Page 23 of Don't Let Go

The crunch of our feet in the snow seemed almost too loud in the silence. That was the other thing about the rush through the dark woods, it was eerie how quiet it was. Something I used to love about the world during a snowfall or after a fresh snow proved unsettling as hell when I knew we were running.

More when I caught the sound of engines in the distance. That low rumbling noise sent my pulse jumping far more than itshould have. It took both forever and no time at all to arrive at the barn hidden beyond the trees.

Locke helped me climb up inside and then he was in the driver’s seat and we were rolling out.

“You okay?” Locke asked after we were on the interstate. The whole time we’d driven that narrow little road through the woods then onto the state highway and past the sleepy little towns had left me on edge. I’d been torn between alternately holding my breath and trying to regulate it.

“I’m fine.” The answer was practically automatic. Was it a lie? Probably not, but it had been a while since anything was truly “fine.” “I’m surviving,” I told him. “Maybe a little jumpy.”

The fact my pulse still raced betrayed how upset I truly was.

“I hate that we left them.” More because I had no way to check on them. I had Locke’s phone. Maybe we could check the cameras via the surveillance they had in place. But what would I do if something was wrong? I couldn’t warn them. I couldn’t work to back them up.

I was practically useless.

Wasn’t that a bitter pill to swallow?

“It was the plan,” Locke said, his tone soothing. “We’ve been refining it over the past few weeks.”

“Did I have a say in this plan before?” As circumspect as they’d been, it was clear I’d been with them longer than the couple of weeks I could recall currently.

“Yes,” Locke answered, swiftly. Too swiftly. Then he released a grunt as he favored me with a sheepish smile. “And no.”

“Well,” I retorted. “Thanks for clearing that up for me.”

He snorted. “You gave us specs before. Specs to help make sure we had the right equipment on board and some solutions for possible technical issues we might run into once we were on the move.”

That sounded like me. “Okay,” I exhaled the word. “I—have a thousand questions and I don’t know whether asking any of them is a good idea or not.”

“No such thing as a bad question,” he informed me in the most sing-song of tones. The throwback to him asking if we should play twenty questions once during a planning session for one of his jobs rushed in to fill in some of the gaps.

“I think we proved that sentiment is a little flawed.”

A huff of laughter escaped him. “Alittleflawed?”

“Okay,” I conceded. “Maybe a lot flawed. But you were the one who decided to see how many inane questions you could throw in at random intervals.”

“Absolutely true,” he agreed. “I was also trying to figure out what you liked. Hard to get presents for people if you don’t know what they enjoy or not.”

Of all the things he could have said as a response, that one surprised me. I shot a look at him.

“Yep,” he commented with a kind of ease I envied. “That look isn’t insulting at all.”

“I’mnottrying to insult you,” I said, trying to not roll my eyes. “Trust me, if I’d wanted to, I do know how to deliver an insult.”

His swift grin helped to ease away one of the rocks that crashed down on me at his earlier observation. “You know, I vaguely recall you putting me in my place once or twice.”

Once or twice?

Isnortedand his laughter smoothed away more of the jagged points of stress. “Don’t play with me,” I muttered.

“Sorry,” he said in a cheerful tone that indicated he wasanythingbut sorry. “I like playing with you.”

He flashed another easy grin at me and I had to shake my head.

“Really?” I went for dry. Utterly dry and skeptical, but his grin was undiminished.

“Yes, really. I’ve always enjoyed playing with you, Patch. You’re great at witty responses and one liners.”

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