Page 52 of The Darkest Chase
I nod, pulling out of her way and beckoning her. Come on. Hurry.
She scrambles up. Inwardly, I cringe at the noise of denim and flannel on nylon and the soft thuds as she pulls her boots on.
She can’t help herself, though, and it’s probably me being paranoid.
Still, the smallest crack of a twig can sound like a gunshot when it carries over these hills.
Once she’s ready, all wrapped up in my jacket and looking at me nervously, I turn to lead her back through the woods, guiding her over the string trap.
We take the easiest path, praying the entire time she won’t trip or step on a dry branch or a loud heap of leaves.
She manages well enough, keeping up with me in careful steps. Her red hair nearly glows in the dark.
I really fucking hope the Jacobins don’t look up.
There’s a thin sheen of sweat making her throat gleam by the time I stop her with a hand on her arm, showing her where to hunker down and kneel.
We’re clustered close together in a small group of bushes flanked by trees, at the peak of a very steep drop down to the site.
By now, the trucks are parked in a metal ring. Small figures in dark clothes scurry around, hauling equipment.
Not all of them are Jacobins by blood, I’m sure.
Some are hired thugs from out of town, brought here to do grunt work, faceless and untraceable behind masks and head coverings that conceal everything but their eyes.
Their eyes, plus the gleam of the automatic rifles slung to their backs, each muzzle a third eye staring back into the night.
Without a word, I hand her my binoculars.
Talia takes them with an audible gulp, pressing them to her eyes as she leans down over the drop to watch.
I can make out well enough from a distance.
I’m familiar with this process.
Our targets are lightning fast as they set up portable sheds with just a few posts dug in the ground between corrugated aluminum walls. When they start off-loading the trucks, I see confusion sparking in Talia as she watches them pull down bales of green leaves bundled into tight sheaves.
“Is that corn?” she whispers. She’s good enough that it’s almost subvocal. I’m glad I have to strain to hear. “They make moonshine with corn, right?”
“Corn kernels. Not the leaves. Those are the wrong color and shape.” I watch her closely as I say, “Those are coca leaves, Miss Grey.”
She sucks her lower lip into her mouth and bites down. Her eyebrows knit together above the binoculars.
“It smells,” she whispers.
“Gasoline. It’s part of the process, rendering coca mash.”
Her distressed sound is almost too quiet, but it’s there.
She’s nearly mangling her bottom lip now, turning it a succulent red.
“I thought there was gasoline in moonshine? That’s why they say it’s bad to drink…”
“You can make gasoline out of moonshine if you want to ruin your car. You can’t make moonshine from gasoline. Also…” I gesture toward the two men who are busy off-loading several large sacks, clearly marked cement. “You want to tell me what you think happens with cement in the moonshine process?”
“No clue.” She shakes her head.
“Nothing. Because cement powder binds cocaine, but it doesn’t have a damned thing to do with brewing rotgut booze.” I can’t help how my whisper turns fierce. “I’m telling you the truth, Talia. All that equipment, those ingredients, they’re brewing coke out here. I’ve tried following them back to their farm to find out where they hide the equipment and raw materials between batches, but they’re too fucking crafty. They know how to pull a disappearing act before I catch them with real evidence. If I tried a bust out here like this, it’d be me and the guys—and they’d mow us down before we ever flashed a warrant. No one’s going to send in SWAT for one crazy albino dude stalking the hillfolk over what everyone thinks is just bad whiskey.”