I drag the man I stabbed away from the driver's door of the lead SUV. I pat down his vest and find the small set of handcuff keys.
I open the SUV's front door, and there she is. Hunched in the back seat, she still has a hood over her head, with her hands cuffed behind her and her legs shackled.
"Naomi, it's me." I climb in the driver's seat.
Her eyes widen, a mix of confusion and hope. “Walker? How did you?—"
"I'll unhook you as soon as I can, but we have to move."
I guide the SUV down the narrow forest road, knuckles white on the steering wheel. The rain has tapered to nothing, but the sky is still cloudy, and visibility remains poor. Everyfew seconds, I check the rearview mirror—both for pursuers and to glimpse Naomi's partially masked face.
"Where are we going?" Naomi asks.
"My truck is a few miles down this road." I navigate around a pothole. "There was a tracker in the gun you stole. I'm sure there's one in this car."
I look in the rearview mirror. The spit mask covers her mouth, but I can see those eyes. They look frightened, which means she still trusts me, at least a little. Because I've already learned that she's good at hiding what she's really feeling if she needs to.
The road curves, and I spot my truck where I left it, partially concealed by overgrown brush. Instead of stopping, I drive past it, continuing toward the tree line ahead.
"What are you doing?" Her voice rises slightly.
"I'm going to make it look like we went back into the woods." I ease the SUV to a stop, its nose brushing the edge of the forest. "It probably won't fool them, and if it does, it won’t be for long. But it's better than nothing."
I hop out and open the back door. Rain drips from the trees overhead as I remove the spit hood. Relief washes over her features as she takes a deep breath, but revealing her pretty face makes it difficult for me to breathe. I unlock the cuffs and leg irons and throw them on the ground.
"Come on," I say, gesturing toward the truck.
She hesitates, and without the mask, I can see she’s terrified. Of me. “You killed those men.”
“Those men weren’t marshals. They were going to kill me. And I don’t know what they were going to do to you.”
Her eyes scan my face, searching for something—deception, maybe, or confirmation that she can trust me.
“They werethey,” I say. I don’t entirely know what that means yet, but it clicks for Naomi, and she moves toward me.
We move quickly through the dripping underbrushtoward my truck. I open the passenger door for her, scan our surroundings once more, then circle to the driver's side.
As I start the engine, she turns to me. "Why are you helping me?"
I pause, hands on the wheel. The surface answer is that they were going to kill me. And eventually I’m sure they were going to kill her. Those are reasons, sure, but not the whole truth. The actual answer is something I can’t think of, let alone voice.
"We're in this together now," I say.
That's only part of the truth. And only part of an answer.
Eight
The gravel crunches under my truck's tires as we approach the cabin. I park a short distance away, scan the tree line, then cut the engine.
"Wait here," I tell Naomi. "I won't be long."
Her eyes lock onto mine. "What are you doing?"
"Just getting some supplies."
"I can help."
I shake my head. "I have this. Trust me." It’s the second time I’ve asked her to do that, and I didn’t mean it in any significant way. But the half beat of silence that follows it and the look in her eyes tells me that I just told her a far more meaningful thing. Because of that, her simple nod after it speaks volumes.
