When I can't hear the men anymore I climb down from my branch. It's a long way and I'm careful to get my feet in the right positions before swinging down. The last thing I need is a broken ankle. The needles cushion my fall and I land without mishap.
I run downhill in the direction Raffe ran. In about five minutes, I have the wrapped wings. He must have tossed the bundle into a bush as he ran because it lies partially hidden in the underbrush. I strap it to my pack and run after the men.
CHAPTER 15
The dogs are a problem. I'll need my brain for that one. I may be able to hide from the men as I lurk, but I won't be able to hide from the dogs. I keep running anyway. I'll have to worry about things one at a time. I'm gripped by a surprisingly strong fear that I won't be able to find them at all, so I pick up my pace from jogging to sprinting.
I'm practically doubled over breathless by the time I see them. I'm breathing so hard, I'm surprised they can't hear me.
They approach what at first looks like a dilapidated group of buildings. But a closer look shows that the buildings are actually fine. They only look dilapidated because there are branches leaning against the buildings and woven in a net above the compound. The branches are carefully placed so that they look like they fell naturally. I’ll bet from above it looks just like the rest of the forest. I’ll bet from above you can't see the buildings at all.
Hidden beneath redwood lean-tos around the buildings are machine guns. They are all pointed up at the sky.
This does not have the feel of an angel-friendly camp.
Raffe and the five hunters are met by more men in camouflage. There are women here too, but they're not all in uniform. Some don't look like they belong here. Some lurk around in the shadows, looking greasy and scared.
I get lucky because one of the guys ushers the dogs into a kennel. Several of the dogs are barking so if some of them bark at me, it shouldn't be noticeable.
I look around to make sure I haven't been spotted. I take my pack off and hide it in a tree hollow. I consider keeping the sword with me but decide against it. Only angels carry swords. The last thing we need is for me to nudge their thinking in that direction. I put the blanket-wrapped wings beside the pack and mentally mark the location of the tree.
I find a good spot where I can see most of the camp and flatten myself on a piece of ground covered in enough leaves to buffer me from the mud. The cold and wetness seep through my sweatshirt anyway. I throw some leaves and needles over myself for good measure. I wish I had one of their camouflage outfits. Luckily, my dark brown hair blends in with my surroundings.
They shove Raffe onto his knees in the middle of their camp.
I'm too far away to hear what they're saying, but I can tell the men are debating what to do with him. One of them bends over and talks to Raffe.
Please, please don't make him take his shirt off.
I frantically try to think of a way to rescue him and still keep myself alive, but there’s nothing I can do in broad daylight with a dozen trigger-happy guys in uniform swarming the area. Unless there’s an angel attack that distracts them, the best I can hope for is that he’ll still be alive and somehow accessible once it gets dark.
Whatever it is Raffe tells them must at least satisfy them for the moment because they pull him up to his feet and take him inside the smallest building in the center. These buildings don’t look like houses, they look like a compound. The two buildings on either side of the one in which they take Raffe look big enough to house at least thirty people each. The one in the center looks like it could house maybe half that. My guess is that one of them is for sleeping, another for communal use, and maybe the small one for storage.
I lie there, trying to ignore the wet cold seeping in from the ground, wishing the sun would go down faster. Maybe these people are as afraid of the dark as the street gangs in my neighborhood. Maybe they’ll go to bed as soon as the sun sets.
After what seems like a long time, but is probably only about twenty minutes, a young guy in uniform walks by only a few feet away from me. He holds a rifle at a forty-five degree angle across his chest as he scans the forest. He looks like he’s ready for action. I stay perfectly still as I watch the soldier walk by. I’m surprised and immensely relieved that he doesn’t have a dog with him. I wonder why they don’t use them to guard the compound?
After that, a soldier walks by every few minutes, too close for comfort. Their patrols are regular enough that after a while, I get the rhythm of it and know when they’re coming.
About an hour after they take Raffe into the center building, I smell meat and onions, garlic and greens. The delicious smell has my stomach clenching so hard that it feels like I have cramps.
I pray that it is not Raffe I’m smelling.
People file into the building on the right. I don’t hear an announcement so they must have a set dinner time. There are far more people here than I realized. Soldiers, mostly men in uniform, trudge out of the forest in groups of two, three, or five. They come from every direction.
By the time night rolls around, and the people disappear into the building on the left, I am almost numb with the cold seeping in from the ground. Combined with the fact that I’ve had nothing but a handful of dried cat food all day, I don’t feel as ready as I’d like to be for a rescue.
There are no lights in any of the buildings. This group is careful, obviously hiding themselves well at night. The compound is silent except for the sound of crickets, which is a pretty amazing feat considering how many people live there. At least there are no screams coming from Raffe’s building.
