Chapter 7
Seven
Imove silently through the woods, doubling back and then tracking the route where they took Naomi. I’m soaked in blood, the rain no longer heavy enough to wash it away.
My stomach drops. What if she's already dead? If they were willing to kill me, they would be just as willing to kill her.
The thought chills me, deeper than I thought possible. Especially for someone I’ve known for only a day.
No, they wouldn't have bothered to take her somewhere else if they wanted her dead. They need something from her. She's still alive.
Through the trees, I spot a clearing with a dirt road.
Two black SUVs sit parked with tinted windows.
Two men mill around—one standing guard by the vehicles, another leaning against the hood, holding up his phone like he’s trying to get cell service and failing.
No sign of Naomi, but she must be inside one of them.
I can't risk a shot from here. The windows are too dark to see through, and I can’t risk hitting her. The men are spread out enough that taking down one would alert the other.
I need a distraction.
I gather pine needles, dry leaves, and small twigs into a pile about fifty yards to the south of the vehicles. I place the Glock on top and light the tinder beneath it.
As the fire builds, I circle back around the clearing, positioning myself with clear sightlines to both vehicles. The flames grow higher, and smoke begins to billow up through the trees.
One of the guys takes notice, and then the ordnance in the weapon begins to burst. It doesn't sound like a gunshot, more like fireworks going off. The men pull their weapons, and one rushes toward the fire, the other trailing, sticking close to one of the vehicles.
The one I'm now sure Naomi is in.
I make my way behind the trailing guard, silently, and slit his throat. Adding a strike underneath his ribs.
I let his body fall to the ground and remove my rifle from my shoulder. I aim at the tree line.
The guard comes running back toward the SUVs, clearly disturbed by what he found, but his face is shocked when he sees my rifle aimed at him.
I fire, center mass, and he crumples to the ground.
I drag the man I stabbed away from the driver's door of the lead SUV. I pat down his vest and find the small set of handcuff keys.
I open the SUV's front door, and there she is. Hunched in the back seat, she still has a hood over her head, with her hands cuffed behind her and her legs shackled.
"Naomi, it's me." I climb in the driver's seat.
Her eyes widen, a mix of confusion and hope. “Walker? How did you—"
"I'll unhook you as soon as I can, but we have to move."
I guide the SUV down the narrow forest road, knuckles white on the steering wheel. The rain has tapered to nothing, but the sky is still cloudy, and visibility remains poor. Every few seconds, I check the rearview mirror—both for pursuers and to glimpse Naomi's partially masked face.
"Where are we going?" Naomi asks.
"My truck is a few miles down this road." I navigate around a pothole. "There was a tracker in the gun you stole. I'm sure there's one in this car."
I look in the rearview mirror. The spit mask covers her mouth, but I can see those eyes. They look frightened, which means she still trusts me, at least a little. Because I've already learned that she's good at hiding what she's really feeling if she needs to.
The road curves, and I spot my truck where I left it, partially concealed by overgrown brush. Instead of stopping, I drive past it, continuing toward the tree line ahead.
"What are you doing?" Her voice rises slightly.
"I'm going to make it look like we went back into the woods." I ease the SUV to a stop, its nose brushing the edge of the forest. "It probably won't fool them, and if it does, it won’t be for long. But it's better than nothing."
I hop out and open the back door. Rain drips from the trees overhead as I remove the spit hood. Relief washes over her features as she takes a deep breath, but revealing her pretty face makes it difficult for me to breathe. I unlock the cuffs and leg irons and throw them on the ground.
"Come on," I say, gesturing toward the truck.
She hesitates, and without the mask, I can see she’s terrified. Of me. “You killed those men.”
“Those men weren’t marshals. They were going to kill me. And I don’t know what they were going to do to you.”
Her eyes scan my face, searching for something—deception, maybe, or confirmation that she can trust me.
“They were they,” I say. I don’t entirely know what that means yet, but it clicks for Naomi, and she moves toward me.
We move quickly through the dripping underbrush toward my truck. I open the passenger door for her, scan our surroundings once more, then circle to the driver's side.
As I start the engine, she turns to me. "Why are you helping me?"
I pause, hands on the wheel. The surface answer is that they were going to kill me. And eventually I’m sure they were going to kill her. Those are reasons, sure, but not the whole truth. The actual answer is something I can’t think of, let alone voice.
"We're in this together now," I say.
That's only part of the truth. And only part of an answer.