Page 78 of Holiday Hostage
“Oh, biscuits.” I resisted the urge to rub my stomach. “That would be amazing.”
“I spoke to Mr. Rivers.” Mav waited until we were in the middle of cooking to start the conversation.
“What’s the plan?” Tucker strolled in, his hazel eyes skipping over each of us with a smile.
He stopped beside Reed and snatched a piece of bacon from the plate in front of him.
Maverick flipped the sausage. “We need to get to Anchorage. We have three days.”
“We’ll take my car.” Tucker wiped the grease from his hands and turned to the pantry. “Pretty sure there’s frozen orange juice in here.”
“Dad,” Reed called after him, what could only be panic raising his voice to a level I’d never heard from him. “You don’t have to do that.”
“No kidding, Sherlock.” Tucker reappeared with what looked like a can in his hand.
He cracked it open with a wrench of his hands and dumped it into a pitcher.
“Fill that halfway with water. Not as good as fresh, but it’ll do in a pinch.” He stole another piece of bacon, bent it in half, and popped it into his mouth. “My car is the easiest. Long drive, but you have a direct route.”
Hard to argue with that.
I waited for Mav to make the final decision. We all did. Every head turned his way.
Even Reed, the master strategist that he claimed to be, gave Mav the final say.
He finished the sausage and flipped it onto a plate. “I’d rather not risk putting you in danger, but we can’t leave you here without a car either.”
“Couldn’t talk me out of joining you if you tried. You’d be better off tying me to the roof.”
Tucker flashed that smile that reminded me of Reed.
It was filled with fun and laughter, but steel ran throughout the expression.
“We leave after breakfast.” Maverick shot a look at the front windows. “We can’t risk lingering longer than that.”
Reed followed his line of sight, and his shoulders tensed.
“What?” I looked outside and saw nothing but snow and trees.
The Alaska wilderness had put up a fight with that storm, but now she apologized to us with a gorgeous landscape.
Maverick grabbed the plate of sausage and carried it to the table.
“Nothing.” The rest of us followed him, bringing the meal together in the center of the table.
Chairs scraped. Bones creaked—mostly Tucker’s. And Mav continued to eye the front window with that apprehensive tilt to his eyebrows.
Tarron picked up a piece of bacon and chewed.
What had started out as a joyous moment turned sour.
My stomach twisted so hard it became impossible to eat.
Reed fidgeted with the strap holding a pistol to his thigh.
He unsnapped the strap that wrapped around the butt of the pistol and straightened his leg beneath the table.
“If something’s wrong, you need to tell me.” The calm atmosphere of cooking together had shattered.
