“Theentire worldknows a lot about Bliss, Daws. Unless you live under a rock. Or your work. Maybe it’s time to come into the light.”
Right.
Well, the world might know a lot about Bliss, but he knew a lot aboutKeely. And maybe that’s what mattered.
Her voice dropped. “Just don’t get hurt, Dawson.”
Probably too late.
“I’m seeing Dodge on radar. Looks like he’ll be there soon. I’ll call Deke. Be safe, Dawson. AL7SKY clear.”
He hung up. Turned off the ham handheld and stowed it. Then he doused the fire in the hearth and closed the damper. Put the soup in a jar and stuck it in the freezer.
Bundled up himself and grabbed hold of Caspian’s collar.
Then he shut off all the lights and went out onto the porch, hearing the chopper pounding the air in the darkness.
Or maybe that was just his heartbeat, pounding out his broken promises.
If thehour-longsnowmobile ride through a blizzard and frigid winds didn’t kill her, then the trip in the back of the closed pickup should have. But Keely had found an old packingblanket to roll up in and had warmed up enough to call herself alive by the time she arrived—wherever.
An old house, for sure, reeking of age and dust and beer. Wan kerosene light spilled onto the cement floor, and a large stove stood against one wall on bricks. A small kitchen area held broken cabinetry with many of the doors off, a cracked sink with a pump for a faucet. A hint of sewer smell saturated the place, probably from the back room toilet, which looked more like an outhouse, with a wooden box topped with a stained toilet seat.
The odors swilled together as Thornwood pushed her inside, followed by another man—could be his twin, really, clad in padded overalls and a grimy wool hat over his long hair. The men wore matching disgusting beards, and the scent of danger lifted off of them. The other man, however, boasted a forehead tattoo, a sort of insignia, high, nearly to his hairline.
Sort of like Charles Manson, so that was a calming comparison. But the mark matched with a name in her memory—Mars Sorros.
“Upstairs,” barked Thornwood, and she fled up a creaky ladder to a crawl space. His twin followed her up, and for a second, her worst nightmare played out, but he simply grabbed the trapdoor and closed it, pulling the rope through a hole in the top and securing it below.
So, locked in.
The light from below pushed up into the room, enough for her to make out her surroundings. Not tall enough to stand in, she could still bend at the waist and move around. The space held a bare mattress, and the stench of mouse droppings could make her retch. At the far end, a frozen window rattled, the wind fighting to get in.
Which meant, maybe—
But if she escaped? Where would she go? In the darkness, and the tangle of wilderness, she was just as likely to get lost forever.
The stove shuddered, and a whoosh suggested someone had opened the damper, maybe would be starting a fire. Note to self—don’t touch the metal.
She drew up her knees, working her fingers to get the blood flowing, then put her forehead down on her hands.
Why hadn’t they killed her?
“You sure you’re right about this?” One voice, a growl. “She’s—”
“It’s her.” The other voice.
She crept over to the trapdoor and peered down.
Movement, the sound of a bottle opening, then one of them came into view, and she jerked away before he could look up and see her.
“So, what are you going to do with her?”
“After the handoff? Put a bullet in her head, probably. It’s about time. I’m tired of her harassing us.”
Harassing? She hadn’t harassed anyone.
Not even Dawson. He’d been the one to make her promises.
