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Bridger cut in. “What’s the situation, Mason?”
“Remote location, no electricity except a generator. Fully stocked with supplies.” Mason’s no-nonsense tone was reassuring. “Sending instructions now.”
“Copy that. We’re on the move.” Bridger ended the call.
Jaw set, he studied the coordinates on his phone. “The safehouse is northwest of here. We’ve got a long drive ahead in rough terrain.”
He checked the mirrors repeatedly as he merged onto the highway. Jane stared out the window, watching the glittering flats of Las Vegas transition to rolling hills dotted with pine trees. The sun dipped below the mountains, casting dusky shadows across the lonely road.
Jane’s stomach rumbled, reminding her neither of them had eaten since their roadside junk food stop. “We should pick up some food. Mason can’t have thought of everything,” she suggested softly.
Bridger shook his head. “We can’t risk being seen. My man’ll have enough there to keep us going.”
“As long as you like beef jerky, I bet. But hey, you’re the boss.” She waggled her last Redvine. “Don’t think I’m gonna share.”
He shot her a grin that warmed her to her toes. “I’d never ask.”
The road grew steeper as they left civilization behind. Jane’s nerves returned in full force. What awaited them in those mountains? Would they find safety, or greater danger? She whispered a prayer for protection.
After another half hour of driving, Bridger slowed and turned onto a narrow dirt road. It wound uphill, surrounded on both sides by towering pines. Jane peered out the window, searching for any sign of the safe house.
Just as the road ended, a small cabin came into view. It was constructed of weathered logs, with a sagging front porch and moss creeping up the shingled roof. Bridger parked beside it and cut the engine. The place looked like it had last been occupied during the Eisenhower administration.
“Home sweet home,” he said wryly.
Jane followed him up the creaky steps. Inside, the cabin was dark and musty. Bridger located an oil lamp and matches, casting a dim golden glow over the sparse interior.
There was no electricity, just as Mason had warned. But Jane spied a generator shed out back. At least they wouldn’t be totally off the grid. If the generator still worked.
Bridger rifled through the kitchen cabinets. “Thank you, Mason,” he muttered, tossing a bag of dried apricots to Jane.
She caught it deftly, stomach growling. It wasn’t gourmet, but it would keep them nourished. And for now, that was enough.
Jane sat at the rough-hewn table, munching on the chewy apricots as she watched Bridger inspect the rest of the cabin. He checked every window and door for security, before disappearing outside. A few minutes later, the loud roar of a generator broke the silence.
The single bulb overhead flickered on, casting the cabin in a harsh fluorescent glow. Jane blinked against the sudden brightness.
“At least we’ll have the basics,” Bridger said, coming back inside. He went to flip on the ancient propane stove, nodding in satisfaction when the burner ignited.
Jane rummaged through the dusty shelves, pleasantly surprised by Mason’s foresight. “Well, I’ll be,” she muttered, pulling out a bag of gourmet dried pasta and a jar of artichoke pesto.
She set the bounty down and reached in again. “Who knew he’d have such good taste?” she mused, holding up a bag of dark chocolate-covered almonds.
Bridger studied a packet of freeze-dried pasta sauce. “Always expect the unexpected with Mason.”
She studied Bridger as he moved efficiently around the space. She still couldn’t wrap her mind around why they were here, hiding out like criminals.
“Why are those FBI guys after me? I mean, they must know by now that I’m not Pete’s partner in crime.”
Bridger leaned back against the counter, arms folded across his broad chest. “Not necessarily.”
He pushed off from the counter and began to pace, a bundle of barely contained energy. “Look at this from their point of view. They’ve probably been watching your ex for a while. It wouldn’t be hard for them to access your bank account. We’ve got to assume they know you took out the thirty thousand. They’ll assume you’re using it to run.”
Jane bit her lip. It made sense. She shivered despite the musty warmth of the cabin. She rubbed her temples. “It’s like one of those crime movies where everyone chases the girl with the briefcase full of cash.”
Bridger paused in the act of searching the cupboards. “That would make me Brad Pitt. No.” He put up a hand. “Matt Damon. Yeah. Jason Bourne. Even better. That guy has mad skills.”
Jane laughed. Then she held her breath, waiting to hear who he’d picture playing her. Instead, he turned his attention back to cataloguing their provisions.
