Chapter 19
Hudson tried to count the seconds instead of breathing her in.
It wasn’t going well.
She smelled of fresh air and clean soap. He was uselessly aware of exactly how well they fit into a space built for one person standing sideways.
Focus.
Except her hair had come loose and was brushing his jaw every time she breathed.
Christ.
He shifted his weight a half-inch back, the only retreat the gap allowed. When the footsteps finally faded for good, he counted another twenty seconds before he trusted his own judgment again.
Hudson eased out of the gap first, listening.
Nothing.
A gust of air whispered through the refrigeration vents behind him. Somewhere deeper in the cannery an old beam settled with a creak. A soft noise made him turn.
Sarah was stepping out after him, weapon raised, her grip white-knuckled.
“You hurt?”
“Seriously?” She stared at him.
“That’s not an answer.”
She made an exaggerated show of patting herself down. Arms. Torso. Legs. “No unexpected holes.”
“Good.”
She huffed a breath, but didn’t say anything else.
He surveyed the room again. Thirty seconds pressed against her hadn’t persuaded the protective part of him to stand down. His shoulder brushed hers as they turned in a slow circle together, checking every angle.
For now, they were alone. The cold storage room was exactly as it had been ten minutes ago. The voices that had filled it were gone.
“I hate hiding,” Sarah muttered.
“I noticed. Count to thirty.”
Thirty wasn’t magic. It was just long enough for impatient men to believe they’d won. Patient men were harder. Professional men were harder still. He hoped these weren’t professional men pretending to be impatient.
They counted in silence, weapons still raised. No footsteps or voices. No second whistle. He was about to say they could move when the boom of an engine revving broke the silence.
It came from somewhere on the building’s north side, opposite the dock.
He held perfectly still and let the sound tell him what his eyes couldn’t.
Throttle opening, fast and confident. The hull slapping hard against chop a beat later—small craft, low in the water, moving at speed.
The engine note shifted as it came about, swinging wide, heading away from the point.
“There’s a shelf on the north side past the old fuel dock,” Sarah said. “You could scramble a small craft up against it if you didn’t care about the hull.”
The engine note faded, consumed by distance and wind, until there was nothing left but the ordinary sound of water against pilings.
One boat. If there was a second, it was silent and he hated silent variables.
Hudson lowered his weapon a fraction, still not fully convinced. “One more sweep.”
“Agreed.”
They moved together out of cold storage, through the short passage and packing room, then back into the main processing hall, checking every corner. No second wave of footsteps, no voices, just the cannery. Every meaningless creak and murmur still made his pulse spike.
Hudson stopped so suddenly Sarah swore under her breath.
She followed his gaze. “What?”
He listened another second. Then shook his head. “Echo.” He kept walking.
Sarah followed him, sweeping her gun. “We should’ve had him.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper, but it was loaded with frustration. He got that.
“We should’ve walked into six rifles?”
“You don’t know there were six.”
“I heard multiple voices coming from at least six positions.” He drew in a slow breath. His lungs wanted more air than he was willing to give them.
She drew level with him. “Six doesn’t automatically beat two.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?” Her eyebrows arched.
“Best case? We take them down.”
She threw a look in his direction. “Worst case?”
“We clear the cannery, still don’t find Cord, and one of us doesn’t walk back out.”
“It’s not right.” Her lips pressed into a thin line. She picked her way around a fallen pallet with careful steps. “You think they got what they came for?”
“I think they came to check whether we’d found anything important and we disturbed them.”
“They’re in my jurisdiction.”
Hudson remained silent. She wasn’t really talking to him. She was talking to the helplessness. He understood that language better than he wished he did.
“They beat up Petey, and his only crime was worrying about his damn sump pump. And now they’re just gone.”
“Yes.”
She stopped and turned to face him. “You don’t have anything else to say?”
“Plenty.”
Her eyes widened.
He shook his head. “None of it changes the facts.” He sighed. “Winning the gunfight isn’t the same as winning the mission.”
Her chin lifted. “I still don’t have to like it.”
“No.” He tilted his head in agreement.
“I’d still have gone.”
“I know.”
“Would you have stopped me?”
“Yes.”
She looked at him askance, the corner of her mouth threatening to betray her.
They reached the entrance door and stepped out into the afternoon light, the cold sharper out here than inside, a fresh breeze cleansing the stink of fish from his nostrils. Their boat was still tied to the dock exactly where they’d left it.
Shit.
The angle was off, the stern riding lower in the water than it should.
Sarah hurried past him along the dock and dropped to her knees beside the transom before he’d fully processed what he was seeing. He let her go. Boats were her territory, ambushes were his.
While she checked the damage, he turned his attention outward to the shoreline, pilings, and then up to the roof. A sabotaged boat was exactly the type of problem designed to make people stop looking for the next one.
Satisfied there was no immediate threat, he rejoined Sarah. She was running her fingers along the hull below the waterline. She leaned over and peered through the open hatch toward the bilge. Her jaw tightened.
“Drain plug’s gone.” She straightened, already moving to check the fuel line.
“And this.” She held up a length of severed rubber tubing, the cut clean and deliberate.
“Fuel line’s cut.” She reached for the marine radio.
A glance beneath the console confirmed it.
“They cut the radio cable too. They didn’t want us limping anywhere or calling for help. ”
Hands on knees, she pushed back up to standing. She shoved her hat back and dragged a hand through her hair, breath whistling out of her with force. “I hate losing.”
“Me too.”
Especially when someone else paid the bill. Petey. The ridge. Now this. Every step closer to Cord seemed to have a cost.
“How far back to anywhere?” he asked.
“The track meets an old logging road six miles inland.” Her eyes narrowed as she assessed the already fading light. “We’ll make it before full dark if we walk fast. From there it’s another two miles before we’ll get a signal worth trusting.”
Six miles with the temperature dropping. Another two before they could call for help. His lungs objected before the rest of him did. None of that changed his answer. “Then we keep moving.”
Sarah looked at him as if she’d expected a debate about waiting for rescue or trying the radio one more time.
But there wasn’t one to have.
They moved fast through what was left of the afternoon light, packing only essentials—water, the first aid kit from the boat’s dry box, her radio even though it didn’t work out here, his weapon checked and ready. He took the pack from her and hefted it over his shoulder.
As they left, Hudson looked back at the cannery, at the shadows beneath the windows. That’s where he’d have hidden. But the shadows were motionless, revealing nothing.
He fell into step beside her as they climbed into the trees, keeping himself on the exposed side of the track. His left shoulder toward the forest. His right toward Sarah.
Habit.
If someone opened fire, he’d rather they found him first.
The path climbed away from the point through stands of black spruce, the light going early and blue, the cold deepening with every step. Six miles. Uphill. Cold that would strip heat out of a body, one careful breath at a time.
His lungs would complain long before Sarah knew they had reason to.
He intended to keep it that way.