Page 22 of No Hope of Rescue

All I know is if they find us, they’ll kill us. The shorter one moves toward the cockpit, opens a compartment on the console, and removes a wad of papers. I have to toggle the fold slightly to keep them in view.

When he holds up the papers, the other guy says, “So fuckin’ what? We still have to find their shit. And the fuckin’ truth is that it can fuckin’ wait.”

The other guy tucks the paper into a gallon-sized freezer bag and shoves it deep inside his parka. “Where’s the info?”

“What was that? Three, four miles in this shit? Fuck that.”

There’s something about his voice that’s familiar, but I can’t place it.

The taller guy on the left hands over a piece of paper. Though it starts out pale in the dark, the moment a flashlight beam strikes, the paper becomes illuminated.

The shorter one reads silently and then adds, “Leon promises, you know. Let’s just find this stuff.”

The smaller guy on the left slips a small crowbar from his coat.

The other guy, still holding the sheet of paper, announces, “We’re looking for two crates with that spray paint symbol. In black.”

Riley shifts next to me, and the cracked rib sends a flash of excruciating pain down my good side. My breathing has to be controlled.

The costs are too high. I have to work at it, though, and I exhale in restrained releases into her hair.

She’s aware something’s wrong and tries to move, but I hold her still. In this position, side by side, me curled around her, I’m acutely aware of how small she is. She’s so strong, so capable of keeping up with the four of us, me and my brothers, that I forget how diminutive she is.

No taller than Codie and built even slighter, she’s a force with a wall of confidence. But right now, in my arms, waves of trembling racking her body, she seems as fragile as glass.

I hold her even tighter.

The two men move to the other side of the fuselage and are only about eight feet from where we lie. Riley stirs next to me once more and shifts her arm slightly. It must be going to sleep.

I do something that feels perfectly natural: I bury my nose in her hair and kiss the back of her head, just to let her know I’m here. Just to let her know I’ll never let go of her.

Their voices, which had grown unintelligible in the storm, are stronger again, and bits and pieces of their conversation swell between the banter of the wind.

“Yeah, well fuck that.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Man, I’m just saying, that girl is going to be trouble.”

The shorter guy shakes his head. “She’s scared as shit. She watched her boyfriend go over into the water. She isn’t going to do a damn thing unless we tell her to. Plus, she’s too good, man.”

My mind snags for a moment as I piece his words together again in rapid succession: She’s too good. I nearly fling off the oilskin. Did they . . . I can’t even think through my rage for a moment, and then Riley’s hands are around mine, interlaced at the base of her sternum, squeezing fingers softly.

It’s enough to bring me back. No. Stop thinking this. It means Codie’s alive—that’s all.

The deep rut outside and all the fear it held fades with this new, darkly twisted idea. They may have raped her.

“Fuck you, asshole. We’re in this deep. Leon screwed with us.”

“We signed up. Quit complaining. We just need to find their shit.” The shorter one continues sweeping his flashlight beam over tossed boxes.

“Someone’s going to see this plane.”

“Not after this storm. It’ll be buried.”

“You think they’ll hire us to come back? We should double—hey, look.”

“Yep. Black spray paint, two lines.”