastic, and the skittering of tools is the crack of his gun.
A bullet whizzes past me, and I scream, struggling against the chains to turn. To see.
Raven’s arm is raised, a pistol in hand.
“No!” I yell, then seek out Max. I listen for a yelp, anything.
I can’t breathe, can’t think. His name tears from my throat over and over.
But there’s nothing.
Where did he go … What if he’s out there alone and hurt?
“Max!” My cries turn into sobs as Raven approaches the stump and gazes into the tree line. “You bastard!”
His arm shifts, the weapon now trained at my chest. His eyes narrow again on the necklace. He stares and grits out a warning to his men. “He’s here. Get ready.”