I scan the tree line. The gravel track leading out to the highway. The way the light hits the dust motes in the air.
Nothing looks different.
But the itch is there. Between my shoulder blades. The weight of eyes on us.
A crow takes flight from a pine tree fifty yards down the road. It caws once. Angry.
Crows don’t fly for no reason. Not like that. Not straight up and fast.
Something disturbed it.
“Change of plan,” I say. My voice is low. Even.
“What?”
“We don’t take the truck.”
“Why? It’s right here.”
“Because someone is watching the road.”
“You see someone?”
“No. But the math just changed.”
If Phoenix is as fast as I think … If the algorithms predicted the stolen truck—they wouldn’t hit the cabin. They’d hit the choke point. The end of the driveway.
They’d wait for us to come to them.
“Grab your pack,” I say.
“Diego—”
“Grab the pack. Slowly. Don’t look at the road.”
She moves. Grabs her bag from the truck bed. Slings it over her shoulder.
“Into the woods,” I say. “West. Away from the road.”
“We’re walking?”
“We’re evading.”
I steer her toward the tree line. Away from the easy exit. Away from the vehicle that suddenly looks like a coffin.
We hit the tree line, and I pick up the pace.
“Move,” I whisper.
We disappear into the trees.
Leaving the truck. Leaving the safe house. Leaving the illusion of control behind.
Now, we’re just prey in the wild.
FIVE
“The Pursuit”
