Page 103 of Holiday Hostage
“Yep.” I knew better than to disagree.
Pain continued to throb in my torso.
Reed had done a great job following my instructions.
He even managed to stitch me up in a straight line.
Nothing else could be done for any of us except time to recover.
“I’m going to walk to Anchorage if I have to.” Mav’s jaw jutted in that stubborn tilt of his that told everyone to back the hell off.
I ran a hand over my head and down the side of my face.
My skin crawled with the need to see Payton, to touch her, and finally know one hundred percent that she was okay.
“I’d love to tell you to shut up and stop being dramatic, but I’m with you. I can’t stand another day here.”
Walking out would have killed him a week ago. It still might.
An engine cut through the silence, and we scrambled clumsily to our feet.
A rusted blue truck spun tires and spat snow in sheets as it rolled toward the house.
Reed stuck his arm out and waved from the driver’s seat.
A wide grin split his face, and he revved the engine.
“Thank fuck.” Mav stood. “Ready?”
I eyed the bags we’d spent days packing.
They held everything we’d salvaged from the wreckage and the house where we’d been staying.
I shouldered the heavier of the two bags and held out the other toward Maverick. “If you can carry that to the truck without falling down, we’ll go.”
“I’ll do it or die trying. I’m getting the hell out of here and finding Payton.”
He grabbed the duffel by the handles and tried to lift it.
His body gave way, and he grunted.
Grimacing, he dragged it behind him, pulling step by step.
Reed hopped out of the truck and ran our way. “Need help?”
“No.” Mav bit out the word. “Tarron needs a show of strength to make sure I’m healed enough to leave.”
“I’m trying to make sure we all make it to Anchorage.” My chest ached from the added pressure of the bag, but I muscled through.
“We will.” Mav bared his teeth in a deadly smile. “I’m not dying yet.”
Reed climbed behind the wheel and waited for us to haul our sorry asses and our gear into the truck.
Once we closed our doors, he turned around and headed away from the house, filling us in on how he’d bartered for the truck and how long it would take to reach Anchorage.
We arrived in Anchorage too late to do anything more than book a red-eye flight to New York the next morning, and for Reed to try to call his dad.
The call rolled to voicemail, and Reed left a brief message. “He probably won’t even listen to it. He forgets he has a cell half the time.”
