One SUV in front.
One behind.
She moves slow when they guide her to the van. Too slow. Drugged enough that the first step up does not land right. One guard gets impatient and shoves her harder than he needs to.
My breathing evens out.
That is the shift.
The cold settling in.
The calm.
Better.
Useful.
I mark everything.
Van.
Two escort vehicles.
Dirty plates.
Three men I can see. Maybe more inside.
No sign of Salazar.
The side door slams shut.
The engines roll.
I move for my bike.
The front SUV pulls first. The van follows. Another SUV drops in behind it.
I bring my bike to life and slide in after them at a distance.
The mountain road curves dark through the pines, slick with cold, headlights flashing over wet gravel and black trunks.
When they clear the lot and hit the back road, I pull out my phone and hit Sin.
He picks up.
“You clear?” I ask.
“Working on it,” Sin says.
I keep my eyes on the van.
“Got eyes on the van,” I say. “Two vehicles with it. Heading toward Black Pines.”
“Copy. Stay on it.”
A pause.
“You good?” I ask.
