“What was that kiss? You trying to tempt him to let you stay?”
I stare at her. Is that what it looked like to her? That I kissed him? Shaking my head, I turn and look out across the camp. “You got it all wrong.”
“Oh, I had you pegged from the moment you showed up. I saw the way you looked at him like a bitch in heat.”
I inhale through my nose sharply. “I did no—”
“Hey, I get it.” She shrugs her slight shoulders. “He’s hot. He’s powerful and in charge and can get you nice things when there’s just not a lot of nice things to be had for carriers these days. What’s not to want?”
I snort. “So you think I want to be the first lady of your resistance cell? No, thanks.”
“Yeah, you say that now ’cause he threw your ass out with the rest of them.” Her gaze skims the group, and I see how little she thinks of us all.
Unable to stand another word from her, I start to walk away.
“Hey, where are you going?”
“I need to go to the bathroom.”
“All right,” she responds, as though I asked her for permission. “Don’t go far. We’ll be leaving here soon, and we’re not going to wait on you. Once the guide is in position on the other side and gives the signal, we’re moving out. Any minute now.”
I give a slight wave of acknowledgment and keep walking, leaving the campsite behind. I rotate my shoulder gingerly, working the dull ache there as I walk. The ground is rocky, full of rises and dips and short scrub and brush that grab at me like greedy hands. I don’t really need to relieve myself but figure I might as well. I don’t know when I’ll get the next chance.
The ground breaks suddenly, dipping into a small gully. I jump down, the soles of my boots skidding for a moment before I catch my balance. With a quick glance around to make sure I’m alone, I do my business.
Buttoning up my pants, I rise and slap a hand on the ground at eye level above me, prepared to haul myself up. That’s when I hear the first shot. Screams and shouts follow.
Everything inside me seizes as I’m flooded with the memories of the last time gunfire riddled the air. When I was shot. The wound stings and pulses and my right hand drifts there instinctively, curving over my shoulder. Trembling, adrenaline pumping hotly through me, I haul myself out of the gully. I inch forward in a crouch in the direction of camp.
Pop! Pop!
Staccato gunfire cracks the air, rapid-fire, and then the shooting stops. The screams and shouts fade away, and that silence chills me even more than the noise. My mouth dries and I swallow.
Everything in me tells me to run, get away. But I have to see. I have to know.
The closer I get, the lower I drop to the ground, practically belly-crawling. Cacti and all manner of plants tear at my flesh, but I keep going, ignoring the pain. The camp comes into view, and I stop, holding myself still, peering through the knee-high scrub and weeds. I convulse at what I see and press a hand to my mouth, stifling a cry. I bite down on my finger, my throat contracting against the surge of bile.
Bodies are everywhere. The ripe, coppery scent of blood stings my nostrils. Tabatha is there, facedown, her cheek turned to the side on the ground, facing me. She’s as still as stone, her eyes wide and glassy. The surprise is caught there, etched in her frozen expression, captured forever in the moment of death.
A dozen men walk amid the bodies, prodding at them with the barrels of their guns. My chest pushes against the ground, my breath laboring as I will myself to disappear. To be anywhere but here.
I look away from Tabatha. My gaze moves on, fastening on one small body with carrot-red hair tangled in the dirt, the light strands stained with blood so dark it looks almost black in places. I didn’t know her name, and this seems so wrong. I should know her name. I wish I knew her name. I bite my hand harder, muffling the cry that swells up in my throat, the stifled sound mingling with the salt of tears.
“Looks like your tip paid off, Allister,” one of the men congratulates, slapping another man on the back. “Good work. Bet you get a promotion for this.”
“Yeah.” I can hear the grin in Allister’s voice. “I was a little skeptical, too, but turns out the informant was legit.”
I register this dully. I’m still grappling with the fact that everyone who sat in the back of that van with me only minutes before is now dead.
One of the bodies moans, and Allister turns to the offending carrier and squeezes off another round. I jerk at the sharp crack, feel its vibration rattle through me and bleed into my bones. I must have gasped or made some small sound. One of the men swings around, lifting his weapon level with his waist.
I sink down, pressing myself as flat as possible while peering through the tall grass. Tense, I don’t breathe. He inches in my direction, setting his boots down carefully, one after the other. He stops just a few yards from me, scanning the far outskirts of the campsite, his gaze fixed directly above me as he searches the horizon.
After several moments, he lowers his gun, lets it point back down at the ground. One of the other men calls out for him, and he turns. My body sags, some of the tension ebbing away.
“All clear,” a guy calls out. A radio crackles, and he speaks into a small handheld device, his voice too low to hear. My eyes fly over them, noting their attire. Not uniforms exactly, but they’re all dressed in browns and khaki. Like Caden and his bunch, but their clothes look a little better. Less rumpled, less worn. Better quality.
They’re not carriers and they’re not Border Patrol, either. They would have some kind of uniform with markings to symbolize their law enforcement branch. They must be Agency.