I make myself wait for what I think is about an hour in the dark before making my move.
I wait until the patrol walks by. At that point, I know that the other soldier is on the other side of the compound.
I count to one hundred before I get up and run as quietly as I can toward the center building.
My legs are as cold and stiff as gunmetal, but they limber up real fast at the thought of being caught. I have to take the long way around, skittering from moon shadow to shadow, working my way in a zigzag pattern toward the center building. The crisscross of the canopy works to my advantage, speckling the whole area with shifting shadows.
I flatten myself against the shadow side of the mess hall. One guard takes measured steps to my right, and in the distance, the other walks slowly on the other side of the compound. Their footsteps sound dull and slow, as if they’re bored. A good sign. If they heard anything unusual, their steps would be quicker, more urgent. At least I hope so.
I try to see the back of the center building, looking for a back door. But with the moon shadow on that side, I can’t tell if there’s a door or even a window.
I dart out of my shadow and into the shadow of the center building.
I pause there, expecting to hear a shout. But all is quiet. I stand plastered to the wall, holding my breath. I hear nothing and see no movement. There’s nothing but my fear telling me to abort. So I go on.
On the backside of the building, there are four windows and a backdoor. I peek through a window but see nothing but darkness. I resist the temptation to tap on it to see if I get a response from Raffe. I don’t know who else might be in there with him.
I have no plan, not even a harebrained one, and no real idea of how to overcome anyone who might be in there. Self defense training usually doesn’t include sneaking up on someone from behind and choking them quietly to death—a skill that could be pretty handy right now.
Still, I’ve consistently managed to beat sparring partners much bigger than me, and I hold onto that fact to warm me against the chill of panic.
I take a deep breath and whisper as softly as I can. “Raffe?”
If I can just get an indication of which room he’s in, it would make this a whole lot easier. But I hear nothing. No tapping on the window, no muffled calls, no chair scrapings to lead me to him. The awful thought that he might be dead comes back to me again. Without him, I have no way of finding Paige. Without him, I am alone. I give myself a mental kick to distract me from following that dangerous line of thought.
I inch over to the door and put my ear to it. I hear nothing. I try the doorknob just in case it’s unlocked.
I have my handy lock picking set in my back pocket as usual. I found the kit in a teenager’s room during my first week of foraging for food. It didn’t take me long to realize that picking a lock is a whole lot quieter than breaking a window. Stealth is everything when you’re trying to avoid street gangs. So I’ve been getting a lot of practice picking locks the past couple of weeks.
The doorknob turns smoothly.
These guys are cocky. I crack it open the tiniest bit and pause. There are no sounds, and I slip into the darkness. I pause, letting my eyes adjust to the deeper darkness of the house. The only light is the mottled moonlight streaming in through the windows at the back of the house.
I’m getting used to seeing by dim moonlight now. It seems to have turned into a way of life for me. I’m in a hallway with four doors. One door stands open into a bathroom. The other three are closed. I grip my knife as if that could stop a bullet from a semi-automatic. I put my ear to the first door on the left and hear nothing. As I reach for the doorknob, I hear a very quiet voice whispering through the last door.
I freeze. Then I walk over to the last door and put my ear against it. Was that my imagination, or did that sound like, “Run, Penryn?”
I crack open the door.
“Why don’t you ever listen to me?” Raffe asks quietly.
I slip in and close the door. “You’re welcome for rescuing you.”
“You’re not rescuing me, you’re getting yourself caught.” Raffe sits in the middle of the room, tied to a chair. There’s a lot of dried blood on his face, streaking from a wound on his forehead.
“They’re asleep.” I run over to his chair and put my knife to the rope around his wrists.
“No, they’re not.” The conviction in his voice trips alarms in my head. But before I can think of the word “trap,” a flashlight beam blinds me.
CHAPTER 16
“I can’t let you cut that,” says a deep voice behind the flashlight. “We have a limited supply of rope.”
Someone grabs my knife out of my hand and shoves me roughly into a chair. The flashlight turns off and it takes several blinks for me to adjust my vision again to the dim moonlight. By the time I can see again, someone is tying my hands behind my back.
There are three of them. One checks Raffe’s ropes, while the remaining one leans against the doorway as though here for just a casual visit. I tense up my muscles to try to get the rope to be as loose as possible as the guy behind me ties me up. My captor grips my wrists so hard that I’m half convinced that they will snap.
“You’ll have to excuse the lack of light,” says the guy leaning against the doorjamb. “We’re trying to avoid unwanted visitors.” Everything about him—from his commanding voice to his casual stance—makes it clear he’s the leader.
