The helicopter banks hard, veering east, carrying Cooper and our would-be tail with it.
Hopefully.
A black SUV waits at the edge of the trees, engine running, two figures in tactical gear standing beside it. They approach quickly.
“The other bird is three minutes out,” Martinez says. “We need to move.”
“Roger that.” The man turns to me. “Ma’am, I’m Axel with Guardian HRS. We’re going to get you somewhere safe.”
“In the vehicle, please.” Axel guides me toward the SUV. “Time is critical.”
Bear jumps into the back without command, making himself comfortable across the rear seat. I slide in beside him, his warm bulk immediately pressing against my side. Martinez and Jackson take the middle row, while Axel slides behind the wheel.
“Seat belts,” he reminds us, then immediately accelerates down what appears to be a logging road, the SUV’s suspension absorbing the worst of the bumps but still jostling us roughly.
“Where are we going?” I ask, one hand gripping the door handle, the other buried in Bear’s thick fur.
“First vehicle exchange is three miles ahead,” Axel explains. “Then we’ll take back roads to a secondary location for another swap.”
“They’re good at this.” Jackson notices my confusion. “Guardian HRS specializes in extracting high-value targets from hostile situations. They’ve got protocols for everything.”
“Reynolds has FBI connections,” I remind them. “They’ll be looking for us.”
“Exactly why we’re switching vehicles multiple times,” Martinez says without looking up from his tablet. “First rule of evasion—never stay in one vehicle too long. Second rule—change your signature as often as possible.”
The SUV barrels down the rough road for exactly eight minutes before Axel abruptly turns onto what appears to be a game trail barely wide enough for our vehicle. The branches scrape against the windows as we push through, emerging into another small clearing where a nondescript white van waits.
“Transfer point,” Axel announces. “Everyone out.”
The switch happens quickly. Bear leaps from vehicle to vehicle like he does this every day.
“What about the SUV?” I ask, looking back at the SUV.
“Axel will drive to a different location, creating a false trail.”
Minutes later, we’re moving again, this time in a commercial plumbing van with faded lettering on the sides. The driver identifies himself as Griff. The van’s interior has been stripped and retrofitted, but from the outside, it looks like any service vehicle that might be traveling through rural Idaho.
“Thirty minutes to the next switch,” Griff announces.
The next swap occurs at an abandoned gas station miles from any main road.
“These should fit better than what you’re wearing.” Griff tosses me a bag of fresh clothes—jeans, a sweater, and a heavy jacket, all in subdued colors that won’t stand out.
Mason’s borrowed clothes were practical but enormouson my frame. These new garments fit properly, allowing for easier movement. I run my fingers through my hair, catching sight of my reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror. Beneath the fatigue and fear, something new glimmers in my eyes—determination, maybe. Or hope.
Bear is waiting when I emerge, pressing immediately against my legs like he can’t bear to be separated from me. His steadfast presence grounds me in a way I can’t articulate.
“You’re good with him,” Martinez observes as we prepare for the next vehicle transfer. “He’s usually Mason’s shadow.”
“He’s a sweetheart,” I say, scratching behind Bear’s ears. The massive dog leans into my touch, nearly knocking me over with his enthusiasm.
Martinez snorts. “Don’t let him fool you. That ‘sweetheart’ is a trained protection animal who could take down a man at a single command.”
I look down at Bear’s gentle eyes and struggle to reconcile that image with the war machine Martinez describes. “Right now, he just seems like a big love muffin.”
“Love muffin?” Jackson laughs. “I’m definitely telling Ghost you called his tactical assault dog a ‘love muffin’ when he catches up to us.”
When, not if. The subtle confidence in Jackson’s phrasing eases something tight in my chest.
