Chapter 20
Twenty
The rest of the afternoon wears on, and a couple of the guys rest, while the others clean weapons or wander out on patrol. By nightfall, I just want to get the hell out of here and away from these people. Nothing feels right.
York passes me a flask. “Drink?”
I take a swig and then cover my mouth and cough before passing it back to him. Disgusting.
The heat of the fire makes me lean in, and Carter starts talking about some woman he has back home, which is one hundred percent fabricated, but everyone listens with interest anyway. These guys tell make-believe stories about their lives around the fire the way normal people tell ghost stories.
My gaze shifts around the fire casually, always coming back to York.
Carter is lying down, propped up on an elbow beside William, who’s sitting on his coat with his legs stretched out.
The rest of us are on damp logs. York and William both have their rifles on the ground at their sides, and I can’t see a weapon near Carter or August, not that that means anything.
Across from me, August’s eyes meet mine often. There is no love lost there. I’m still not sure if he had meant to hit me with the knife or not. Either way, I still wish he was dead.
Beyond him, the brush at the edge of the camp shifts, and my eyes stray to it. A shadow of fur comes just into sight and shifts away again. Discreetly, I slide my hand up under the back of my jacket.
I’m not sure how to play this. I can hope this thing barrels right for us, taking everyone by surprise and August from behind.
Maybe it mauls him, maybe it doesn’t, and maybe someone else shoots it first. Tripoli can be surprised, scared, brought to tears by anxiety .
. . There are many cards I can play. I could also make a run for it in the chaos.
There are no guarantees though.
And what would happen if I didn’t get away? What happens if one of them catches me? There would definitely be consequences. To say nothing of getting lost out here. The nights are cold, and the weather is shit. I wouldn’t make it long without food or shelter.
A snout lifts in the air, scenting, twitching as flaccid lips pull tight to reveal sharp teeth momentarily. It waddles out of the tree line and pauses. Beady dark eyes meet mine.
“Tripoli?”
“Yeah?” I glance at York.
“We’re playing a game.”
“What game?” I look at August, clock the frozen bear again, and then stare at William. “Sorry, I spaced.”
“First name of the first person you slept with,” he winks, “but we guess first.”
“Sure . . .”
“Tyler,” William guesses.
“Had to be a Chris,” Carter says with a laugh.
“Early 2000s, I’d guess . . . late-eighties, early-nineties kid . . . Michael,” August finishes.
I look at York, who’s rubbing the flask between his palms, and my hand twitches on the gun as the bear’s head drops. If Carter turns his head to the right, he’ll see it.
“I don’t fucking know,” York grumbles. “Sean.”
“Sarah.” I smile and point the gun at August, whose eyes widen. “Duck, princess.”
August dives off his log, and I pull the trigger. The bullet thumps the ground in front of the bear, and it rears up.
“Shit,” William growls and grabs his rifle. “Why didn’t you kill it?”
“Chaos,” I mutter and back away.
York fires another warning shot, but it drops back to the ground and lumbers forward, snuffling one of the tents before charging short in warning. Everyone is on their feet, and I’m still moving backward.
Finally, it charges Carter, and William puts a bullet between its eyes. It drops on the spot.
Quietly, I turn toward the trees, intent on slipping into them when York’s irritated voice sounds behind me.
“Sarah?”
My breath catches. “Why not?”
“Liar,” he mumbles and then gazes past me. “Going somewhere?”
“I’ve got to pee . . . or do you need to watch me do that too?”
“Five minutes.” He sets a timer on his watch, and it beeps.
Probably best I didn’t get into the woods. I wasn’t keen on running through them in the dark, let alone with York on my ass. I can’t imagine getting run down out here by him would end well.
***
August is building the fire up larger when I return, and the bear is gone, along with the others.
In the dull glow of firelight inside the tent, I unravel the bandages from my wrists.
Some spots are hard and crusted over with scabs, while in other areas the skin just feels rough.
I set my boots in the corner and strip down to my shirt and underwear before climbing under the sleeping bag.
The glow from the fire has grown by the time York enters the tent. Quietly, he undresses, lying down in just his pants as he rests his hands under the back of his head.
Curled up apart from him, I stare at his profile for a long while as he blinks into the softened darkness.
I want him to tell me his plans and let me in.
I tell myself that it’s for my own safety, because I need to know what the immediate future holds for me, but for some irrational reason, I think I just want him to trust me enough to tell me, to promise me I’m going to survive this and for once feel like I believe him.
I want to believe him.
God, what if I’m developing Stockholm? Is his dick performing some trickery on my mind?
Would it be that bad if it were at this point?
There are worse things—I could be tied to a chair in the bowels of the Agency right now, being tortured for something I didn’t do.
Comparatively, this is a much milder fate.
When we can’t beat ’em, we join ’em, I remind myself in the recesses of my mind. At least for now.
I shift until my head is resting on his chest, and after an uncertain moment, I pull the sleeping bag over us and wrap my arm around him. He inhales me again, like he did the night before, then kisses the top of my head, and my chest constricts.
I’m in over my head in so many fucking ways.