Total pages in book: 39
Estimated words: 35507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 178(@200wpm)___ 142(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 178(@200wpm)___ 142(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
I swallow. "Because I didn't only shoot the campus last spring. I shot a loading dock after hours. A crate stencil. A name I wasn't supposed to see. The magazine killed the story. Two weeks later my apartment lock looked wrong and my editor stopped answering. I left Chicago with a duffel and a camera bag and I told myself Upstate fog was a palate cleanser."
"You ran."
"I relocated with style."
He studies me like I'm a map with missing contour lines. "You kept the dock photos."
"On a drive in my bag. Encrypted. I'm reckless. I'm not stupid."
"Good. Because stupid gets people buried."
A floorboard on the porch creaks.
We both freeze.
Colt's hand is already on the pistol at his hip. He tips his chin toward the loft ladder. I grab my camera and the drive from my bag in one scoop and climb. He ghosts to the window, parts the curtain a finger width.
A shadow crosses the porch rail.
He looks back at me, voice low. "Stay in the loft. If I tell you to run, you take the back window and you don't wait for me."
"I'm not leaving you to play hero alone."
"Oakley."
"Colt."
The doorknob turns once.
He mouths one word at me.
Down.
3
Colt
"Down."
I say it out loud this time, because there’s definitely someone on the porch. Oakley drops behind the loft rail like she finally decided listening might keep her breathing. I put my back to the wall beside the window and watch the knob turn, slower, testing the lock like whoever is out there has done this before. “Oakley Vega,” a man shouts outside.
Then the first shot takes the window.
Glass blows inward and bites the floor. I grab the loft ladder with one hand and haul Oakley down before the second round finds the same pane. She hits my chest hard, camera slamming my collarbone.
"I was already down," she snaps. "You mouthed it. I obeyed."
"Down and alive are the assignment. Stay there."
A third shot slams the door. The wood jumps in the frame. I shove her behind the stove and drop to a knee with the pistol up. Movement in the trees past the porch. Two shapes. Maybe three. Fog makes the count sloppy.
Oakley peeks around the iron like peeking is a job description. "So this is off grid. Five stars. Would get shot at again."
"You talk less, you live longer."
"You bark orders like I signed paperwork. I crashed into you. You growled. Now somebody is redecorating your cabin with ammunition. Forgive me if I'm not feeling subordinate."
Another round skips off the porch rail. I fire once toward the woodpile to make them duck, then I'm moving. Wrist. Bag. Gun. We cut for the back because the front wall is turning into kindling.
"Wrist," she hisses, stumbling after me. "You don’t have to squeeze so hard."
"I could also leave you in the loft with your fog pictures. Keep moving."
We hit the back room as a shot takes out the kitchen window. Ceramic explodes in the sink. Oakley flinches, then laughs, short and sharp, like her nerves found a weapon and chose sarcasm.
"Tell me you at least lock this place when you're gone."
"Tell me why Helix followed a photographer to my door."
Her mouth flattens. "Later. After we stop being target practice."
I pop the back window and listen. The yard drops toward the logging road where I left the truck. No muzzle flash that way. Front is loud. Back is a chance.
"Out," I say. "Stay on my left. If I stop, you stop. If I run, you run. Don't play hero with a camera."
"Wow. Chivalry's thriving."
"Chivalry keeps you breathing. Banter doesn't."
I go first. Boots hit wet ground. I pull her through and we cut low along the cabin wall while the porch takes another beating. The truck sits in a slice of yard I don't love, faded blue and dented and still the fastest way off this mountain.
Oakley keeps pace better than those boots deserve. She still manages to complain in a whisper that could start a fight.
"Most men buy a drink before they drag a girl through incoming fire."
"I'm not most men."
"No kidding. Most men don't come with a stack of burner phones and a stare that could strip paint."
"Head down, Vega."
That gets her. She glances at me mid-stride, curls stuck to her cheek. "I didn't give you my last name."
"The men shooting my cabin did. Unless this is still about fog, move."
She moves. She also mutters, "I liked you better when you were only rude."
"I liked you better when you were a stranger on a ridge."
"Liar. You liked the view. You hated the commentary."
I don't answer that. Answering it means admitting she scored, and I have a truck to reach before I start studying the way her lips press into a thin line.
We break from the wall and run. A shot cracks behind us, searching, too high. I wrench the passenger door open and fold her in.