Naomi’s pretty face twists into contempt. "This asshole somehow tell you where I am?” She’s trying to help me. Make sure they know I wasn’t an accessory.
I wish I could do the same for her.
One of them approaches me, holstering his weapon. "You all right, sir?" His tone is polite and professional.
Once again, I'm the befuddled, unlucky guy who justwanted to go fishing. I force my shoulders to slump in relief. "Yeah, thank God you guys showed up when you did. She’s had me at gunpoint since yesterday."
"We've been tracking her for a while now," he says, nodding toward Naomi. "Dangerous fugitive.” I think he means to say it like I’m lucky to be alive. But there’s a strange sense that he’s trying to convince me of it.
I run a hand through my hair, widening my eyes as a civilian would. "Man, Mary will be so relieved. I thought I wasn't going to make it back to her. She would be so mad. She don't like me fishing out here as it is."
The lie slides easily from my lips. I don't yet consciously know why I felt the need to, but my gut tells me to establish connections. People who'd miss me. People who'd ask questions if I disappeared.
"Well, sir, we'll need a statement, but we can get you back to her when we’re done here."
Another marshal produces a white cloth bag, a spit hood. They yank it over Naomi's head, cutting off her face from view. But not before I catch her expression. Those eyes that grabbed me from the moment they bore into mine—sad, fearful, angry, and something else.
They haul her away through the trees, her body language stiff but compliant. I watch them go, keeping my face carefully neutral, but everything in me wants to scream to leave her alone.Let her go.
The marshal’s eyes drift to the dead bear. "Looks like it was a close one.”
"Lucky she’s a good shot," I mumble. Better for them to think she did it, not that she gave me my rifle and that I gave it back.
"Are you all right, sir? Do you need medical attention?" another of them asks, stepping closer.
"No, I'm okay. She didn't hurt me." I rub my wrists likethey're sore from being tied up. And I suppose they are. But it’s my heart that burns and my stomach that’s lead.
The marshal glances at my rifle, still in his partner's hands. "This your weapon?"
I nod. "Yeah."
They don't hand it back.
The two men exchange a look—quick, almost imperceptible. But I've spent my life reading these signals. Something's off.
"She had a weapon that she took off an officer when she escaped," the first one says. "Did she have it when she kidnapped you?"
"Yeah," I say, careful to keep my voice steady. “Lost it crossing the river about a half mile back."
They share another look. I know that look. I’ve seen it a thousand times in the field when someone's been handed an unexpected opportunity. Relief mixed with calculation. That's a "that gave me some rope to unfuck something" look. But why?
"Can you show us?" the second one asks, voice casual but eyes sharp.
I offer what I hope is a sheepish smile. "Sure, I'll try."
"Lead the way." The man holds his arm out, gesturing ahead.
My jaw clenches as I turn. Something's wrong. The hair on the back of my neck stands up again. I should feel safe because I’m no longer a hostage. But my instincts are screaming, and I've stayed alive this long by listening to them. But for the first time, I can’t understand if they’re screaming to protect me.
Or Naomi.
Six
Itrudge through the muddy terrain, leading the marshals toward the river. But as I do, I'm becoming more convinced these men aren’t who they say they are. They move wrong. Not like they don't know what they're doing. Just the opposite. Their formation and movement are impeccable. Little details most wouldn't catch, like eye movements and positioning.
It's all too clean.
Too perfect.
