3
JUST.Keep. Running.
Keely’s own breath betrayed her. Her gasps slammed against her body, as branches whipped against her face. Blood dripped from her lip where she’d tripped and careened into a tree, and she’d probably twisted her ankle too. It burned, and she bit down on a whimper.
Don’t look back.
Of course, that’s exactly what she did, but the forest closed in, and frankly, she could be running in circles, right back to the shoreline where—
Oh. She pressed a gloved hand to her mouth, then tripped and caught herself on a birch tree. Listened.
Her heart thundered, her breaths hard. She tried to silence them, to make them tremors rather than sweeping gasps.
No crashing behind her. No bearded thug slash woodsman threatening to slice her up with a bowie knife.
No murderer catching up to leave her dead in the woods.
Maybe.
She stumbled toward a nearby pine tree and climbed under the massive shaggy arms, pulling her knees to herself.
Breathe. Just...
She closed her eyes. No, bad idea. Because then she landed right back at the beach, strapped into her seat, lying on her side.
It had taken a long second, maybe a few, to unravel what had happened—the plane crash, the cartwheeling, the fact she’d lived.
She’d unbuckled and fell to the snow, and then she’d heard it—the snarls of men fighting. They punched each other—Wilder and Thornwood—and then Wilder tackled the bigger man to the ground. Roared when Thornwood drilled a fist into his head.
Don’t look.She cast her gaze to the plane and spotted Mack, the kind pilot, crawling away from the fuselage, leaving a bloody trail in the snow.
She ran over to him, where he’d stopped, breathing hard as he collapsed. She rolled him over. Blood covered his abdomen, and he must have hit the instrument panel, because red ran down his face, pooled in his jacket.
“Mack—what can I do—”
“Run.”
“What?”
He grabbed her hand, pulled her down to him. “Go to that community ... we flew over. It’s maybe ... five miles . . . northeast—run, get there. They’ll protect . . .”
Run. Through the woods—“I ... no—”
“I should have recognized him—”
A shout, and Wilder stood up, red down the front of him, his lip bloody.
Thornwood kicked him, his boot sending the man back.
“Get my gun!” Mack pointed to the plane. “It’s under my seat.”
He had agun? She scrambled for the plane, the door already open. The buckles dangled down, but she spotted a hardcase wedged under the pilot’s seat and pulled it out.
Thornwood jumped Wilder, bracing his knees on the man’s shoulders, and even as Wilder thrashed, he couldn’t break free.
The bigger man wrapped his hands around Wilder’s neck.
Oh. No—no—
