Page 51 of The Darkest Chase

I’m expecting to see nervous blue eyes looking back at me, too anxious to sleep.

Instead, she’s a peaceful little ball of woman tucked up inside her bag. Her red hair spills all over the built-in pillow like scarlet paint.

She really is too innocent.

Trusting that she’s safe, as long as she’s out here with me.

I settle into my own sleeping bag but leave my tent flap open.

I don’t mind being a little cold, and it’s actually a pleasant early spring evening.

Rolf beds down outside.

I’d let him sleep in my tent, but he’s still an old police dog at heart and always takes a wary position. He lays his head over the bottom edge of the opening of my tent, resting against the pillow of my sleeping bag.

We both doze lightly with my arm draped over his shoulders and his jaw pillowing my head.

I’ve learned to sleep sporadically. There’s always some part of me always on alert.

The wake-up call comes a few hours later, right on cue.

I’m up when Rolf stiffens, his ears pricking, his head going up.

He’s a better alarm than anything I could ever buy.

Slowly, I sit up without making a sound. His head points toward the site I marked earlier and I listen hard, straining to hear.

There.

Muffled engines.

Several engines by the sound of it, coming from that direction.

It’s go time.

Whether or not Talia will believe what she sees remains to be seen.

Before I wake her, I slip out of my tent and stuff my feet into my boots, lacing them up while I dig around for my binoculars.

Creeping into the trees, I step over the pop tab warning system.

Rolf slinks under it, too, following me quietly as I inch toward the subtle sound of tires on noise-absorbing dirt.

At the crest of the hill, I hide behind a tree and look through a gap in the branches, using my binoculars.

I can just make out the Jacobins’ trucks.

If you expected rickety pickups with raised slats around their beds for big loads, you’re dead wrong. These are more like retired military surplus vehicles, big and blocky with their cargo areas covered, painted in muted greens, greys, and browns. Whatever helps them blend into nature unseen. Even their license plates are completely covered by black cloth they can move in seconds.

Now, why would any backwooded farmers cranking out moonshine go through all this trouble?

I race back to the campsite and drop to one knee next to Talia’s tent.

When I reach in and gently shake her, she gasps awake, blinking at me. She starts to open her mouth but freezes when I rest my finger over my lips and shake my head.

The sleep clears from her eyes and she pushes herself up swiftly, looking past me and then mouthing,

“They’re here?”