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I closed my eyes, visualizing what we’d done on that old table last night. A low commotion outside pulled me out of my thoughts quickly, though. Engines—several of them—and shouting.
But Remy had been gone for less than an hour.
I rolled over on the bed and shimmied to the dirty window to peer out. In the clearing were half a dozen ATVs, some pulling trailers. I ducked quickly, my mind whirling. This couldn’t be. Remy hadn’t been gone long enough. And Henri said it would take the state police at least an hour to make it to their designated meet-up location.
Another quick look revealed the guns. Lots of them. Strapped to backs, in holsters, and in the hands of several menacing-looking men. A few had masks pulled up past their noses, but I could make out a few faces. No one I recognized, but from my vantage point, I watched, waiting for the rest to reveal themselves. There had to be seven or eight of them, spreading out around the area where we had found the stash.
Slowly, I shifted on the cot. The rusty springs creaked, making my heart seize. The men outside didn’t seem to notice, though. They looked far more concerned with checking the perimeter of the clearing.
My hands shook as I pulled on my hoodie. I needed to get out of here before they made their way inside. I crouched down and slipped my shoes on, then slid my backpack over my shoulders. My phone had some battery left. I just needed to get to a place where I could get a signal and call for help.
And I had to get word to Remy so he wouldn’t find himself wandering into a trap when he returned. These guys had enough firepower for a small special forces unit. I squeezed my eyes shut, pulling up images of the trail in my head. The rain had washed a lot of it out, but I was sure I could pick it up if I headed southeast.
Fumbling, I attempted to tie my shoes. When my fingers wouldn’t cooperate, I took a moment to focus on my breathing. In and out. In and out. I could do this. I was small and quiet. I could escape and call for help. I just needed to stay calm.
Slowly, I crawled across the floor to the back of the cabin, hoping I could slide through the back door unnoticed. Outside, one of the men on the meadow side was speaking in a language that sounded like French. If I made for the trees as quickly as I could, I might go unnoticed.
Just as I made it to the door, I remembered the radio. It was still sitting on the wooden table where I’d left it when I kissed Remy goodbye. Could I risk going back for it? It was only ten feet or so—
The front door shook and scraped against its frame as someone worked to open it. Kicking myself for not thinking to grab the radio first, I slid out the back door and scurried behind the woodpile. Every few minutes, I peeked out from behind it, getting a sense of how many people there were and where they were located.
If I could make a break for it, the forest got really dense about thirty yards in. Right then, I was thankful for Remy’s insistence that I take up running. Hopefully, that, along with my small size, would help keep me from being caught.
More shouting in French had me frustrated with myself for switching to Latin during sophomore year.
“Someone was here,” a man with a Canadian accent shouted. “There’s a glass of water and a radio on the table.”
“It must be the woman,” said another, the sound of his boots on the plank flooring muffled from this distance. “Find her.”Woman? How would they know a detail like that?Had they been watching us? At the thought, bile rose up in my throat, but I forced it back down, willing myself to concentrate.
I slumped against the woodpile and inhaled and exhaled deeply once, twice, and a third time, to get my breathing under control. The tree line was close, and I was wearing dark clothes. I could get there. I itched to stay and get more information. Figure out who they were and what they were doing. But I had to get word to Remy and the Gagnons.
The roar of another ATV approaching gave me cover, and I ran for it, sprinting as fast as I could. After several yards, I hid behind a copse of mature pines so I could consider my next move.
But as I settled low, I realized this was an opportunity. These guys had been running around these woods undetected for almost a decade. And now I was a stone’s throw away from them.
I scanned the area, looking for a sturdy hardwood tree with low branches. A sprawling maple about ten yards from me looked perfect, so I crept toward it as quietly as possible. Then I grasped a low branch and pulled myself up.
My shoulder burned as I scrambled up onto the branch, keeping close to the trunk to conceal myself. I reached for the next one, using my feet to give me a boost.
I straddled the branch for a moment, peering over my shoulder at the men who were loading up their ATVs with the bins and boxes we had found. Another was patrolling the clearing with a rifle.
I was only ten or fifteen feet off the ground, but I had a decent vantage point, so I swung my backpack off one shoulder and dug my phone out. I zoomed in as far as I could, snapping photos of the men and their vehicles. Then I switched to video mode and recorded footage of them carrying the bins to the ATVs, hoping the bags filled with white pills were recognizable, along with the rectangular packages of what I assumed was heroin.
Satisfied with my evidence collection, I turned my attention back to my escape. Climbing down would be more of a challenge than climbing up, especially as my stomach lurched when I saw just how far it was to the ground.
After I secured my phone, I clipped my backpack on and shimmied down the trunk, stretching my short legs out for the branch below me. As I moved, I planned out my route, looking beyond the trees to determine the fastest path away from these goons and their guns.
Just one more drop. Damn. At times like this, I hated being short.
Hanging from the branch, I gave myself a pep talk. I just had to let go and land. One, two, three—
“Hey,” someone shouted behind me. “Quest-ce que c’est que ca?”
I froze, my legs dangling feet above the ground. They’d seen me. Shit. I dropped down, ignoring the searing pain in one ankle, and ran. Shouting and more garbled French erupted behind me as I pushed through the undergrowth, past a handful of boulders, and deep into the forest. After several minutes, I hid behind a fallen tree, taking advantage of my size, and caught my breath, peering above the trunk to be sure I was alone as I did.
But soon I heard footfalls. “Come out, come out,” a burly guy with a beard and a shaved head said. “Wouldn’t want you getting lost in the woods.” His Canadian accent was thick, and he had a large tattoo of a dragonfly on his neck.
My pulse was racing as I flipped through everything I knew about self-defense, which was functionally nothing. This man had a gun, and I had a water bottle, a cell phone, and a notebook.
