felt like she was peering at a glowing green world through a toilet paper roll. No wonder she was still tripping now and then. Grrr.
It was totally amazing. She could actually see even in this thick forest where the light of the moon barely penetrated.
After a few days of practice, she’d gotten a lot better. Her lips firmed. She needed to be perfect if she was going to lead Kit and Aric out of the compound in a week. Even with the awkward bolt cutters and gear going to the compound and Aric in a child carrier on her back on the way out, she’d have to be fast and silent.
But things were coming together…and, to her surprise, she’d come to love the quiet of the deep forest, the tiny rustles of animals, the smell of evergreens, the patterns of light and shadow. There was a kind of peace here she’d never found anywhere else.
It would have been even better if her hikes had nothing to do with the fanatic cult members.
Yesterday, when she’d parked near Chevy’s cabin, she’d had a chance to ask Tina if she should worry about running into PZs if she was there at night.
To Frankie’s relief, the Zealots patrolled their perimeters during the day, never after dark. Which meant less chance of getting caught when Kit and Aric came through the fence.
Having learned a painful lesson about getting too close to the compound, Frankie had been extremely careful to stay out of sight.
Tomorrow, she’d do another daytime hike to the compound and this time would mark the trail with the transparent reflective paint. She’d tested a couple of spots here in the park—it made a glowing white blotch when she was using the NVM—and was invisible during daylight. If the PZs weren’t out there at night, they’d never see the paint.
In the center of the woods, she grinned and did a quick happy dance.
Then froze. What was that?
Yelling, hoots…and gunfire. Still, it didn’t seem too close, and the shouts sounded like a bunch of drunks having a good time. Well, it was Saturday night.
She made one more circuit inside the woods, this time striving for both grace—ha!—and silence.
Good job, Frankie.
A glance at her phone—using the unaided eye—showed she needed to leave. The roadhouse would be closed, and Bull would be coming to pick her up soon. After stowing everything in her small backpack, she jogged down the wide gravel trail toward home.
Almost there, she slowed at the sound of shouting.
Outside of the end cabin, several men were throwing their luggage into two vehicles while someone yelled at them.
After a second, she recognized Dante’s voice. “Don’t need no drugged-up assholes shootin’ up the area. The cost of repairing the windows and doors and picnic tables will be on your credit cards, and you’ll damn well pay the bill, or I’ll send the police to collect.”
“You’ll regret throwing us out, you bastard,” one yelled back.
“Fucking old fart,” one man said to another. “Send the fucking police, see if we care.” Steel from the man’s numerous piercings glinted in the lights from the cabin.
Frankie shook her head and decided to stay inside the shelter of the trees until they were gone. Even from here, the men appeared violent. Dante apparently felt the same since his shotgun stayed on target the entire time.
She frowned and hoped it hadn’t been her windows that’d been shot out.
Chapter Seventeen
It is necessary for us to learn from others’ mistakes. You will not live long enough to make them all yourself. ~ ADM Hyman G. Rickover, US Navy
Frankie hadn’t been manager for quite a week yet, but she already loved it.
On Tuesday night, she strolled through the restaurant section of the roadhouse, checking that the hostess was equitably seating people so no server got overloaded, the busser was speedy and thorough in cleaning off tables, glasses were kept filled, food was served promptly when up. And the customers were smiling. Definitely that.
She still couldn’t believe Bull had given her the position, despite knowing she would return to New York.
And would leave him. She didn’t want to. Just…didn’t. Not see him every day? Not be able to curl up against him in the night? Or hear his lower-than-low voice when he teased her during their sparring sessions? She wasn’t sure she could bear it.
On top of that…the thought of returning to Bocelli’s made her stomach churn like she’d been drinking battery acid.
The atmosphere here was everything that the Bocelli Agency wasn’t. Sure, she had to