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.
“Am I really that clumsy?” I ask.
The leader leans down toward me so that we’re eye to eye. “Actually, no. Our guards didn’t see you, and they were under orders to be on the lookout for you. Not bad, overall.” There’s approval in his voice.
Raffe makes a low sound in his throat that reminds me of a dog’s growl.
“You knew I was here?” I ask.
The guy stands straight again. The moonlight isn’t bright enough to show me details of what he looks like, but he’s tall and broad-shouldered. His hair is military short, making Raffe’s hair look ragged and disreputable by comparison. His profile is clean, the lines of his face sharp and defined.
He nods. “We didn’t know for sure, but the gear in his bag looked like half the supplies that a pair might carry. He has a camping stove but no matches, no pots or pans. He has two bowls, two spoons. Stuff like that. We figured someone else was carrying the matching half of the supplies. Although, frankly, I wasn’t expecting a rescue attempt. And certainly not from a girl. No offense meant. I’ve always been a modern guy.” He shrugs. “But times have changed. And we are a camp full of men.” He shrugs again. “That takes guts. Or desperation.”