Page 24 of Savage Ranger Daddy

He studies the outcrop through the binoculars. I can see him running the calculation. Sight lines. Cover. Risk.

"I go," he says. "You stay."

"You're six-three and built like a truck. I'm five-four and wearing a dark jacket. Which one of us is harder to spot moving through trees?"

His jaw flexes. He doesn't answer because the answer is obvious.

"Two minutes," I say. "I get behind the outcrop, I listen, I come back. You watch through the binoculars and cover me. If anything goes wrong, I retreat uphill toward you."

The silence stretches. Then he hands me the binoculars and pulls his sidearm. "Ninety seconds. Not two minutes. You hear me whistle, you stop and come back regardless. Don't write anything down there. Just listen. Memorize. You can write it all when you're back."

I nod, leave the binoculars on the seat, and move.

The slope is steep but the snow is deep enough to muffle my steps. I move tree to tree the way Brock showed me during the self-defense training, keeping my profile low, using the trunks as cover between advances. The cold air burns in my lungs. Every footfall sounds enormous to me but rationally I know the wind and the distance are swallowing the noise. I reach the rock outcrop in about forty seconds and press my back against the cold stone.

I can hear them now. Not clearly. Not every word. But enough.

The shorter man's voice reaches me first, mid-sentence. "...moved up. He doesn't want it sitting. Says three days was already pushing it."

Jeffrey's voice is flatter, harder to read. "...told him the roads aren't ready. Storm took out the bridge crossing at..."

Wind swallows the rest. I press harder against the rock, straining.

"...doesn't care about the bridge. He wants the cargo at the collection point by..." Something I can't catch. Then: "...using the old camp road. The one past the..."

A gust tears through the clearing and I lose them completely for ten seconds. When the wind settles the shorter man is talking again.

"...and the woman? She's still..."

"...handled. He's got someone on it. Said she's..." The rest dissolves into wind noise.

My stomach clenches. She. They're talking about me. "He's got someone on it" could mean anything but none of the options are comforting.

Jeffrey pulls out a folded paper and holds it up. I can't read it from here but it looks like a map. He traces something with his finger. The shorter man leans in, nods, and says something too quiet to catch. Then Jeffrey folds the paper and slides it back into his jacket.

They start walking back down the trail. I count to thirty, then move back uphill, fast and low, heart slamming against my ribs.

Brock is exactly where I left him, weapon still drawn, eyes locked on the clearing below. The second I reach the truck he holsters the gun and grabs my arm, pulling me around to the passenger side and out of the sight line.

"Talk," he says.

I close my eyes and replay the fragments. "The timeline's been moved up again. The shorter one said 'he doesn't want it sitting' and that three days was already pushing it. Jeffrey said the roads aren't ready and something about a bridge crossing being taken out by the storm. The other one said he doesn't care about the bridge, wants the cargo at a collection point by a date or time I couldn't catch. They mentioned using 'the old camp road,' then wind took the rest."

"Collection point," Brock repeats. "Not the camp itself. Somewhere else."

"That's what it sounded like. And there's more. They mentioned me. The shorter one asked about 'the woman.' Jeffrey said 'it's handled' and that 'he's got someone on it.' I couldn't hear the rest."

Brock's expression doesn't change but something tightens behind his eyes. "He's got someone on it. That could mean surveillance. Could mean they've put someone in position to find you."

"Or it could mean they've hired someone. Or they've got someone inside the investigation feeding them information." I pull my notebook out and start writing everything down, exact fragments, with brackets around the gaps. "Jeffrey also had a map. Folded paper, looked hand-drawn. He traced a route on it and the other man agreed. Then he put it back in his jacket."

Brock leans against the truck. "So we've got a shortened timeline, a collection point that isn't the camp, a route we can't see, and an unidentified person tasked with finding you. That's a lot of unknowns."

"It's more than we had an hour ago."

"It's also less clear than I'd like." He's not dismissing what I heard. He's parsing it. "Three days was the original window from the radio intercepts. Now they're saying that was already pushing it. Could mean the shipment's coming sooner. Could mean it already arrived and they're talking about distribution, not delivery."

I hadn't considered that. "You think the cargo might already be here?"