Page 63 of The Order of Disorder
"I’m scared," I whisper.
“I hate to leave you alone here,” he says. “But this run is a good thing. It might be our shot to get out.”
“How?”
“There’s a truck stop in Rawlins where I used to coordinate pickups when I was patching in. The night manager, Dennis, is a former Marine. Turns out we ran parallel units back in Iraq—different battalions, but same dust. He keeps a CB radio in the break room for the truckers.”
I feel my heart pick up. “And?”
“And if I can get five minutes alone with it, I can send a burst. Channel 19, 1919 hours. Jake scans at this time and should pick it up. It’s our backup plan. A backup to the backup.”
My breath catches. For a second I forget how to inhale.
“You’re serious?” I whisper.
His nod is small, but solid. “Dead serious.”
The rush of hope is like a drug, a straight shot of euphoria pumping through my veins. My stomach flips, my skin prickles.
“You really think he’ll hear it?”
“Yeah. Good chance. I just need to get to the radio at the right time.”
Something breaks open inside me. A breath I didn’t know I’d been holding for months.
“I can’t believe…” My throat tightens. “I can’t believe we’re this close.”
“Well, we’re not out yet,” he says quietly.
“But we could be?” The words tumble out, reckless with hope. “This could actually happen? We could leave this place?”
His hand moves to the back of my head, cradling it gently. “Yeah, honey. We could.”
It floods me all at once, the memory of freedom, of having a future. Of choosing where to go, who to love. Of not being someone’s pawn or plaything or prisoner. The rush of it makes my eyes sting.
“But if they miss it?”
He’s quiet a beat too long before responding. “Then we figure something else out. We find another way.”
His hand slides along my jaw, thumb rough against my skin, sharp blue eyes staring at me with intensity.
“Nothing’s going to happen to you,” he says in a voice full of promise. “No matter what goes down, I’ll make sure of that. You hear me?”
I nod but my throat is tight. He leans forward, pulling me in toward him, and kisses me softly.
It’s just breath and lips, his mouth moving over mine, but it draws a deep ache out of me. The longing that I always have for him, mingled with the terrifying hope of escaping with him, and the anxiety at being here without him.
“These sabotages,” he whispers low, like this is the most dangerous secret of them all. “They’re not random. It’s Jake and Damian leading coordinated strikes. I’m gathering intel here; they’re dismantling the network from the outside.”
It hits like a body blow. The idea of Jake and Damian, just beyond our reach, fighting the same battle we are, strikes me with sharp grief and longing. With an almost physically painful jolt of fresh hope.
Whenever I think of them, I imagine them just living their same old lives, going about their business. It never occurred to me that they would be as much a part of this mission as Wyatt is.
Jake. Damian.
And Ryder.
His name’s a wound too fresh to touch, but it bleeds just the same.
