Page 153 of The Fire Line

“Get off.”

Jay dismounted before the command had fully registered. “What happened?”

“We’re done with the horses.”

It took a second for the words to become meaningful.

“They’re faster than we are.”

“Not through there. They balk with us on them, we go down or get trapped. We can fit under the rock. They can’t.”

“And they can outrun it?”

“In open ground, maybe. Not carrying us.”

Maybe.

Another revised standard.

“Strip Red.”

Jay looked toward the fire.

“Jay.”

Harris had used that tone with horses and frightened guests, never with him. It was not angry. It was absolute, and underneath it Jay heard something worse than impatience: the knowledge that they no longer had enough time for him to be afraid slowly.

He moved.

His fingers felt thick and clumsy on the tack, familiar buckles turning into complicated pieces of engineering while Red circled whenever the smoke shifted. Harris came beside him without taking over, one hand steadying the saddle while Jay worked the cinch loose.

“Slow your breathing.”

“I am.”

“You’re not.”

Only then did Jay notice how quickly he was pulling air in. He forced one breath deeper, regretted it immediately when smoke scraped his throat, and got the saddle free.

Harris removed the radio from Rain’s bag and clipped it to his belt. Jay took the first-aid pouch and one bottle of water from Red’s gear; Harris retrieved another from Rain’s.

That was everything they’d carried from the truck.

Two ordinary bottles of water. A radio that had produced nothing but static. A kit designed for cuts, sprains, and bad decisions occurring under circumstances in which emergency services remained a meaningful concept.

“That’s it?” Jay asked.

“That’s it.”

“Excellent. I was worried we might be overprepared.”

The joke landed nowhere. Making it still helped.

They removed the bridles. Harris turned Red toward the opening beyond the trees.

“If we let them go, how do we know where they’ll run?”

“We don’t. They know this country. They’ll look for open ground.”