Page 77 of Runaways

"It's a loop," Tate says. "That should make it easy. You go one way, I'll go the other."

I nod before getting out of the car, then approach the old pickup truck and peer into the windows, trying to get a read on its owner. No car seat, no toys. No sign of anything definitively female, either—just an old flannel on the passenger side and a few canisters of chewing tobacco—one on the dash, and a couple on the floor.

I try the handle, finding it unlocked, and open the glove box. "Check it out," I say to Tate, holding up anotherhand gun.

"What'd I tell you?" Tate says. "It's too easy here."

"Yeah." I open the trunk, pull back the lining, and stash the weapon with the others.

"I'm going left," Tate says, starting on the trail before me. He's eager, and he knows he's more likely to run into whoever is out there before me if he goes that way. Still, I let him, stuffing my hands in my pockets and heading right, following footprints on the dark mountain trail, lightly covered in snow. It's not unusual for this time of year at this altitude, and any local would know this, but it makes the trail difficult to stick to, and it makes me wonder if whoever is out there might have gotten turned around.

Knowing my strides are longer than Tate's and that I don't need to be quiet and sneak up on my prey because it doesn't matter anyway, I quicken my pace, not quite running down the loop trail. After about twenty minutes of this, I hear voices—Tate's and that of another male.

"I'm glad I ran into you," Tate says. "I think I might be lost. I've been trying to find my way back to the trailhead for about an hour now, and my phone's dead. Can I follow you out of here?"

"You're fucking with me, right?" the man says.

Now, I do slow my pace, carefully closing in on him so the man doesn't realize he's been cornered.

"What do you mean?" Tate asks.

"You don't look like the hiking type," the man says. "If you want to suck my dick, just say that."

I'm close enough now to see Tate smile. "Okay," he says. "I want to suck your dick."

I step behind a tree as the man turns, scanning the area for other hikers.

"You see any other cars out there?" he asks Tate.

"Nope," Tate says. "Just your truck."

He gestures for Tate to follow him, walking a few paces back into the forest before he stops, and I hear him fumbling with his belt.

"I'm not gay," the man says. "I had a wife, but the bitch left me."

Tate scoffs. "Yeah, okay. Are you going to come in my mouth or bore me to death with your pathetic life story?"

"Shut the fuck up!" the man shouts.

It makes me more than a little uncomfortable, and I decide to move in on him, less concerned with whether or not he hears me.

"Make me," Tate says, smiling as his eyes meet mine.

"All right, get the fuck over here," the man says, letting his pants fall to his ankles. As Tate takes a step toward him, I reach around the tree and grab the man by the arms, holding them back by the wrists.

"What the fuck?" the man screams as he struggles against my hold. "Let me go! I'm going to fucking kill you!"

I laugh a little as he struggles ineffectually against my hold. He's no match for my size and strength, and it barely fazes me.

"Okay, I get it," the guy says, forcing a laugh. "But I'm not really into this kind of thing, all right?"

Tate smiles as he pulls out his knife. "I don't really care what you're into."

"W—what are you…oh, fuck!" the man says, resuming his panic. "Help! Help me!"

Tate laughs. "He's crying."

"Stop playing with your fucking food, Tate, or I'll do it myself!"

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