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“I was thinking the same thing about kicking her ass over the railing,” he said, and smiled. He reached for her hand and held it. “That makes us sound less than well adjusted. ”
“Well, in the words of Chicago, she had it coming. ”
“Pretty sure that doesn’t make us sound any more stable, Bryn. ” He got sober fast, and sent her a glance so quick she wasn’t even sure she’d seen it. “You took a ton of damage back there. Do you need to eat?”
“I ate,” she said dully, and shut her eyes. When she swallowed, she could still taste the blood rusting her mouth, even though she’d brushed her teeth, rinsed, spit a dozen times, and used up half a bottle of mouthwash.
“Bryn—”
“Leave it. ”
He did. She wondered exactly what he’d seen. Exactly what he thought. He didn’t let go of her hand, that was something; she hadn’t known she needed that until she’d felt the warmth of the grip, holding her in place. She felt like she’d spin off the edge of the earth if he let her go.
There was a thump from the trunk. “Reynolds is awake,” she observed. “Is it too hot for him in there?”
“I punched air holes in the top and made sure there wasn’t any carbon monoxide problem. It won’t be comfortable, but he’s got bottles of water, and he’ll live. I’m not too concerned about his bruises. ”
“Maybe he needs a bathroom break. ”
“I’d rather steam clean the trunk later. ”
She had a sudden, horrifyingly clear thought. “He’s Revived, right? He’s chipped. They’re tracking him!”
“Relax. I had one last shot Manny had given me just in case, and I gave it to Reynolds before I stuck him in the trunk. It’s loaded with tracking inhibitors. He’s off their radar, for now anyway. ”
“You’re sure you got rid of anything that might be bugged?”
“Stripped him, threw him in the river, soaked him, and gave him the hikers’ clothes to put on,” he confirmed. “This isn’t new to me, Bryn. Relax. We’re okay. ”
She didn’t think so.
She didn’t think she’d ever feel okay again, honestly. But the miles disappeared under the humming tires, and the beauty of the mountain scenery lulled her into what was probably a false sense of peace. Somewhere, Joe and Riley were fighting to get to Manny, if Manny and Pansy still held their bunker secure. Somewhere, Jane was kicking walls and thinking about how hard she was going to torture them when she got her hands on them.
Somewhere, the rest of the Fountain Group, learning of Reynolds’ disappearance, might be starting to sweat. She hoped so.
Night fell, and he kept driving, taking roads that seemed sketchy at best, until she’d thoroughly lost her sense of direction; navigating by the stars was a skill she’d developed back in Iraq, but you could actually see stars in the desert. Here, smothered by the trees, she could see only thin strips of inky sky, with hard chips of stars shimmering through. Not enough to place herself.
“We’re here,” he said, and slowed the sedan to a crawl as he made a last turn. Ahead, there was a clearing in the trees, and a fence that wouldn’t have been out of place in a prison—fifteen foot walls topped by razor wire, turreted guard posts, and blazing security lights that popped on when they came close enough. The glare blinded them, and Patrick brought the car to a stop and put it in gear.
“Get out and keep your hands up,” he said. “Do what they say. ”
“Where the hell did you bring me?”
“Just don’t talk if you can help it. ”
She had to settle for that, because an amplified voice was telling her to do exactly what he’d just instructed—out of the car, hands up. Patrick complied, and she did, too, though she didn’t feel too good about it. The road was sharp gravel, and it dug into her knees as she followed instructions to kneel, hands on head.
Moving figures emerged from the blinding glare, and though she could have reacted—violently—she didn’t, because Patrick didn’t. The shapes resolved into armed, burly men, none of them too clean, who pushed the two of them facedown and handcuffed their wrists behind their backs. Bryn’s tender new skin protested at the harsh handling, but she didn’t complain. Ten seconds later, she was on her feet and shoved shoulder to shoulder with Patrick.
“We safe?” she asked softly. He nodded, but his slitted eyes were searching the glare for something.
She saw him relax when he found it: another shape heading toward them. As he reached them, the blinding halogens turned off, leaving only general illumination, which seemed like pitch darkness after that scorching of her eyeballs. When she blinked away the afterimages, she saw a medium-sized man standing there, staring at Patrick. He had a narrow face, narrow dark eyes, lank shoulder-length brown hair, and he looked hardened and sunbaked, like the rest of them.
“Son of a bitch,” he said. “Look who’s come home. ”
Then he pulled out a vicious-looking bowie knife and held it point-up under Patrick’s chin. The point dented the flesh, and blood welled and ran down the steel.
“Walt,” Patrick said. “Been a while. You mad?”
