Chapter 9 Savannah
NINE
Savannah
The truck smells like pine air freshener and old coffee, rattling with every pothole as I push it faster than it wants to go down the mountain road.
Sawyer works on my laptop in the passenger seat, his blood seeping through the makeshift bandage I applied, and I'm trying not to think about how close those bullets came to taking him from me.
Which is insane. I shouldn't feel like losing him would break something fundamental in me.
But here's the thing about trauma—it strips away all the careful constructions we build around ourselves. The polite distances, the professional boundaries, the measured responses.
When someone saves your life, when you trust them with your survival, when they bleed for you, the typical timeline for emotional connection gets thrown out the window.
I've known Sawyer for maybe a day, but I've seen him kill for me, take bullets for me, jump from a tower with me in his arms. That's more truth than three years with Nathan ever revealed. Nathan showed me what he wanted me to see. Sawyer has shown me who he is when everything is on the line.
And God help me, I want him with an intensity that scares me.
"Take the next left," he says, not looking up from the screen. "Service road, stays off main highways."
I make the turn, tires skidding on loose gravel. In the mirrors, no pursuit yet, but they'll be coming.
"Do you have any backups?"
"Yes. I uploaded a dead man's switch. The evidence is distributed across seventeen servers, all set to release in"—I check my watch—"thirty-four hours if I don't input the stop code."
He goes quiet. Too quiet.
He reaches back for my messenger bag. "Anything on this you can't afford to lose?"
My brain stutters. Years of research. Case files. "The evidence—"
"You said you distributed it across seventeen servers."
"Right. I can patch it back together from anywhere."
Before I can process why he’s asking, my phone sails into the darkness.
"Sawyer!"
The laptop follows, disappearing into the brush.
"What the hell are you doing?" I'm half-shouting, watching years of my life vanish.
The messenger bag goes last—he checks it once more, dumps a charging cable and notepad, then sends it flying. Window up. Done. Maybe ten seconds total.
"Making sure they can't follow us." He settles back like he didn't just erase my entire digital footprint. "We'll get you a clean device when we're clear."
My hands shake on the wheel. He's right—I know he's right—but the absolute certainty, the zero hesitation...
And God help me, that makes him even sexier.
"Eyes on the road," he says quietly. There's something in his voice that says he knows exactly what I'm thinking.
"That's assuming we're not dead in thirty-four hours."
"We won't be." The certainty in his voice makes me believe him. He winces as we hit a pothole, hand going to his ribs.
"You need a hospital."
"I need to keep you alive."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive."
We drive for a while longer, but eventually the forest road dumps out onto a highway. At the first town, I spot a pharmacy.
"We're stopping."
"Savannah—"
"Non-negotiable." I pull in and park behind the building where we're not visible from the road. "Five minutes. We need medical supplies."
The normalcy of the pharmacy—fluorescent lights, muzak playing "Girl from Ipanema," a bored teenager at the register—feels surreal.
I grab a basket and move fast through the aisles: antibiotic ointment, bandages, surgical tape, and pain meds. My fingers shake as I reach for hydrogen peroxide, remembering the blood flowing from Sawyer's wounds.
The hair dye display catches my eye. If they're tracking us through cameras, we need to change our appearance. I grab black for him, auburn for me, and a pair of scissors. The teenager doesn't even look up from his phone as I pay cash.
Back at the truck, Sawyer climbs into the driver's seat.
I don't argue, sliding into the passenger side.
We’re back on the road until Sawyer pulls into a rest stop. "I need to treat this." He points to his side where fresh blood seeps through his shirt.
The bathroom is grimy, fluorescent light flickering, and smells like industrial cleaner and desperation. But it has running water and a lockable door. Sawyer peels off his shirt, and I forget to breathe for a second.
His torso is a map of violence—old scars layered under fresh bruises, the new graze angry and red against tan skin. But it's the body underneath that makes heat pool in my belly.
Functional muscle, not gym-pretty but earned through use. A dusting of dark hair across his chest. Hip bones that cut sharply above his tactical pants.
"You're staring," he says, mouth quirking.
"You're hurt." I force myself to focus on medical, not the way I want to trace every scar with my tongue.
The graze is deeper than I thought, still seeping blood, and his entire right side is purple-black with bruising. "This is going to hurt," I warn, cleaning the wound with antiseptic.
"I've had worse." But his jaw clenches, muscles tensing under my hands.
I work as gently as I can, hyperaware of his skin under my palms, the way his breathing changes when I hit a particularly tender spot. This close, I can smell him—gunpowder and sweat and that cedar scent that's becoming familiar.
"Some of these scars are recent."
"Occupational hazards. Guardian HRS doesn't exactly handle easy cases."
