"Almost seven. Thought I'd let you sleep until we got closer… Sorry for waking you." I hand her one of the water bottles and the donuts. "Not exactly a gourmet breakfast, but it's what the vending machine had to offer."
"Better than nothing." She twists the cap off the water and takes a long drink before opening the package of donuts. "Thanks for letting me sleep. I didn't think I'd be able to after everything, but exhaustion has a way of overriding anxiety."
"You needed the rest." I put the truck in gear and pull back onto the highway, merging into the sparse early morning traffic. "Today's gonna be complicated once we find Hamilton, and you'll need to be sharp when we approach him."
She nods and takes a bite of one of the donuts, chewing thoughtfully while she stares out at the landscape rushing past. We drive in silence for several miles while the sky gradually lightens from gunmetal to pearl gray, and I find myself thinking about what to say next. The question forming in my mind feels absurd, given our circumstances, but it's Thanksgiving and we're kinda on the run together. Maybe absurdity is appropriate.
"What are you thankful for?" Even as I'm asking, the words seem foolish and I immediately feel ridiculous for asking. But Sabine doesn't laugh or tell me to shut up. She turns her head to look at me thoughtfully as she chews and carefully swallows one of those powdered monstrosities.
"That's a hell of a question considering where we are right now." She takes another drink of water and sets the bottle in the cupholder between us. "I'm not sure there's a whole lot in life that makes me thankful anymore. My career is destroyed, I'm facing court-martial and federal charges, and I'm running frompeople who either want me dead or locked up for the rest of my life."
"But?" I can hear the unspoken answer she's not saying but she's insinuating that it's there.
"But meeting you is one of those things." She says it quietly and almost reluctantly. I'm not sure how I feel about that, but I don't need to respond immediately. "I know that probably sounds insane given that you showed up in my life with orders to kill me, but instead you're here helping me track down witnesses to make sure I get justice for what happened to my unit."
My chest feels a little tight, maybe a little warm too, as I try to decide how I feel about that. I can see how her thankfulness would land on me because to her I seem like an answer, but I'm also just as big of a liability. I know how to get myself out of this alive—maybe, if my plan works out. But that won't stop Barone or that shithead captain from hiring someone else to finish what I did not.
"Sabine…" I start to say something, anything to deflect or minimize what she just said, but nothing comes to mind that makes sense.
"What about you?" She turns the question around, probably sensing my discomfort and deciding to let me off the hook from forming a response to that. "What are you thankful for?"
My answer is simple and doesn't require me to examine the complicated feelings churning through my mind. "Coffee…" I say it with a grin so she understands I'm purposefully trying to break that tension, not be rude.
She laughs at that, and it warms my heart more. I love the sound of her laughter. "Of course you are. You drink it by the gallon."
"It's a survival necessity." I spot a rest stop sign indicating services two miles ahead and flip on my turn signal to merge into the right lane. "Speaking of which, I could use some real coffee instead of this water. Do you want anything while I'm grabbing some?"
"No, I'm good. I think I'll try to sleep a little more, if you don't mind." She settles back against the door and pulls her jacket up around her shoulders again. "Wake me when we get close to Kingwood."
"Yeah, okay," I tell her. She shuts her eyes and I pull off the exit.
I pull into the rest stop and park near the entrance to the building. Then I weave between cars until I reach the door. Inside, the smell of fresh coffee hits me immediately, and I make my way to the self-serve station where I fill the largest cup available with dark roast that looks strong enough to strip paint.
When I return to the truck, Sabine has already fallen back asleep with her face turned toward the window. I set the coffee in the cupholder and pull back onto the highway, pointing the truck south toward West Virginia.
The miles pass slowly while the sun climbs higher and burns away the gray morning clouds. Traffic picks up as we cross into West Virginia, and I navigate the increasingly winding roads that cut through the Appalachian foothills. The landscape transforms from flat farmland to rolling hills covered in bare trees, and small towns appear and disappear along the highway with their churches and gas stations and roadside diners advertising Thanksgiving specials.
By the time I spot the sign for Kingwood, the clock on the dashboard reads ten forty-seven and my coffee cup sits emptyin the holder. I reach over and shake Sabine's shoulder gently. "We're here. Time to wake up and help me navigate."
She opens her eyes and sits up straighter, looking around at the unfamiliar surroundings while she gets her bearings. Her eyes are still sleep-addled but she rubs them and yawns. "Okay. Give me a second to pull up the address." She digs her phone out of her pocket, the battery and SIM card still removed, and frowns at the useless device. "Right. Can't use this. Do you have internet on your phone?"
I hand her my phone and she types in a search for Everette Hamilton's address. The results load quickly, and she directs me through a series of turns that take us away from the main highway and into a residential area where modest single-family homes line streets named after trees and presidents.
"He lives off-base," Sabine says while she studies the map on my phone. "Probably renting one of these houses with a roommate or living alone if he's got the money for it. Take the next left and then it should be the third house on the right."
I follow her directions and slow the truck to a crawl when we reach the street she indicated. The houses here look well-maintained with small yards and driveways that hold a mix of older sedans and pickup trucks. Holiday decorations appear on several porches, wreaths and lights and inflatable turkeys that someone thought added festive cheer to the neighborhood.
"That one." Sabine points to a blue ranch-style house with white shutters and a detached garage. "The silver Honda in the driveway matches the vehicle registration I pulled from his file."
I pull the truck to the curb about two houses down and kill the engine. The Honda sits in the driveway with its trunk open, andas we watch, a man emerges from the front door carrying a glass baking dish covered in aluminum foil. He's tall and lean with a military build, and his dark hair is cut in regulation style. This close to the base, anyone would see that and know he's active duty.
"That's Hamilton," Sabine confirms. "Looks like he's heading somewhere. Probably Thanksgiving dinner with friends or family."
"Do you want to wait until he comes back or approach him now?" I'm already reaching for the door handle because waiting feels wrong. We don't have unlimited time before someone tracks Sabine's movements or Barone decides my absence requires investigation.
"Now. If we wait, we lose the element of surprise and he might have other people around when he gets back." Sabine opens her door and steps out, and I follow her lead. We cross the street and walk up the driveway while Hamilton sets the baking dish carefully on the passenger seat of his Honda.
He doesn't notice us until we're within ten feet of his car, and when he turns around his hand moves instinctively toward his hip where a weapon would be holstered if he were on duty. But he's in jeans and a flannel shirt, and his hand finds nothing but fabric and belt.
