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I’ve seen movies, y’all. I know how this story ends for the idiot civilian. But with River here, his strong presence at my back and his breath puffing against my neck, I finally feel… safe.
It’s nuts, really. He’s one ofthem, after all. He’s even got the same kind of curved knife strapped to his belt, though the blade’s hidden in a dark sheath.
Do they hand those out at secret agent orientation? Welcome, Double-Oh-Whatever, here’s your badge, your parking pass, and your big-ass knife? At the coffee shop, I had to wait a month before I got my own apron.
With my back to his chest, River pauses at the flower tucked behind my ear. The flower he put there. And I press my lips together, fighting a smile despite the nightmare I’m in, and stare at the canvas tent wall as River strokes the fine green stem.
Shivers race down my arms, and it’s like he’s touchingme.Stroking me. Our bodies are inches apart, but his warmth seeps through my clothes.
Out by the campfire, an empty bottle clinks against the ground. Someone belches, and someone else jeers. It’s nearly fully dark in this tent, and I should light my lamp soon or it’ll look weird. But two shadows behind the canvas will look even weirder.
“Food’s up,” one of the agents calls. Foxtrot, I think.
Boots scuff, chairs creak, and another glass bottle clinks against the ground. I scrabble behind me for River’s hip.
He’s so solid. So sturdy and strong, his leather belt warmed by the sun.
“Don’t leave me alone with them,” I whisper, talking ban be damned, because I can’t go out there again without his promise. I can’t. They haven’t laid a finger on me yet, but how long will that last?
“Never,” River says, deep voice hushed.
One minute later, I stride out of my tent again, chin high.
* * *
Dinner is chicken and potato mush, served in a scratched metal bowl with a spork. What our glowering chef Foxtrot lacks in culinary imagination, he’s made up for in lashings of salt and pepper, and as I swallow the first sporkful, my eyes burn with the effort not to cough.
“Good, right?” The agent next to me says, leaning in and wafting me with his beer breath. He’s the only redhead of the crew, his bare arms pale and freckled. Known only as Tango, he set out a camp chair for me by the fire in a fit of gallantry—then immediately ruined it by scooching way too close. Every time he speaks, I see the food stuck in his teeth. “Our man Foxtrot knows his shit.”
“Sure,” I say, because I may think this is pig slop, but I’m not about to insult the armed man. Foxtrot has his knife across his knees, watching us all eat as he drags a stone along the blade. Isn’t he hungry? Or did he already taste it and nope out? “It’s great. Thank you.”
One day, I swear, I won’t have to play nice with men like this. I won’t have to bepolite, and fake a thousand smiles, because I’ll be a scary motherfucker in my own right, and no one will dare cross me.
Except maybe the man I left in the shadows of my tent. I clear my throat and push all thoughts of Agent River Dawes away. Don’t want to blush and waft out pheromones around these jerks.
“Enough chit chat,” Echo says, glaring at me over the flames. “You didn’t find him. Again.”
As far as I can tell, this guy is the leader—even though he’s the smallest, and looks like an office worker gone feral. Like he just stripped off his shirt and tie one day, down to the white undershirt beneath, and walked into the forest, never to return. Echo’s brown hair is neatly cut, and he wears glasses at all times. He has a mustache, but it’s a real work in progress. He has pimples, for god’s sake.
But every time he looks at me, I get the chills. There’s something not quite human behind those lenses.
“It’s a big jungle,” I say, forcing my shoulders back.Don’t show weakness; he’ll smell your fear.“And Dawes is a trained agent. Of course it’s gonna take me a while.”
The firelight dances over Echo’s face, casting eerie shadows. Overhead, the stars spin slowly across the night sky. He doesn’t blink.
“I could go with her tomorrow,” Tango offers, but Echo shuts him up with a look. The mood around the campfire is tense, the beer-drunk frivolity suddenly gone.
“Check the caves,” Foxtrot says, frowning down at the knife across his knees.Schniiiick, goes his stone across the blade.Schniiiiick.“Around the shoreline. Lots of places to hide there.”
Echo grunts. He’s still staring at me, eyes hard.
“Dawes knows we’re here,” he says slowly, like he’s thinking out loud. I shovel another sporkful of chicken mush into my mouth, chewing to hide any reaction. “And he’s not interested yet. She’s not tempting enough on her own.”
My throat works as I swallow, mush clinging to my vocal chords. Just as well, really, because the not-so-hidden dumbass in me wants to laugh and point to my tent and say: “Ha! How’s that for temptation?”
Instead I thump my own chest, trying not to cough, then shoot Foxtrot a wobbly smile. “Delicious,” I assure the big brute.
“I’d come for her,” Tango declares, slinging an arm over the back of my camp chair. I laugh nervously and shift forward an inch. “Dawes is missing out.”
