Winter, White and Wicked - Shannon Dittemore Page 0,86

petrol and then toss the empty cans into a dark corner, my breathing heavy and uncomfortable. One hand on each handlebar, I steer the bike behind a decaying stack of crates and park it. Carefully, carefully, I open the cage doors and turn back for the bike.

“Is that petrol?” Hyla asks.

I jump, turn toward her, do everything in my power not to let my gaze drift to the bike tucked just feet from where she stands. The crates block her view, but it wouldn’t take more than a shift in her stance to catch sight of the bike.

“Looks like it.”

“It’s a rebel stash,” Mars says, suddenly behind Hyla, his strength clearly returned, his eyes dark—though the dim lighting inside the mine is not quite sufficient enough for me to know if the kol has entirely replenished itself inside his bloodstream.

“Fuel and supplies hidden all over the mountains,” Mars says. “We don’t need it, do we, Miss Quine?”

“We don’t,” I say. “The Dragon has a reserve tank if need be, but we could circle the Desolation with what’s left in her primary tank now.”

“Good, then,” he says, his gaze expectant.

I twist my fingers into the grate and I pull, shutting the cage and leaving the ice bike so poorly hidden I’m embarrassed by my efforts.

“Put my crew to work, Miss Quine,” Mars says. “Let’s get your rig into shape before we lose the day.”

Kyn’s crawling out from beneath the rig now, blowtorch in hand.

“Miss Quine?”

I tear my eyes from Kyn. “The tank tread needs to be inspected and the windows sealed up with plastic. There are rolls of it here,” I say, pointing to the opposite wall. “It’s probably best if we just weld the doors shut for the stretch along the Seacliff Road. We need to keep as much kol out of the cab as we can. There’s welding equipment over there—I saw it when we pulled in.”

I lead them away from the cage, away from the crates and the hidden bike. I lead them away from the discarded hatch that will have to be replaced discreetly if I can’t get out of here in the next minute or two.

How? How? How do I get out of here?

“Here, Sessa.” Hyla places the eyebolt in my hand. “I could only find one.”

My fingers close over the bolt, the smell of fuel wafting up to my nose. I smell like a tanker.

“How did you spill petrol on yourself, Miss Quine?”

“The knob on the blowtorch leaks,” I say. “I’m sure Kyn’s hands smell the same.”

I don’t meet Kyn’s eyes. I don’t grimace when he sniffs at his hands. I just squat and start sorting through the welding equipment—giving instructions and then standing to leave. It’s a two-person job, the welding—Hyla and Kyn have it covered. I move away and Mars follows.

He needs a job, an assignment, a task. There’s so much to be done to the rig, so much that could be done, so many things I could ask him to do, but my mind is with the seatless bike behind the crates, with the scorched paint on the back of the cab, with the discarded hatch that someone will surely notice before long.

“Mars,” I begin, not knowing what to ask of him, “it would be helpful if you could—”

“I’ve a job to do that I need to undertake alone,” he says, zipping his jacket closed. “I won’t be long.”

He’s already gone, his back to me, turning into a silhouette as he strides toward the mine entrance.

I run then, to the driver’s side of the Dragon, up onto the broken running board and into the cab. Both my knees in the seat, I grip the headrest with two hands and I pull. Three clicks and it’s detached. Two bars protrude from the seat rest. I twist them one by one and they fall away. I leave them where they drop and climb across to the passenger side and out that door.

“What’s this?” Kyn asks as I drop in front of him. He has the hatch in his hand, the hatch I’d propped against the trailer. His thumb rolls over the puckered paint hardening where it had scalded away.

“I’m taking care of that,” I say, rounding him, my arm grazing his.

“Sylvi . . .” he says, his eyes wide and far too knowing. “What’s in your hand? Are you—”

“Here,” I say, passing him the flint striker.

And I’m running now, the headrest in my hand. As I run, my fingers fumble with the leather, stripping