I stare at her. Is that what it looked like to her? That I kissed him? Shaking my head, I turn and look out across the camp. “You got it all wrong.”
“Oh, I had you pegged from the moment you showed up. I saw the way you looked at him like a bitch in heat.”
I inhale through my nose sharply. “I did no—”
“Hey, I get it.” She shrugs her slight shoulders. “He’s hot. He’s powerful and in charge and can get you nice things when there’s just not a lot of nice things to be had for carriers these days. What’s not to want?”
I snort. “So you think I want to be the first lady of your resistance cell? No, thanks.”
“Yeah, you say that now ’cause he threw your ass out with the rest of them.” Her gaze skims the group, and I see how little she thinks of us all.
Unable to stand another word from her, I start to walk away.
“Hey, where are you going?”
“I need to go to the bathroom.”
“All right,” she responds, as though I asked her for permission. “Don’t go far. We’ll be leaving here soon, and we’re not going to wait on you. Once the guide is in position on the other side and gives the signal, we’re moving out. Any minute now.”
I give a slight wave of acknowledgment and keep walking, leaving the campsite behind. I rotate my shoulder gingerly, working the dull ache there as I walk. The ground is rocky, full of rises and dips and short scrub and brush that grab at me like greedy hands. I don’t really need to relieve myself but figure I might as well. I don’t know when I’ll get the next chance.
The ground breaks suddenly, dipping into a small gully. I jump down, the soles of my boots skidding for a moment before I catch my balance. With a quick glance around to make sure I’m alone, I do my business.
Buttoning up my pants, I rise and slap a hand on the ground at eye level above me, prepared to haul myself up. That’s when I hear the first shot. Screams and shouts follow.
Everything inside me seizes as I’m flooded with the memories of the last time gunfire riddled the air. When I was shot. The wound stings and pulses and my right hand drifts there instinctively, curving over my shoulder. Trembling, adrenaline pumping hotly through me, I haul myself out of the gully. I inch forward in a crouch in the direction of camp.
Pop! Pop!
Staccato gunfire cracks the air, rapid-fire, and then the shooting stops. The screams and shouts fade away, and that silence chills me even more than the noise. My mouth dries and I swallow.
Everything in me tells me to run, get away. But I have to see. I have to know.
The closer I get, the lower I drop to the ground, practically belly-crawling. Cacti and all manner of plants tear at my flesh, but I keep going, ignoring the pain. The camp comes into view, and I stop, holding myself still, peering through the knee-high scrub and weeds. I convulse at what I see and press a hand to my mouth, stifling a cry. I bite down on my finger, my throat contracting against the surge of bile.
Bodies are everywhere. The ripe, coppery scent of blood stings my nostrils. Tabatha is there, facedown, her cheek turned to the side on the ground, facing me. She’s as still as stone, her eyes wide and glassy. The surprise is caught there, etched in her frozen expression, captured forever in the moment of death.
A dozen men walk amid the bodies, prodding at them with the barrels of their guns. My chest pushes against the ground, my breath laboring as I will myself to disappear. To be anywhere but here.
I look away from Tabatha. My gaze moves on, fastening on one small body with carrot-red hair tangled in the dirt, the light strands stained with blood so dark it looks almost black in places. I didn’t know her name, and this seems so wrong. I should know her name. I wish I knew her name. I bite my hand harder, muffling the cry that swells up in my throat, the stifled sound mingling with the salt of tears.
“Looks like your tip paid off, Allister,” one of the men congratulates, slapping another man on the back. “Good work. Bet you get a promotion for this.”
“Yeah.” I can hear the grin in Allister’s voice. “I was a little skeptical, too, but turns out the informant was legit.”
I register this dully. I’m still grappling with the fact that everyone who sat in the back of that van with me only minutes before is now dead.
One of the bodies moans, and Allister turns to the offending carrier and squeezes off another round. I jerk at the sharp crack, feel its vibration rattle through me and bleed into my bones. I must have gasped or made some small sound. One of the men swings around, lifting his weapon level with his waist.
I sink down, pressing myself as flat as possible while peering through the tall grass. Tense, I don’t breathe. He inches in my direction, setting his boots down carefully, one after the other. He stops just a few yards from me, scanning the far outskirts of the campsite, his gaze fixed directly above me as he searches the horizon.
After several moments, he lowers his gun, lets it point back down at the ground. One of the other men calls out for him, and he turns. My body sags, some of the tension ebbing away.
“All clear,” a guy calls out. A radio crackles, and he speaks into a small handheld device, his voice too low to hear. My eyes fly over them, noting their attire. Not uniforms exactly, but they’re all dressed in browns and khaki. Like Caden and his bunch, but their clothes look a little better. Less rumpled, less worn. Better quality.
They’re not carriers and they’re not Border Patrol, either. They would have some kind of uniform with markings to symbolize their law enforcement branch. They must be Agency.
