Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Harry
Toby stares at me with a combative expression, as if he’s challenging me to disagree. Despite the bravado of his words, his face is pale and his chest rises and falls rapidly.
My stomach is churning, but I make sure nothing shows on my face.
Although I naturally feel compelled to argue with Toby, I don’t think the facts will be on my side in this particular case.
“It appears we are facing a rather unfortunate conundrum,” I say.
He snorts. “I told you something was dodgy about Kade and the whole situation.”
“I don’t believe there is any point wasting time rehashing who was right about what. What’s important is our next course of action.”
Toby raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Is this an attempt to avoid acknowledging that I was right?”
“Fine. You think more like a terrorist than me. I’ll readily concede to that.”
If I hadn’t been studying Toby’s expression so closely, I would have missed the slight upward twitch of his lip because his face quickly relaxes into a scowl.
“I should have just left your skeptical arse back at the clearing. At least that would’ve given me the answer about what they want with us.”
“But what about your social conscience, Toby? Isn’t that the foundation of the Labour Party?” I ask archly.
“I don’t know if one less Conservative in the world is something my social conscience would feel guilty about,” he retorts.
Toby’s shoulders have relaxed in the course of our exchange. Insulting me seems to have eased him back from the cliff edge of panic he appeared to be teetering on.
Which is a good thing. I need Toby to hold it together right now.
Because he’s right. I usually avoid the use of coarse language, but “epically fucked” does have a certain ring to it when describing our situation.
Fear makes another attempt to take over my stomach, but I beat it back.
Now is not the time for emotion.
The forest ahead of us is endless, a labyrinth of trees stretching as far as the eye can see. The crisp breeze carries the faint, clean scent of pine resin. The peacefulness of the forest is a contrast to the tightness inside me.
“We need to keep moving,” I say.
“But what way should we head?”
“I don’t know. Does the kit contain a compass?” I nod at the survival kit, which Toby clutches like a lifebuoy. It’s still wrapped in my coat, and now that we’ve stopped, I’m beginning to notice the absence of my coat as the breeze penetrates my suit jacket.
Toby unwraps my coat from around the survival kit and unceremoniously hands it back to me.
I try to shake off all the pine needles and debris, but it is somewhat of a lost cause. I give up and shrug it on, grateful for the extra layer.
As Toby unzips the case, I glimpse a jumble of survival gear: silver survival blankets, a first-aid kit, a multitool, a fishing line, a torch, and some energy bars. He rummages in one of the pockets and retrieves a plastic compass, which he hands to me.
“There you go. You’ve got your compass. Does it actually help if we don’t know where we are and what direction we need to head in?”
He may have a point. But I can’t deny something inside me feels better holding the compass.
“We need a plan,” I say.
“A plan that involves more than running away from the nasty men with guns chasing us?”
“Yes. I think we need something slightly more elaborate than that.”
“I’m voting for ‘find people who want to rescue us rather than kidnap or kill us’ being high on the priority list for our plan.”
I study the compass. “We need to keep going. The crash site is west of here, so we’ll aim to head east. And we should attempt to get somewhere high so we can get our bearings.”
“We’ll be more exposed if we go somewhere high,” Toby argues.
“We shall have to evaluate the risk when the time comes,” I say.
Toby looks at me like he’s planning to argue but then obviously decides against it. He gives a crisp head nod. “All right.”
“What else is in the kit?” I ask.
“It looks like the standard stuff you’d expect.”
“Is there, by chance, any water?” I’m suddenly aware of how parched my mouth is.
Toby digs around in the survival kit. “There are water purification tablets and collapsible water bottles. But we need to find a water source.”
“We better get moving then.”
But the words are barely out of my mouth when we hear the sound of another helicopter. The sound starts as a low buzz, rapidly swelling in volume. Toby’s eyes go wide with alarm.
“We need to hide,” he says urgently.
My eyes dart around desperately until I spot a dark hollow under the roots of a fallen tree.
There’s no time for niceties. I grab Toby’s arm, and he stumbles with me. Branches and roots scratch at us as we tumble into the hollow, limbs tangling. The space is cramped, barely big enough for one person, let alone two grown men. Toby’s breath is hot against my cheek.
The roar builds until it’s almost unbearable. It feels like the helicopter is right above us now. The downdraft batters the trees, branches lashing above us. I force myself to breathe evenly, though my heart hammers.
Toby shifts underneath me, and I become sharply, painfully cognizant of his lean, hard body aligned with mine.
Now, I have another concern besides the armed men in the helicopter spotting us.
Only an hour ago, I was pressed against Toby behind a tree looking out at the clearing, and I’d found that unpleasant enough.
Now, with any space between us virtually nonexistent, I have to force my treacherous mind to not focus on the details like where his thigh presses against me, the rapid rise and fall of his chest against mine, the way his warm breath flutters the hair at my temple, or how the sharp jut of his hip bone digs into my side with each shallow breath.
But I dare not move. Not with the helicopter right above us.
Because I’m so close to Toby, I can feel him trembling, the panic emanating from him in almost palpable waves. When I pull back enough to glimpse his face, I see his eyes are clenched shut.
The helicopter hovers over us like some giant, malevolent mosquito for a few excruciating heartbeats before the pitch of the rotor blades begins to change.
It’s a subtle shift at first, barely noticeable over the deafening roar.
The thumping vibrations shaking the ground beneath us lessen and the downdraft whipping the leaves into a frenzy eases.
Slowly, incrementally, the helicopter moves away, the noise of its blades fading from an overwhelming scream to a distant, angry buzz.
I shift cautiously, my muscles cramped and aching. “I believe they’re moving off,” I murmur.
Toby releases a shaky exhale, eyes opening. We stare at each other in the dim hollow, faces inches apart. He looks uncharacteristically…vulnerable, and I have an overwhelming, inexplicable urge to comfort him.
It’s a good thing I don’t follow that urge. I believe there’s a high probability Toby would resort to grievous bodily harm.
I glance away briskly, concentrating on extricating myself from the tight space.
Toby follows me, brushing dirt and debris from his clothing, not meeting my eyes.
The forest seems darker in the helicopter’s wake, its ominous presence still heavy in the air.
Toby presses his lips together. “That was definitely a second helicopter. Whoever this is, they’re putting a lot of resources into finding us.”
“Which of us annoyed someone enough to inspire a kidnapping plot?” I ask.
Toby lets out a breath. “I’m thinking that of the two of us, you’re more likely to inspire a murderous rage than me,” he replies.
I’m almost relieved to hear his usual snark.
“We need to continue eastward,” I say.
“Yeah, all right.”
He stuffs all the gear into the survival kit but keeps back two energy bars. He hands one to me. “Here. Bon appétit.”
His fingers brush against mine as he hands the bar over, and a jolt shoots through my body. I try to cover up my reaction by eyeing the bar in my hand skeptically. “We need to ration the food.”
“If they track us down, it won’t matter how much food we have left. We need to keep our energy up.”
He may have a point. I open the wrapper and force myself to eat. The energy bar feels like sawdust in my already dry mouth.
Toby tilts his head back to eye the sun through the gap in the trees. “I’d say we’ve only got a few hours left before sunset. What do you reckon we aim to get as far away as possible?”
“All right.”
I consult the compass. “East is this way.”
“Then let’s get going.”
Despite the fact I’m the one holding the compass, Toby sets off ahead of me, the survival kit secured over his shoulder.
My gaze lingers on the set of his shoulders and the determination in his step before I snap to attention and stride after him.