Page 63 of Dozer

"Yeah?"

"You're still taking first watch, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"You're lying."

A pause. "Probably."

I laugh softly, and this time I feel his chest move with the quiet sound he tries to suppress.

"Get some sleep," he says eventually. His thumb brushes my knuckles once more before his hand stills around mine. "I've got first watch."

"You said that an hour ago."

"I meant it more this time."

"That's not how time works."

"I know."

I smile again. Then I let my eyes close. His hand stays wrapped around mine. And somewhere between exhaustion and the steady rhythm of his breathing against my back, I finally stop fighting sleep.

For the first time in years, trusting someone doesn't feel like handing them a weapon. It feels like giving them my hand in the dark and knowing they'll hold on.

CHAPTER 21

Dozer

We reach a gas station by mid-morning, three miles of walking behind us and blisters neither of us mentions out loud. I use the last of the cash in my pocket to buy time on a payphone that looks like it hasn't been used since before smartphones existed, which feels appropriate given the week we've had.

Hunter picks up on the first ring. "You're alive." No preamble. No, where are you or what happened. Just those two words, and the specific relief underneath them is audible even through a connection that crackles every few seconds.

"We're alive. Lost the car, the gear, the burner line. We're on foot near—" I glance across the road at a faded sign, squinting at it. "Somewhere in Pennsylvania, best I can tell."

"Give me twenty minutes to route clean extraction. I've been trying every backup line for six hours."

"You sound disappointed we didn't die."

"I'd have preferred the paperwork." I know he is joking and I’m glad for the normalcy of friendly banter.

Kenzi makes a quiet sound beside me that might be a laugh. I look at her. She looks back. For one second, we're just two exhausted people standing beside a gas station, and the absurdity of Hunter joking about paperwork is enough to make the morning feel almost normal.

Then the silence on the line changes. I know before he speaks that whatever comes next is going to be bad.

"Dozer." His voice drops into the flat register he uses when he's delivering something he hates delivering. "There's something you need to hear before extraction gets there."

"Say it."

"The body."

Everything in me goes still.

"The convoy transporting it to secure federal custody was hit last night. Professional operation. Overwhelming force. In and out in under six minutes, according to the surviving escort."

The gas station suddenly seems too bright. Too open. Too ordinary for what he's just said.

"Hit how?"