"And the burn scars?" I trace one that wraps around his ribs, feeling him shiver under the touch. "All from the crash? Did anyone else…" I can’t finish the question, and realize I probably shouldn’t have asked.
"I was the only survivor."
"Survivor's guilt is a hell of a thing."
"Speaking from experience?"
"My parents died in a car accident when I was seven. I was in the back seat, and walked away without a scratch." I tape down the fresh bandage, letting my hands linger perhaps longer than necessary. "Spent years wondering why I lived when they didn't."
"Find an answer?"
"No. But I found a purpose. That's almost as good." I help him back into his shirt. "Your turn. Why did Tyler's death hit you so hard? You said it wasn't your fault."
He's quiet for a moment, and I think he won't answer. Then: "Because he had kids. Two little girls who'll grow up without their father because I couldn't get him out. Every month I send money to his widow, and every month she thanks me, not knowing I'm the reason she's alone."
"You're not—"
"I know. Logically, I know. But logic doesn't stop the dreams where I save him. Where I'm faster or stronger or just... enough."
I cup his face, force him to look at me. "You are enough. You've saved me three times and counting. You're enough."
Something shifts in his eyes, and then he's kissing me, desperate and deep. When we break apart, we're both shaking.
"We should go," he says roughly. "They'll track the truck soon."
He pulls me close, and I realize it's not about desire—he's checking the parking lot over my shoulder. "Two vehicles just pulled in. Could be nothing."
"What do we do?" Fear knots my stomache, gripping hard.
"We walk out casually. Couple on a road trip." He takes my hand, interlacing our fingers. "If they move on us, you run for the truck. Don't look back."
"We've discussed this. I don't leave you behind."
"And I don't let you die for me."
The two vehicles—black SUVs with tinted windows—are parked strategically to block exit routes. Definitely not a coincidence.
"Keep walking," Sawyer murmurs, thumb stroking my hand.
Four men exit the SUVs, trying to look casual, but their tactical boots and concealed weapons give them away. They're moving to surround us.
"When I say run—"
I don't let him finish. Instead, I stop abruptly, pull him down for a loud, public kiss, and use the movement to slip the compact pistol from his waistband. When I break the kiss, I whisper against his mouth, "Trust me."
Then I'm moving, not away but toward the nearest hostile, stumbling like a drunk girl. "Oh my God, is that a real Rolex? My daddy collects watches—"
I'm inside his guard before he processes the threat. The pistol presses against his kidney as I use his body to shield mine. "Nobody moves, or your friend discovers what his spine looks like."
The tactical advantage shifts in seconds. Sawyer's already moving, flanking the others while they're focused on me. God, we work well together—no communication needed, just instinct and trust.
The other three freeze, hands hovering near weapons.
"Smart girl," my hostage says. "But you're outnumbered."
"I'm also desperate, which makes me dangerous." I press harder, making him grunt. "Here's what's happening. You're going to tell your friends to back off. We're taking your vehicle. Anyone who follows, I shoot."
"You won't get far—"
Sawyer's moved while I held their attention, and now has his weapon trained on the others. "She's not bluffing. I've watched her kill three men today. She's getting creative."
I push my hostage forward, keeping the gun on him. "Keys."
He tosses them to Sawyer, who's already moving to the nearest SUV. I back toward it, maintaining aim.
"This isn't over," one of them calls.
"No," I agree, sliding into the passenger seat as Sawyer starts the engine. "But you just lost this round."
We peel out, and I expect gunfire, but none comes. They want us alive now, probably to find out what we know.
"That was risky," Sawyer says once we're on the highway.
"It worked."
"You could have been killed."
"So could you. That's why we're a good team."
I need to focus on something besides the adrenaline making my hands shake.
"I know what we need to do."
"What?"
"Break into Titan’s logistics hub and destroy their chemical supply."
He glances at me. "That's insane."
"You said it yourself—offense is the best defense. Besides, who would be crazy enough to attack Titan on their home turf?"
"You, apparently."
"What else are we going to do. If we do nothing, people die."
"We aren’t doing this."
"I'm done running. It's time to hit back."
"Savannah…"
"You said you'd burn the world down to protect me. Let me burn their world down to protect everyone else."
He laughs, dark and appreciative. "You're different than your file suggested."
"What’s that?"
"Spunky. Fearless. Ferocious."
"Well, I’m alive, and very pissed off."
Sawyer studies me for a long moment, something shifting in his expression. "You're serious about hitting Titan."
"Dead serious." I meet his gaze. "They're supplying chemicals to poison water supplies. We have their location, their security layouts. We can stop this."
He pulls out his encrypted phone, decision made. "You're right about going on the offense. We're just not doing it alone."
"What does that mean?"
"I’m getting us an army." He hits a speed dial. "You want to burn their world down? Let me introduce you to the people who do that for a living."