The rain fell harder.
“Fine,” she huffed. “My ankle is sore. Not broken. I can make it two hours unless I’m chased by a bear, in which case, consider me grizzly food.”
Based on what he’d seen of the stubborn woman, Chase decided to take her at her word, and pointing them in the right direction, he started the trek toward Ross Lake. “You’re not going to be a bear snack.”
“How do you know?” The tone of her voice was all challenge as she fell into step next to him, the tightening of her grip—pure vulnerability. “Maybe bears like my kinda juicy.”
He grinned at her indignation. “I’m sure bearsloveyour kinda juicy.” He brushed aside a branch. “But we’re not going to be accosted by any bears tonight.”
“How do you know?”
“Because they’re too busy foraging for the food they usually eat this time of year.”
“Which is?”
“Pine nuts, edible roots, berries, dead animals.”
“Oh my God. Please tell me bear spray comes standard as part of your superhero kit.”
Chase laughed. “On my belt. Don’t worry about it, Gray. Trust me. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
CHAPTERTEN
After freeingGrant Kincaid from a mangled car at the bottom of a steep ravine, Sam had driven them back to Kalamalka Lodge. Under normal circumstances, a car bomb would’ve meant a swift departure, but the area was isolated, and his tech guy hadn’t picked up any reports of an explosion.
He had time. He also had a few loose ends to tie up before giving his men their next assignments. With gloved fingers, he inspected Kincaid’s injury. He had one hell of a hole in his head, a two-and-a-half-inch-long, one-inch-wide gash showing bone and giving Sam a good idea of the thickness of the man’s skull.
It also offered a reasonable explanation for why he’d lost the photographer. “Do you want me to freeze this?” Sam asked. The look Kincaid leveled at him needed no words. “Fine. Straight through the brow, it is.”
He plucked a needle from the jumbled first aid kit. Davis had opened the damn thing too fast, and its guts had spilled, scattering bandages across the kitchen counter.
Sam hadn’t wanted to hire the sensitive young teen. Bodak had insisted. He liked to employ incompetent criminals who licked his limp dick. Made him think he was all that and a bag of fucking Doritos.
Davis wasn’t a criminal. He also hadn’t taken to licking anyone’s dick. Instead, he’d gone in a different direction, sticking close to Sam while trying to stay under the radar. Smart move considering it kept him alive.
As to the rest of the crew, there was only one person Sam didn’t want to kill on a regular basis, probably because he’d done the hiring. That didn’t mean there was any love between him and Grant Kincaid.
Sam trusted no one.
Safest course of action for a man in his position. He needed to keep things tight. More importantly, he knew he had a mole. He’d narrowed the suspects down to five. Now he needed to flush the bastard out and discover who he worked for.
“Do we know who the photographer is?” Kincaid asked.
“Not yet.” Sam jabbed with the needle, and the patient jerked his head away.
“Cocksucker! What the fuck are you using? A knitting needle?”
“Sorry, out of practice.”
“Just glue it.”
“Can’t, too wide, won’t hold. Don’t be such a lame-ass pussy.”
Kincaid grunted, gripped the edge of his stool, and set his stare on the wall across the way. “You running the car?”
“Fake name on the rental lease.” Sam pierced the torn flesh with the needle. “Ryerson’s running the serial number from her camera.”
“You figure she registered it for warranty?”
