Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
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?”
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.