Page 103 of Montana Memory

He’d helped me when he had every reason not to.

God, I wished I’d told him thank you. Told him I loved him.

Because I did.

Even if it was too fast. Even if I was a mess. I loved him.

Johnson pulled up to the curb, yanking me back from my thoughts. “So how will we carry the money? What are we looking at here? Duffel bags? Suitcases?”

I had no idea how bulky half a million dollars would be. Would it fill a backpack? A suitcase? I had no clue but didn’t want to give myself away.

“It’s…compact,” I said vaguely. “You’ll have no trouble carrying it.”

Kelly nudged me with his gun. “Better not be jerking us around.”

“Why would I do that?” My laugh sounded brittle. “I just want this over with.”

As Johnson parked, they began sharing their plans for the money, obviously forgetting I was listening—or not caring because I wouldn’t be alive much longer.

“First thing, I’m booking a flight to Bali,” Kelly said, his eyes gleaming. “Got a buddy who knows a place where no extradition means no problems.”

Johnson snorted. “Too obvious. Gotta lie low first, let the heat die down before making any big moves.”

They wouldn’t be talking like this if they planned to let me live. In their minds, I was already dead.

My plan, pathetic as it was, seemed simple enough: get inside, make it to the kitchen drawer or even the chest, grab a knife, and fight like hell. Then run for the side door and hope for a miracle. Even in my own head, it sounded like suicide.

But what choice did I have?

As we approached the house, I rehearsed the steps in my mind. Front entry. Security panel. Living room straight ahead. Kitchen to the left. Wooden chest against the wall.

If I could make it to the chest, I wouldn’t mess with the guns since I wasn’t proficient with them. I’d grab a knife. They were right at the top of the chest, several to choose from. Whatever my hand landed on would be it. If I moved fast enough, maybe I could land a blow. Maybe I could make it to the side door.

It was a garbage plan.

Even in my head, it sounded like a B-movie script scrawled in desperation. But it was all I had.

“Let’s go,” Johnson said, shoving me forward. “And don’t try anything stupid. There’s nowhere to run that we won’t find you.”

I nodded, walking toward the front door with my heart hammering against my ribs, Johnson and Kelly flanking me like prison guards—which was essentially what they were. Sweat trickled down my back despite the cold evening air.

“If this is some kind of trick,” Kelly hissed, his breath hot against my ear, “I’m going to take great pleasure in killing you slowly. Real slowly.”

I rolled my eyes, channeling a confidence I absolutely did not feel. “Chill out. The money’s here, just like I said.”

The cold circle of a gun barrel pressed against my spine, making me flinch. I stared at the seemingly ordinary door, willing my hands not to shake as I reached for the edge of the decorative panel beside it. My fingers found the hidden groove, and I slid it aside, revealing the keypad.

Johnson let out a low whistle. “Well, look at that.”

Even Kelly seemed impressed, which gave me a brief flare of hope. At least they believed I knew the place—which I did, just not in the way they thought.

I punched in the code Hunter had given me: 7-5-2-4-9.

Nothing happened. No click, no green light. My stomach dropped.

I entered it again, more carefully this time, making sure to hit each number precisely.

7-5-2-4-9.

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