Page 170 of Chalk Outline
My eyelids flutter open, and I slowly pull myself up into a sitting position. The afternoon breeze feels significantly colder, leaving goosebumps on my skin. I glance at Winona. Her eyes are still closed.
I straighten up with a grunt.
I clip my holster to my pants, then my thigh bag along with the radio, and shove my lighter and knife into my pocket.
“Where are you going?” her voice trails behind me as I take a few steps away from our little camp.
“I’ll be right back. I need to scan the area.”
“Don’t get ripped apart by a bear,” she chuckles.
“Haha.”
“I mean it.” Her voice hardens.
“Don’t worry,” I calm down, “Rule number one: Always stay alert.”
We say it together.
I hike a dozen feet away. Winona remains in my line of sight whenever I look back. I stop beside a row of trees. Their large trunks completely hide me and block my view of Winona. I still peek around them every few seconds to check if she’s okay.
Waiting, I search between distant trees until I hear a familiar buzz growing louder. The drone comes into view as it slowly advances—a note dangles from it.
We’re all set. The bombs are ready.
I nod to confirm, take the mini microphone Braxton attached to it, and the drone retraces its original path.
These ten months we’ve spent together in this forest have been the best gift Winona and I could have received.
I want a lifetime, but even if this is all I get, I feel so fortunate to have shared life with her.
My Winona.
My hauntingly beautiful Winona.
I will forever be grateful that she took a chance on me and chose me repeatedly.
Loving her was indescribable. It was a pill that altered my entire existence. Even if there were an antidote, I wouldn’t take it. I wanted to succumb to the feeling of her; I wanted to combust against her skin.
She gazes at the sky, her arm raised, fingers drawing patterns in the wind.
As I step in her direction, a few leaves rustle behind me. I bend down, pretending to tie my boots before I send my fist back and punch the attacker right in the junk.
A muffled groan escapes him as he falls to the floor, curling in pain. A black mask covers his face, holes punched out where his eyes are.
I yank my gun from the holster as a brutal blow to my head throws me off balance. I tumble to the ground. My knees slam against jagged rocks, and sharp pain slices through my palms. Black spots fill my vision as more strikes threaten to knock me out. I yank his ankle, knocking the second attacker down, and wrap my arm around his neck just before a gun presses against my temple.
“Stop resisting,” the first attacker snarls. “He’s waiting.”
I raise my hands in surrender, needing to end it once and for all.
For us.
I chased the big boss for almost four years. It seems I was right; even ghosts can be found.
Even the one I used to call dad.
Chapter thirty-four
