They’re not just running away.
They’re running toward something. Not desperately. But purposely.
Whatever it is, it’s south. But that’s all Logan has.
Logan paces beside his vehicle, the midday sun baking the desert around him. His boots kick up small clouds of dustwith each step as he tightens his grip on the phone pressed to his ear. The call connects with a single ring.
"Tell me you've made some progress," Graves says. Her voice carries that particular blend of arrogance and impatience that makes Logan's jaw clench.
Logan ignores the insinuation in her tone that he's made none. He squints across the barren landscape, a muscle working in his cheek. "I need more information."
"You have everything that I have on her. And we don't know who she's with. There was no husband or boyfriend or any contact in Montana that we can find."
Logan is not surprised. He didn't share with Graves who he reminded him of. It was too crazy. Too far-fetched. Logan's mind playing tricks. But the grainy footage replays in his mind, as it has for the past three days. The way the man moved, his build, his posture. Impossible, yet...
"I need to know what she found that was so important you had to bury her," Logan says. There's silence on the other end of the line. Logan lets it ride. He watches a hawk circle overhead, searching for prey.
"You know that’s on a need-to-know basis," Graves finally says, her voice steel.
"And I'm telling you I need to know," Logan says.
Graves sighs on the other end of the line. She knows she's lost, and Logan knows she's just stalling. The sound of papers shuffling comes through the connection. "There's a black site. Along the border."
Logan's eyes narrow. His posture shifts, predatory, focused. The pieces click into place. "Where is it?" Graves stalls again. This time, Logan presses. "I need to know where it is." His knuckles whiten around the phone.
"Why?" Her voice carries a note of suspicion now.
Logan's face remains impassive, but something cold andeager stirs behind his eyes. The hawk dives. "Because that's where they're going. I’ll find her and bring her back.”
And if the man is who Logan thinks he might be, Logan is going to kill him.
Seventeen
Texas doesn’t feel like home, but it does feel familiar. A memory of a memory. Not just my severed childhood but my training to become what I am. When we passed by Camp Titan, only a few hours east of us on our way south through the state, I couldn’t help telling Naomi that’s where I trained.
I kept it at that. Probably shouldn’t have said anything. But I was born here. And then reborn here.
And now here I am again. Searching for a dark place that shouldn’t exist with a girl who’s remaking me all over again.
I pull the truck off the dirt road and cut the engine. Just beyond the ridge lie the coordinates Static sent us. I've been turning over the possibilities in my mind. I’ve seen all manner of government facilities. Defended them and infiltrated them. And at the risk of sounding arrogant, there ain’t nobody better than me.
We know where it is, but we don’t know how heavily guarded it is. Naomi knows she’s looking for a digital key, but she doesn’t know what it looks like. The fog of this little war we’re waging wouldn’t bother me so much. It wouldn’t scareme— if I didn’t feel responsible for the woman sitting in the passenger seat.
"We should get ready before we head over that ridge," I say, hopping out and walking to the truck bed.
Naomi follows, her face set with determination. It’s grown harder the closer we get to these coordinates, like it was when I first laid eyes on her in Montana. It’s still pretty, of course. But it had started to relax, to open. I miss it.
I unlock the toolbox built into the bed and feel around until my fingers close around the cold metal of two weapons—my Glock and a smaller Sig Sauer P238 that I sometimes attach at the ankle.
I check both meticulously, loading them with quick, practiced movements that require no conscious thought. When I look up, Naomi's watching my hands with a strange look while biting her lip. She realizes I’ve stopped to look at her and she shakes her head.
"I'm hoping we don't have to use these," she says as I hand her the smaller pistol.
"I hope so too. But a gun is better than hope in a shoot-out." I close the toolbox. "Have you ever used it?"
"I'm a decent shot," she says, testing the weight in her palm. "I go to the range all the time. It's a great stress reliever."
I catch her eyes with mine. "I mean for real."
