Page 62 of Talk to Me
That didn’t mean they weren’t tracking us.
Tracking her.
Fifteen minutes later, we transferred her into a different vehicle along with the weapons and gear before dousing this one and setting it on fire. I didn’t care if the exterior survived. Destroying the interior would destroy DNA evidence.
It was also my first chance to get a look at Patch. She seemed—tinier than I’d expected. Blonde hair tipped by dark strands like she was letting a dye job grow out added a hint of goth to her.
Or maybe that was the violent paleness to her. If not for the fact her chest rose and fell, I’d be more worried about her stillness. She’d already emptied one banana bag and Locke hung another while I watched.
Thankfully, our second vehicle was loaded with what we needed. The ambulance came fully equipped. The markings all indicated Crimson Stripe Rescues, a nonprofit that deployed to disaster areas in the U.S. These vehicles were familiar in flood zones, forest fires, and landslides or in the wake of hurricanes and devastating tornadoes.
The U.S. certainly possessed a creative variety of natural disasters. McQuade was behind the wheel again. Though he also now sported a red uniform. Troubling to be so brightly colored, but I slid into the back with Locke and pulled out the scanners.
“ETA?” I checked. We were leaving Louisiana.
“Four hours,” McQuade answered over his shoulder. “I can make it faster, but we’ll attract more attention than we want.”
That didn’t require a response, so I didn’t answer. Instead, I ran the scanner over Patch and examined the injuries we could see.
Cigarette burns.
Ligature marks on her wrists and around her throat. The ones on her wrists included deeper lacerations, and scabbed over wounds.
Bruises littered her face, one cheek was swollen and there was definite inflammation around her right eye. Her fingers were…
I reached for her right hand and didn’t think anything about it as I popped the fingers back into place one at a time. Locke winced.
“Fuckers.”
“Agreed.”
She didn’t even twitch. They’d focused their torture—dislocating rather than breaking. Burns instead of scalding. The bruises on her face? Painful but not debilitating.
“We’ll need to check her other joints as soon as we’re fully secure.” We couldn’t afford to do it right now. The scanner let out a little wah-wah as I passed it over her.
It wasn’t until Locke eased her over to tuck her against his chest that I found it. The “clothes” she wore were mostly a collection of rags with a seam.
Her bare ass showed more bruises, long, deep stripes likely created by a cane. They marred down her legs too. I cataloged it and added it to the tab of the people who’d taken her.
“Found one.”
“They fucking tagged her like an animal.” Locke’s knuckles were white, but he braced her with his arms and kept his hands off her.
That was exactly what they’d done. I got a small scalpel out and a kit with some lidocaine. I could at least numb the area before I removed it. I had no idea how deep it was.
The vehicle bounced as I drew up the lidocaine and I spared a glance at Locke who glared toward the cab.
“Keep it smooth and steady, he’s got to cut something out of her.”
“Understood.”
He’d do his best. We all would.
“You got her?” I checked with Locke.
He nodded sharply, a little jerky in his motions.
“A little stick,” I murmured to her. She deserved to know what I was doing. Injecting the lidocaine, I gave her some time for it to start working before I traced the barely closed incision line they’d left behind.