sex-pod, a rifle with only two bullets would be pretty damn useless, considering she’d be trapped down here, with surrender as the only feasible option.
Whereas Thomas—who would be flitting invisibly through the forest like a good Navy SEAL—had the skills to use one of their two precious bullets and then immediately vanish without a trace.
He’d left the pod with the rifle in hand.
Since then, Tash had spent about an hour, off and on, attempting to dry her still-damp jeans and Thomas’s pink sweatshirt with the hair dryer she’d found in the bathroom. It was working, but slowly, especially along the seams, waistband, and zipper of the jeans, forget about those ridiculous faux front pockets.
Of course, she had plenty of time. Thomas told her he expected his jaunt to the extraction point and back would take at least two hours.
His thin flannel PJ pants had dried nicely in the night, and there’d been a pair of raincoats—one bright orange, the other a slightly less neon blue—in this very utility room, hanging near a collection of umbrellas and flashlights. It was clearly gear both Teds had acquired in the event that it started to rain while they were... rendezvousing. It would allow the rendezvousers to get back into the ski lodge without getting their clothes completely drenched, which would spark hard questions.
What were you and your... guest... doing out in the rain without a jacket or umbrella, Prince Tedric?
We were just playing a game of rummy in my super-secret sex-pod, no biggie.
Thanks to the Teds’ forethought about rainwear, Thomas had worn the blue raincoat with his red plaid pants, while Tash had immediately pulled his bathrobe on over hers—and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, to boot.
Now she took several heavy boxes of ammo from the drawer, brought them into the living room, and put them on the coffee table. Her stomach growled, but she’d already had a bowl of oatmeal for her “modest” breakfast—and she didn’t want to have anything more until Thomas returned with news of their impending rescue.
Or with their rescuers from SEAL Team Ten in tow. Please God.
She headed back toward the bathroom to do another round with the hairdryer, hoping that the weird feeling she’d picked up from Thomas last night was just more awkwardness instead of some kind of Navy SEAL sixth sense that something out in the world had gone seriously wrong.
Night came and went. Morning was blazing, and Dave’s loser ex still hadn’t checked in.
Rio was starting to hope that the guy wasn’t texting back because he really was dead.
They’d blown past the two-thirds done point—stopping only for gas—with somewhere between ten and twelve hours left to drive.
Dave was behind the wheel while Rio was trying—and failing—to sleep. He was tired but extra-wired, which was a bad combo for him. The good thing was he knew that about himself, so instead of feeling frustrated, he was already resigned to simply resting. He was doing his four-hundred and seventy-eighth round of square breathing, when their electronics started alerting.
But it wasn’t Loser Jon—it was a text from Admiral Francisco. Rio sat up fast.
The vehicle’s text-reader bonged once, which was its way of clearing its computer-throat.
“Infrared SAT images being transmitted in all formats,” it read the admiral’s message in its soothing voice. “Acknowledge receipt.”
Rio checked for attachments, checked their email. “Negative,” he said aloud for Dave to hear, as he sent the message back in an easier-to-transmit text. “Nothing yet.”
The text-reader didn’t convey the admiral’s heavy sigh of frustration, but Rio knew it was there as it recited, “Photos are from last night, around 2100 local time. Human heat signatures suggest between eight to ten unidentifieds near the damaged SUV, another half-dozen in the area surrounding the former ski lodge, with five more at what looks to be a base camp with a cabin, thirty clicks down the main mountain road.”
There was a pause, then, “No obvious sign of T ampersand K.”
T amper...? T and K. “Tasha and King,” Rio translated.
“That’s not good,” Dave voiced what they all were thinking. They’d hoped to see an unmistakable cluster of two isolated human heat sources, hidden well away from any potential groups of hostiles.
“They could be with one of the clusters of unidentifieds,” Rio pointed out.
“That’s not good, either.”
But it was better than the alternative—that Thomas and Tasha had died in that car wreck.
Any intel on who the un-IDs might be? Rio texted back to the admiral, but—“Shit!”—the message didn’t go through.