Chapter 2 #2
Quinn glanced at her over his shoulder, mouth pursed tight, gaze raking the length of her. Either checking to see he wasn’t hallucinating her resurrection or to see if she’d somehow gotten hit. He obviously found the answer because he refocused on the SUVs, kept landing shots.
She swallowed. When Gideon had radioed — sent them on what he claimed was likely a benign recon mission to investigate a simple signal anomaly — she’d never expected they’d encounter more of Finch’s soldiers, let alone an attack with Quinn at the center.
Her chest squeezed tight, her next breath barely making it past the lump in her throat.
The man was as sexy as ever, with his brown hair teasing his eyes.
He looked larger than she remembered, as if he’d spent the past few months in the gym, moving as much iron as he could get his hands on.
Watching him — how his cargo pants hugged his ass, his wool sweater pulling taut across his massive arms — had stolen her breath, and she doubted she’d be getting it back any time soon.
Not with the way he’d looked at her when she’d slid in beside him — more than just surprise. Anger. Pain. Betrayal. All mixed with something that had looked dangerously like love. The way she suspected she looked whenever a cop car passed by or she heard rotors overhead.
That maybe he hadn’t gotten over her, either.
She buried the thought. As much as she wanted to hold him, beg for forgiveness — explain that she hadn’t wanted him to have to choose, to give up everything — now wasn’t the time.
Not with several enhanced assholes on their tail and a compromised bridge standing between them and their only hope at salvation.
The bridge, appearing up ahead, snapped her attention back to the present.
Quinn hadn’t been exaggerating. The wooden structure tilted to the right, sitting at what had to be at least thirty degrees.
The ground in front had sloughed away, exposing the two wooden beams that ran the length of it, the right one noticeably lower.
Several planks had fallen into the river below, and Scout bet her ass the rest were a strong gust away from joining them.
Coulter inhaled. “Scout… that’s got to be at least a hundred and fifty feet of crumbling wood.”
Quinn leaned forward between the two seats. “All those recent storms have undercut the anchors. If you’re determined to go through with this, you’d better fly across there because if you milk it, we’re all going for a swim.”
Scout met his gaze. Not an ounce of fear shining in the hazel depths, just cool resolve mixed with pride. She looked back at Coulter, then picked up speed, keeping the truck lined up with the bridge.
Coulter grabbed the handle beside his head, muttered something under his breath about her being crazy as they closed the distance. She slowed just enough to ease onto the bridge without rocking it, more of the earth breaking away as the front tires rolled onto the slats.
The wood creaked, loud cracks echoing up from beneath the pillars as the view out the front canted onto a nausea-inducing angle.
Everything inside the Jeep shifted, skittering across floorboards as the vehicle slipped toward the edge of the bridge, providing a clear view of the water raging ten feet below them.
A slight increase in speed helped her pull it back toward the center, some of the planks splitting from the weight, the pieces snapping sharply before striking the raging water beneath them. White foam splashed around them, the entire structure shaking as they neared the halfway point.
Another massive crack, and the bridge shook, the back half dropping a foot, pitching the truck toward the lip. Engine growling, the revs nudging toward the red, she countered the pull, dropping it into four-wheel as she shifted gears.
The lead SUV roared to a halt behind them, dirt and gravel spraying out the sides as the passenger door opened, some asshole in tactical gear jumping out.
He aimed at the truck, sparked a round off the bumper, jerking the Jeep ahead enough that Scout overcorrected — had to ease off the gas before she careened off the opposite side.
Despite everything still tilted to the point it felt as if the vehicle might roll at the slightest bump, Quinn grunted, raised the rifle, then fired, hitting the guy center mass. The creep tumbled back, cartwheeling a few times before shaking it off, slowly crawling back toward the door.
Quinn laid down another few pulls. “I don’t know what these guys are on, but nothing I hit seems to… shit. Scout, baby, punch it. That asshole just threw a frag.”
Scout ignored the endearment — the way it fluttered her stomach, warmed a part of her that had been cold since they’d become Black Hollow — dividing her attention between the other side of the gully and the rearview as she hit the gas, got the Jeep rocking when the grenade blew, shaking the structure until she thought the bridge would simply drop out from beneath them.
Smoke billowed into the air, an entire section of the bridge falling into the river as the remaining beams groaned, slowly pulling apart. Nails shot out, pinging off the truck as the slats heaved, then cracked, wood splintering into the air.
Thirty feet out, the rest of the bridge started falling, each section collapsing into the white water in a cascading wave. The truck slid, riding the far edge, tires squealing, engine whining. She held on, smoke curling around them, obscuring the last several feet.
Locking her arms, she punched it, shooting out onto the mouth of the gravel road as the last beams finally gave, toppling into the river in an explosion of water and wood.
The rear wheels hit the edge, spinning against the last piece of wood still clinging to the ground, the flatbed hovering over the thirty-foot drop into the ravine.
Scout held firm, aware if she let up on the gas, they’d likely slide back — follow the bridge into the water.
Smoke poured up from the tires, the engine sounding like it might blow, when the wheels finally found purchase on the slick wood.
The truck lurched forward, kicking up more gravel and mud as they launched down the track, a wake of bullets chewing up the forest as she fishtailed around a corner, barreling down the overgrown road.
Darkness fell around them, cloaking every possible pitfall in deep shadows before she finally flicked on the lights, bounced the Gladiator onto a questionable spur.
The engine quieted as she slowed, still doing a sweep of the mirrors, checking overhead in case they had a drone.
Heavy silence settled in the cab, filled only by the gravel crunching beneath the tires and their combined ragged breathing slipping into the empty spaces.
Coulter peeled his fingers off the handle, shaking his head as he nudged her shoulder. “That was insane. Remind me to have a chat with Gideon when we get back. Simple anomaly my ass.”
“Only if I don’t get to the guy first.” She jumped when Quinn cleared his throat, staring at them as if he didn’t know whether to clap them on the back or arrest them.
He crossed his arms over his massive chest, straining the fabric along his biceps — jacking the heat up inside the truck until Scout thought she’d spontaneously combust. “Since it appears the immediate threat is over, now’s the perfect time to explain why you’re both not nearly as dead as advertised. ”
Coulter sighed. “About that… It might be best if you didn’t…
” He faded off when their tablet pinged.
Coulter picked it up off the floor, stared at the screen, brow furrowed, mouth pinched tight.
He glanced at her, then back at Quinn. “I just got a text from Gideon. He said that signal he’d picked up on is trailing us, which makes sense if it’s connected to those assholes in the SUVs, but there’s another one coming from inside the truck. ”
Scout scoffed. “How is that possible? They didn’t get close enough to plant a tracking device.”
“If that’s not strange enough, this one isn’t going through Finch’s network. Gideon said it’s pinging off a satellite.” Coulter eyed Quinn. “Hey, Mountie. You didn’t pick up anything back there, did you?”
Quinn leaned back, looking as if he was weighing whether to answer or not before he dug into his pocket, removed a matte-black watch. He held it out. “You mean, something like this?”
Coulter stared at it, cursing when Quinn turned it over, showed the pulsing blue light amidst the cracked casing. “Well, shit. Where did you get that? And why the hell were you out here in the first place? It’s at least an hour outside your jurisdiction.”
Quinn’s jaw tightened, his gaze finding Scout’s in the rearview. “I found it on a trail. I think it’s Brea’s.” He leaned forward. “She’s missing, and I’m pretty sure those men took her.”