"Daron confirms. Five minutes out. Crull is driving fast. Fen is awake in the back. They've been arguing about whether to risk the pace."
"Fen is part of the argument."
"Fen is saying yes."
I close my eyes for one second. Fen has language enough to argue. Fen has wanted enough to push his brothers to risk a speed that could roll the truck. Fen is coming back to me.
"Tell Daron we're at the relay in three minutes," Dean says — staring out the windshield.
"Dean."
"Yeah."
"There's a smell on the wind. I don't know what it is yet."
I sit up straighter.
Something on the wind.
"Dean."
A thump on the cab roof. Sharp. Twice.
Thaw, from the bed of the truck. He has smelled the same thing I have.
Dean's hand goes to the window. He cracks it an inch. He sniffs. His mouth tightens.
"Diesel."
"Diesel?"
"Transport. Multiple."
That should not be in this canyon. The campground is defunct. There is no legitimate reason for a diesel cluster a half-mile ahead.
The radio on Dean's belt crackles. Thaw's voice, calling both trucks.
"Both vehicles. Pull off at the next turnout. Half a mile short."
Daron's voice comes back through the radio from the second truck. "Copy. Following."
Dean's hand goes to the wheel.
"We're not walking into a campground with engines running."
Dean kills the engine on a turnout I would not have called a turnout — just a wide place in the gravel where logging equipment used to be parked. We are surrounded by Douglas fir tall enough to put us in full shade even with the sun coming up. He kills the lights. The truck ticks.
The bond at my sternum has gone taut. Thaw is doing his alpha math.
"Daron," he says.
Dean keys the radio. He listens. He looks at Thaw.
"Daron is breaking pace. He's going to stop at the third switchback above the relay and come in on foot from the ridge. Crull stays with the truck. Fen —"
A pause.
"Fen says he is coming in with Daron."
