Chapter 30
LILY
Irun.
The alarm splits the night like a scream—high-pitched, piercing, and immediate. It follows me down the ridge, toward my car.
With the unexpected confusion as cover, I use every shadow and depression in the terrain, moving low and fast. I stay below the sight line, moving in controlled bursts—three seconds of movement, two seconds frozen, assess, move again.
My body remembers the training even when my mind is fracturing with adrenaline.
Fifty yards. Seventy-five. A hundred.
The compound lights are behind me now. The alarm is still blaring but it's distant, muffled by the ridge between us. I reach the access road and my truck is exactly where I left it—hidden in the tree line, doors unlocked, keys in the ignition.
I'm inside and moving before I let myself breathe.
No headlights. Not yet. I navigate by moonlight and memory, keeping the speed low and controlled. One mile. Two miles. Far enough that the sound of the engine won't carry back to the compound.
Only then do I flip on the headlights.
Only then do I let the shaking start.
My hands are trembling on the wheel. My breath comes in short, sharp bursts that I can't seem to control. The adrenaline is crashing now, leaving me hollow and wrung out and furious.
That alarm saved my life. I reach up to push the hair back that’s fallen out of my ponytail.
Wait. I touch my head, and then pat my jacket pocket, looking for my hat.
It’s not here.
Turning, I glance out the rearview window. Should I go back and trace my steps, looking for it?
“Are you crazy?” I mumble, shaking my head. If anyone finds a plain black cap, they won’t think anything of it. They certainly won’t be able to trace it back to me.
Taking a deep breath, I continue home.