Page 33 of Benson
Benson swallowed hard. “You didn’t have to say it. I felt it.”
Andy stood too, clearly uncomfortable. “I’m gonna go grab another drink. You two talk.”
He walked off, leaving Kyle and Benson in the awkward silence that followed.
Kyle stepped closer. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Benson looked at him, eyes tired. “I know. But you did.”
Kyle reached out, fingers brushing Benson’s wrist. “I didn’t know it mattered this much to you.”
Benson met his gaze, voice low. “Neither did I.”
Kyle nodded. “I’m sorry if I hurt you.” Then he looked to the door and asked, “Did you do what you had to?”
“Yeah,” Benson said, leading him out. “Truck’s headed back to New York. We’re taking a van.”
Kyle raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
Benson didn’t answer, just took Kyle’s hand and walked outside. He unlocked the van and slid open the side door. “We were being followed. Figured we’d switch things up.”
Kyle stepped inside, eyes scanning the setup. “This is…actually nice.”
“Thought we’d keep it low-key,” Benson said. “Not many stops left. Just wanted to make sure we weren’t dragging a target behind us.”
Kyle nodded slowly, settling into the passenger seat. “Smart.”
Benson started the engine, the van purring to life. Outside, the Flagstaff lights blurred into the night. Inside, it felt like a small, quiet world of their own.
The van rolled out of the rink’s parking lot, tires crunching over patches of ice crusted along the edges. Kyle had kicked off his shoes and was now curled sideways in the passenger seat, one leg tucked under him, sipping the last of his beer from the bottle. Benson kept his eyes on the road, but his mind was chewing on the tail they’d picked up two days ago.
He hadn’t told Kyle everything. Not yet.
Kyle glanced over. “You think it was someone from New York?”
Benson shrugged, but his grip on the wheel tightened. “Could be. Or someone who wants us to think you’re being watched.”
Truth was, Benson didn’t know. The car had been subtle—never too close, never too obvious. But it was the same make, same dent on the rear bumper, same lazy way it hung back just far enough to be forgettable. Benson had spent too many years learning how to spot the things people didn’t want you to notice.
He glanced at Kyle, who was now fiddling with the heater dial. Kyle had a way of making things feel lighter than they were.Benson appreciated that. But he also knew Kyle wasn’t naïve—just good at pretending things didn’t rattle him.
“Are you sure switching to the van’s enough?” Kyle asked.
Benson hesitated. “It’s not about being sure. It’s about making it harder for them to be sure.”
Kyle nodded slowly, then leaned his head against the window. “You ever get tired of looking over your shoulder?”
Benson didn’t answer right away. He watched the road stretch out ahead—dark, quiet, lined with pine trees that looked like shadows stacked on shadows. He thought about the presents in the back, the ones they’d deliver in California. Thought about the names on the tags. Thought about how many people had no idea what kind of weight their gifts were riding with.
“Sometimes,” he said finally. “But I’d rather be tired than caught off guard.”
“It’s all my fault for stealing,” Kyle finally admitted.
“You returned it. We’re going to be one step ahead of them. I’m not tired of protecting you. I want to do that for you. For us.”
Inside the van, the heater hummed low, and the air smelled faintly of cedar and old upholstery. Benson had picked this one for a reason—no GPS, no flashy tech, just a reliable engine and a layout that felt like a small cabin on wheels. The back bench could fold down into a bed, and there was a stash of granola bars and instant coffee tucked into the cabinet. He’d even thrown in a couple of books, though he doubted either of them would be in the mood to read.
Kyle stretched, then turned to face him. “So what’s next?”
