“There,” he says, voice almost amused, “that’s better.”
Chapter 31
Noah
Ifreeze. A sound, so faint, almost swallowed whole by the forest, threads through the trees. Was that a scream?
Max is alert, his nose working overtime. His ears snap forward and his body goes rigid. A low, guttural growl rolls from him and with the warning, my breathing comes faster.
If it was just the wind slipping through, he wouldn’t alert like this.
The eerie dead of night masks many things, but that didn’t sound like an animal—that was fear. Something twists inside me, and I grit my teeth.
If he …
If they …
Max’s sharp eyes dart between me and the dark forest ahead. He whines, begging to go.
I need him. I need my partner to find her. I’m useless out here with miles and miles of dense woods.
When our eyes meet again, no words are needed. The air between us peaks with understanding. Max vibrates with restrained energy, waiting for my command. He exhales through his nose, nostrils flaring as he lowers his head. Then with a finalglance—a look that in the human world would sayI’ve got this—I give the command.
“Such. Pass auf!”
Without hesitation, he lets out a sharp, clipped bark and surges forward, lunging into the darkness.
Chapter 32
Lily
Raven moves around the camp speaking with his men, inspecting the product, and every so often staring at me. I’m not sure why—I’m not going anywhere. He made sure of that.
He still has his shirt off, and it still bothers me. The prick tore out my nose ring.
My thoughts swirl. He made something of himself. The drugs, the cartel—damn it. I’m screwed.
It’d be my luck that I’d end up in the hospital after all these years and one phone call did me in. Is he really out here for me? No. It can’t be. All of this?—
I examine the tables of drugs that must be Jackpot and something else. He mentioned it being the perfect mix.
The crew moves continuously, their boots grinding into the damp forest floor, and their heads on a swivel.
As the night gets colder, the smell of the pine grows, but it does little to mask the chemical bite of gas and acetone.
Not to mention, they all stink.
Each time a man walks by, I get a whiff of body odor mingled with their breath that smells like cigarettes. My lungs rebel, and I hold my breath until they move on.
A sagging tarp sits over the crates stacked between two tall pines. They aren’t closed all the way, but open enough to reveal the plastic-wrapped bricks of powder. Occasionally, a man will walk by and load up another crate of bricks or cut into random fresh packages to test the product.
Nearby, a rusted-out barrel burns low with all the extra trash: cardboard, plastic wrap, paperwork. Theyareorganized, I’ll give them that.
As the smoke rises, I wonder how anyone doesn’t see it through the woods, but then halfway up the curls fizzle out. It doesn’t even reach the tips of the pines.
I shift, the chains biting into my forearms, the cold metal slick with my nervous sweat and black dirt. Waiting until no one is watching, I twist and pull to loosen an inch—anything.
The rough bark splinters through the thin fabric of my uniform and I huff out a growl in frustration. The more I move, the more the rusted links shave tiny metal shards, yet they refuse to budge.
