Another man grabs my other foot, and I’m hauled out of the trunk, my backside landing on the mushy forest ground with a sickening thud. The impact slams into me, and for a terrifying second, my lungs forget how to breathe. The air rushes out in a single strangled wheeze, leaving nothing behind but a burning ache in my chest. My mouth gapes open, but no sound comes out—only useless attempts to suck in air. Finally, a gasp scrapes its way in, and I roll onto my side, coughing.
One of the men kicks at me, and I twitch to avoid it.
Muffled voices, more than the four from the car, mutter around me, and I work to squint through the darkness toward any movement. As I spin, I land on a hanging light, almost lantern-looking, as it dangles from a tree.
Slowly, more details come into focus. A few battered sagging tents form a loose circle around what appears to be the center clearing, where I am. A charred fire pit smolders, the tendrils of smoke drifting into the dark treetops and disappearing into the night.
Crates are stacked behind a few folding tables lined up in rows, and people sit in chairs on either side, shuffling something down between them in an assembly line.
Careful not to draw attention to where I’ve been left in the clearing, I roll over, switching sides. I have to bring a hand to my mouth to keep the whimper at bay. Weapons lean against the tree trunks—rifles, AR-15s, other large guns I couldn’t identify if my life depended on it. Hell, maybe it does.
Traces of gun oil mixed with rotten pine wafts by, and I tuck my head, chin to chest, to keep the nausea down.
It’s already dark, but a shadow blocks out the dim light from their makeshift lighting.
Lifting my head, I look up to see a tall man towering over me, and the familiarity of his figure and backlit silhouette drags up memories from all those years ago—the forest, being pinned to the ground, him above me—I look around.
It’s like now. Like …him.
I scramble to sit up, the needles scuffing the sides of my shoes as dirt presses into my palms as I push myself upright. My legs tangle beneath me, and I slip against the loose leaves and soil. Fine dust coats my tongue, so I spit.
The man lets out another one of his disgusting chuckles and crouches in front of my face. My heart hammers, my adrenaline surging as he lowers enough for the moonlight to carve out the sharp lines of his face and catch on his piercings. His expression is dark and unreadable, but he rolls his shoulders forward giving me a better view, and my pulse pounds in my ears.
He’s too close. Too real.
Frozen, I’m only able to blink the dirt from my lashes as my eyes widen.
“Bran?”
Chapter 29
Noah
Itear through the gas station doors after questioning the attendant. It was my first thought when I saw the tire tracks arcing out of the diner parking lot. If someone took her, if Raven took her, he’d drive away from town. He’d move outside the city limits.
Avoiding the police, I hightailed it out of Pinebrook, back toward the run-down gas station I ran into Lily months ago. I work backward. If Raven is in town for Lily, he could be anywhere, but I know he’s here with another agenda. He needs people. He needs a network for his Jackpot. That requires a private place, far from the eyes of townspeople, but close enough to recruit and commute.
This gas station is the first building along a large portion of forest acreage. As I jog toward my truck, I’m vindicated. The woman working said a black SUV sped past not too long ago, toward the open road along the woods.
Max whines, scratching at the door as I approach. He’s been on high alert ever since I darted into the driver’s seat after finding Lily’s car abandoned. He reads my energy, and he knows. I know he knows.
I called my supervisor to him tell him about Paul and my theory about the dirty cops in Pinebrook on the way here. He’s going to contact his FBI counterpart.
I rip open the door and jump in, not bothering with my seat belt.
My truck screams out of the gas station parking lot as I head the direction the attendant pointed. The road stretches ahead, and my headlights only do so much to carve through the darkness. The shadows of the trees lining the miles of forest to my left are a distraction as I slow to scan the roadside.
I search for a break in the tree line, some unmarked path or perhaps a sliver of dirt cutting through the underbrush. Any indication that a vehicle may have pulled off the road.
Max paces the back seat. He’s stiff, ears pricked forward. He’s posturing before we even get out of the car—ready to go to work. Maybe I’m being overly optimistic, but he’s ready to go to work for her. For Lily.
The clock on the dash ticks up. It’s getting later and later.
When another car passes me, I slow even more, the truck practically in a crawl. My headlights catch a gap, and my fingers tighten on the wheel, only to realize it’s just a shallow dip in an overgrown hunting trail. Not wide or deep enough for a car.
But …
There.
