Well, she thought, I’d wanted to change my look. That made her want to laugh, in a dark kind of way. She somehow choked it back, just barely.
Then it was Patrick’s turn. He’d escaped direct contact with the flames, but his clothing was saturated with smoke, and that definitely wouldn’t do; if it came to stealth, the smell of him would announce his presence far too well. He shopped the men’s aisle, and when he was changed he could have posed for an L.L.Bean catalog photo, except for the scabbed wound on his head up close to the hairline, and the bruises. They were turning sickly yellow now, but she had no doubt he had a lot more under the clothing. Fresh ones. New wounds.
“Feeling okay?” he asked her, and took a moment to really look at her. She nodded slowly. She did, and she knew it was because—because of what she’d done. A thing she couldn’t even look closely into, for fear of what she’d see looking back. Water and blood. Thrashing. Food.
“We need to get back on the road,” Bryn said. “Did you get camping gear?”
“We’re set,” he said. “I’ll pay. You go on to the car. He didn’t see you.”
He meaning the proprietor, an ancient man who had decorated his store in American flags and signs. There was a sticker on the door for the John Birch Society, and a Tea Party symbol, and she had the distinct impression that the crusty old man wouldn’t give information about anybody who shopped here to anyone he perceived as government.
Bad luck for Jane, since she was going to look like his worst black helicopter nightmares come to life. If she managed to trace them this far, Bryn doubted that it would get her too much.
Once Patrick was in the car, they headed up a winding mountain road, and he took a turn to the east, veering off.
“Where are we going?” she asked him. She was in the front passenger seat now.
“Someplace you won’t like much,” Patrick said, “but I’ve got a cover there, from way back. Just play along with me, whatever I do. It’s our best possible chance to make this work and get resupplied.”
“Is it worse than a Russian spy station?”
“It isn’t better.”
Lovely. She sighed, relaxed, and looked out the window. At least she was fairly certain Jane would be furious over the way things had gone; she’d brought her A game, had set a very good trap, and still, they’d managed to wiggle out of it (not without leaving skin behind) and taken the bait with them, to add insult to injury. “I hate to say it, but you know what? Stabbing your ex felt really good, Pat.”
“I was thinking the same thing about kicking her ass over the railing,” he said, and smiled. He reached for her hand and held it. “That makes us sound less than well adjusted.”
“Well, in the words of Chicago, she had it coming.”
“Pretty sure that doesn’t make us sound any more stable, Bryn.” He got sober fast, and sent her a glance so quick she wasn’t even sure she’d seen it. “You took a ton of damage back there. Do you need to eat?”
“I ate,” she said dully, and shut her eyes. When she swallowed, she could still taste the blood rusting her mouth, even though she’d brushed her teeth, rinsed, spit a dozen times, and used up half a bottle of mouthwash.
“Bryn—”
“Leave it.”
He did. She wondered exactly what he’d seen. Exactly what he thought. He didn’t let go of her hand, that was something; she hadn’t known she needed that until she’d felt the warmth of the grip, holding her in place. She felt like she’d spin off the edge of the earth if he let her go.
There was a thump from the trunk. “Reynolds is awake,” she observed. “Is it too hot for him in there?”
“I punched air holes in the top and made sure there wasn’t any carbon monoxide problem. It won’t be comfortable, but he’s got bottles of water, and he’ll live. I’m not too concerned about his bruises.”
“Maybe he needs a bathroom break.”
“I’d rather steam clean the trunk later.”
She had a sudden, horrifyingly clear thought. “He’s Revived, right? He’s chipped. They’re tracking him!”
“Relax. I had one last shot Manny had given me just in case, and I gave it to Reynolds before I stuck him in the trunk. It’s loaded with tracking inhibitors. He’s off their radar, for now anyway.”
“You’re sure you got rid of anything that might be bugged?”
“Stripped him, threw him in the river, soaked him, and gave him the hikers’ clothes to put on,” he confirmed. “This isn’t new to me, Bryn. Relax. We’re okay.”
She didn’t think so.
She didn’t think she’d ever feel okay again, honestly. But the miles disappeared under the humming tires, and the beauty of the mountain scenery lulled her into what was probably a false sense of peace. Somewhere, Joe and Riley were fighting to get to Manny, if Manny and Pansy still held their bunker secure. Somewhere, Jane was kicking walls and thinking about how hard she was going to torture them when she got her hands on them.
Somewhere, the rest of the Fountain Group, learning of Reynolds’ disappearance, might be starting to sweat. She hoped so.
Night fell, and he kept driving, taking roads that seemed sketchy at best, until she’d thoroughly lost her sense of direction; navigating by the stars was a skill she’d developed back in Iraq, but you could actually see stars in the desert. Here, smothered by the trees, she could see only thin strips of inky sky, with hard chips of stars shimmering through. Not enough to place herself.
“We’re here,” he said, and slowed the sedan to a crawl as he made a last turn. Ahead, there was a clearing in the trees, and a fence that wouldn’t have been out of place in a prison—fifteen foot walls topped by razor wire, turreted guard posts, and blazing security lights that popped on when they came close enough. The glare blinded them, and Patrick brought the car to a stop and put it in gear.
“Get out and keep your hands up,” he said. “Do what they say.”
“Where the hell did you bring me?”
“Just don’t talk if you can help it.”
She had to settle for that, because an amplified voice was telling her to do exactly what he’d just instructed—out of the car, hands up. Patrick complied, and she did, too, though she didn’t feel too good about it. The road was sharp gravel, and it dug into her knees as she followed instructions to kneel, hands on head.
Moving figures emerged from the blinding glare, and though she could have reacted—violently—she didn’t, because Patrick didn’t. The shapes resolved into armed, burly men, none of them too clean, who pushed the two of them facedown and handcuffed their wrists behind their backs. Bryn’s tender new skin protested at the harsh handling, but she didn’t complain. Ten seconds later, she was on her feet and shoved shoulder to shoulder with Patrick.
“We safe?” she asked softly. He nodded, but his slitted eyes were searching the glare for something.
She saw him relax when he found it: another shape heading toward them. As he reached them, the blinding halogens turned off, leaving only general illumination, which seemed like pitch darkness after that scorching of her eyeballs. When she blinked away the afterimages, she saw a medium-sized man standing there, staring at Patrick. He had a narrow face, narrow dark eyes, lank shoulder-length brown hair, and he looked hardened and sunbaked, like the rest of them.
“Son of a bitch,” he said. “Look who’s come home.”
Then he pulled out a vicious-looking bowie knife and held it point-up under Patrick’s chin. The point dented the flesh, and blood welled and ran down the steel.