12. Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
The faint scent of bergamot filled the cab of the car.
Louna hadn’t noticed the citrusy blend on Tennyson’s clothes before, but in this smaller, confined space, it was all she could focus on.
He’d followed her to Polina’s shop. He’d gone inside, and had probably talked to her.
How much he had learned was impossible to tell without asking, and she would not do that. Not yet.
Not until she’d decided how much to tell him.
They had left the city behind and were rumbling through a series of forested hills and basins, and she drove as quickly as the rutted country roads allowed.
She didn’t want to admit to the prickling anxiety that clung to her whenever she tried to reason out why Lindsey’s kidnappers would want to take him so far into the country.
No witnesses. No questions. No evidence left behind.
Beside her, Tennyson brooded in unhelpful silence, his brow furrowed and his shoulders tense.
A few times, he rubbed absently at his healing arm.
She didn’t comment. She didn’t say anything to him, despite the memory of how he’d gotten the injury playing relentlessly through her head.
More specifically, the memory of what had happened after, when she’d given up one of her aliases and taken him to her art studio to stitch him up in safety.
When he’d noticed her favorite flower in the numerous paintings on her walls.
When he’d leaned close to her and pressed a teasing kiss to her neck.
It had been so exciting then. The thrill of danger, of a plan coming together, of his serious blue eyes seeking her out whenever he entered a room. She’d kept her secrets then, but he saw through them. He made his own plans around her.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.
“What kind of place are we looking for?” she asked, after an eternity of silence. He’d already told her this, but she couldn’t stand the minor-keyed folk music shrilling through the radio anymore. Tennyson was irritating, but at least his voice was nice.
“Something that can be fortified,” he answered, still looking through his window. “Hartmann was a sniper, so he’ll head for high ground. The mountains are the highest.”
“A cabin?” she asked.
He shrugged his good shoulder. “Maybe. He’ll want it to be remote to discourage Lindsey from escaping. Somewhere without a lot of traffic.”
Louna considered that. “How would he find it? He isn’t planning on just driving around until he happens upon a hideout, right?”
“A contact of Harlow’s, probably,” Tennyson said.
“So not a place that can be seen from the road.” She tapped his hip, and he jumped away from her touch and glared at her. She ignored it. “Take out your phone, start searching places to stay in the area. It may give you some ideas.”
“He’s not going to go to a rental,” Tennyson said.
“Just look.”
He grumbled something she didn’t try to hear and took out his phone, and she went back to gritting her teeth through the sound of violins and flutes.
After a few minutes, he made a noise she could only interpret as annoyed triumph. “Look,” he said, holding his phone out to her. “It’s only half an hour from here.”
Louna glanced at it, and in spite of herself, she could feel her eyes lighting up. “Really? You think that’s where they would have gone?”
“It checks all the boxes,” Tennyson said. “Fortified. Elevated. Remote.”
“Tell me when to turn,” she said, fighting down a grin.
He nodded, and she glanced at him without turning her head. “What if we’re wrong?” she asked quietly.
“Then we keep looking,” he answered.
“How long does he have?”
For the first time in over an hour, Tennyson looked directly at her. “If Hartmann took Lindsey to kill him, then he’s dead already. If not, we have until Saturday.”
“What’s Saturday?”
“Harlow’s deadline.” His voice was gravelly, but he kept his gaze on her, like he was willing her to understand. “If we can’t get Lindsey free by then, Harlow will go after you all. You, Lindsey, Jean-Claude, Philippe.”
“And you?” Louna asked.
“No,” he said, rediscovering his interest in the scenery.
Louna exhaled. “Why, because you’re still useful to him? I would be useful as well.”
Tennyson shook his head and spoke without looking at her. “If Harlow gets through to any of you, it’ll be because I’m already dead.”
His words lodged like a pit in her stomach, and she half-turned to him. “Tennyson—”
An intake of breath over the comms made her break off, and she waited for Jean-Claude or Philippe to speak. Instead, there was a garbled shuffling sound, and then, low and hesitant, a voice.
“Tom Sawyer to Huck Finn. Come in, Huck Finn.”
Tennyson stiffened beside her, and Louna reached for his hand.
“I, uh,” Lindsey said. “I might be willing to entertain the idea of an escape now.”