“At least the machines can’t follow us through,” she said as she put the device back in her pocket.
“They can get off the machines.” He still held his position.
“Maybe they’ll decide we’re not worth the trouble.”
“Rick won’t decide that.”
She didn’t argue. From everything she’d observed, she’d come to the same conclusion about the flat-voiced man.
From this distance, the engine sounds were different. It was harder to tell what they were doing. The steep incline of the embankment on the other side made it unlikely they’d go up and over. But they might. If they were desperate enough to stop her and Jack, they’d risk it.
The concealment the brush provided would do little to protect them against bullets if they made it to the road above.
“We can’t stay here,” she said.
“Agreed.
“I sent another message and reminded them we’re in danger.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know.” She was honest about that. She’d been honest about it every time he asked, and she wasn’t going to start guessing now.
He nodded, accepting the uncertainty without comment.
She was still angry with him. That hadn’t changed. The anger was cleaner now, less hot, the kind that came after the first sharp edge wore down and what was left was something she’d have to actually deal with at some point. Not now. Now they were crouched in too little brush and in too much danger.
“The road is above us,” Jack said, tilting his head toward the embankment. “They could come on foot. We might not hear them.”
“Yes.”
“And if they come through the culvert—”
“One at a time,” she said. “On their hands and knees.”
He looked at the rifle. She looked at it too.
“We would have an advantage,” he said.
It wasn’t a comfortable advantage. But it was real. The narrow metal tube was the one place their single rifle mattered more than the numbers against them.
The engine sounds cut out.
He wasn’t looking at her as he spoke. “We can’t risk it. We need to move.”
Chapter 32
Jack
Jack kept the rifle trained on the culvert opening they’d just come through.
Steph was only inches away from him. Her breathing had evened out. His had, too, mostly. The cold was noticeable, his breath coming out in puffs.
The snow had stopped falling, but it was still cold. Too cold. And his feet were a problem. He knew better than to think about them. Right now, all that mattered was his breathing and the rifle. He’d trained enough to know how to compartmentalize pain and take the shot.
Steph had gotten them here—through the timber, across the open ground, and through the metal tube on her hands and knees. She’d known the culvert was there.
Steph wasn’t reckless. Trained. Competent. Calculated. A warrior. Those words described Steph.
