And God help me, I want him with an intensity that scares me.
"Take the next left," he says, not looking up from the screen. "Service road, stays off main highways."
I make the turn, tires skidding on loose gravel. In the mirrors, no pursuit yet, but they'll be coming.
"Do you have any backups?"
"Yes. I uploaded a dead man's switch. The evidence is distributed across seventeen servers, all set to release in"—I check my watch—"thirty-four hours if I don't input the stop code."
He goes quiet. Too quiet.
He reaches back for my messenger bag. "Anything on this you can't afford to lose?"
My brain stutters. Years of research. Case files. "The evidence?—"
"You said you distributed it across seventeen servers."
"Right. I can patch it back together from anywhere."
Before I can process why he’s asking, my phone sails into the darkness.
"Sawyer!"
The laptop follows, disappearing into the brush.
"What the hell are you doing?" I'm half-shouting, watching years of my life vanish.
The messenger bag goes last—he checks it once more, dumps a charging cable and notepad, then sends it flying. Window up. Done. Maybe ten seconds total.
"Making sure they can't follow us." He settles back like he didn't just erase my entire digital footprint. "We'll get you a clean device when we're clear."
My hands shake on the wheel. He's right—I know he's right—but the absolute certainty, the zero hesitation...
And God help me, that makes him even sexier.
"Eyes on the road," he says quietly. There's something in his voice that says he knows exactly what I'm thinking.
"That's assuming we're not dead in thirty-four hours."
"We won't be." The certainty in his voice makes me believe him. He winces as we hit a pothole, hand going to his ribs.
"You need a hospital."
"I need to keep you alive."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive."
We drive for a while longer, but eventually the forest road dumps out onto a highway. At the first town, I spot a pharmacy.
"We're stopping."
"Savannah—"
"Non-negotiable." I pull in and park behind the building where we're not visible from the road. "Five minutes. We need medical supplies."
The normalcy of the pharmacy—fluorescent lights, muzak playing "Girl from Ipanema," a bored teenager at the register—feels surreal.
I grab a basket and move fast through the aisles: antibiotic ointment, bandages, surgical tape, and pain meds. My fingers shake as I reach for hydrogen peroxide, remembering the blood flowing from Sawyer's wounds.
