“Okay.”
“No hesitation. No questions.”
“Okay.”
The buildings started to grow around us as we entered Missoula, adding actual traffic. I merged onto the main road and let the other vehicles absorb us. Travis’s eyes never left the mirror.
“He’s still there,” Travis said. “Three cars back. Turn left at the next light.”
I turned. The silver truck turned behind us.
“Second right.”
I took it. The truck didn’t follow. I let out half a breath.
It appeared again a block later, coming from a parallel street.
“He knows what he’s doing,” Travis said. Quiet. Assessing. “Three more blocks. There’s an alley behind a brick building on the corner. Pull in fast. Don’t signal.”
I drove three blocks. I didn’t signal. I cut into the alley hard enough that the tires barked on the pavement and pulled behind the building and stopped.
We sat in the idling SUV and watched the street through the gap between buildings. The silver truck passed without slowing. Kept going. Disappeared.
Travis watched the street for another full minute. Then whatever was holding him upright let go all at once. He sagged back against the seat, and his breathing went ragged and shallow.
I needed to get him inside. “Maude. Route me to the safehouse address. Back streets only. Let me know if there’s any vehicles I should worry about.”
Maude fed me the route. Six turns through residential blocks, quiet streets lined with older houses and parked cars. I drove the speed limit and checked the mirrors every ten seconds, and nobody followed us.
The address was a narrow two-story townhouse set back from the street, half-hidden behind overgrown hedges. The kind of place that didn't invite attention. I pulled into the driveway and killed the engine.
Travis had his eyes closed again. His hand on his side wasn't pressing anymore. It was just there.
"We're here," I said.
He opened his eyes, but they were glossy. Unfocused.
"Key's in a lockbox by the side door." He gave me the code. "Garage opener is inside, on the wall."
I got out, found the lockbox, punched in the code, and unlocked the side door. The garage opener was where he said it would be. I hit it, went back out, pulled the SUV into the garage, and closed the door behind us.
Then I got his door open and got my shoulder under his arm and we made it inside together.
Barely.
His weight was almost entirely on me by the time we crossed the threshold, and when I lowered him onto the couch just inside the living room, his face was the color of ash, and his shirt was soaked through from ribs to hip. Hives were climbing his neck, spreading down his forearms.
He saw my worried gaze. “Don’t worry, I’m fin—” He lost consciousness in the middle of the sentence.
So help me, if he died, I was going to kill him.
