I reach the first safe house in just over three days.
I’m cutting through known highwaymen territory, running on adrenalin rather than sleep. My entire body feels battered, and my rib throbs incessantly no matter how tightly I wrap it. Every few miles, I have to stop, drag in some much needed deep breaths, and focus on getting the pain under control so I can continue. Twice, I’ve slept for a handful of hours, only to wake on the heels of terrifying dreams with a sense of dread churning through my system.
The pain refuses to relinquish its hold on me even during sleep, but I can’t afford to give in to it. Guards will be on my trail. Maybe trackers as well, if any of them have returned to Baalboden since I left. The Commander won’t sit idly by and wait for Melkin to succeed. He’ll have an insurance policy in the works.
I just have to stay one step ahead.
I skirt the safe house, an ivy-covered once-white structure, and search for signs of life before leaving the cover of the trees. I don’t find life, but death is waiting for me near the edge of the property. Two guards lie on the ground, the bones of their faces nearly picked clean by scavengers but the mark of Baalboden still clear on their uniforms. A small puncture wound rests over their hearts.
They were murdered efficiently, and the ramifications chill me to the core. A professional did this. Someone who knew how to kill with neat, deadly precision.
This isn’t Melkin’s handiwork. He’s a tracker, but, as Eloise so desperately pointed out, he isn’t a killer. He wouldn’t know how to drop a man before he had a chance to see death approach.
It isn’t Rachel’s handiwork either. I’m not sure if she’s become a killer yet. But rage fuels her and these kills contain less emotion than the soil on which the men fell.
Someone else is tracking the package. Closing in on Rachel and Melkin. Once he reaches his objective, their lives won’t be worth more than those of the two poor souls lying at my feet.
Panic eats at me when I consider the possibility that the tracker has already found Rachel and Melkin, and their bodies wait somewhere on the forest floor for me to stumble upon as well.
Scrapping my plan to take a few hours of rest, I approach the house and type in the code for the padlock. Just inside the door, recent footsteps mar the dust. I bend to examine them. One of the boot prints is Rachel’s. One is large enough to be Melkin’s. And one, already coated in a thin sheen of dust, is Jared’s. If Jared was here within the last few weeks, it’s possible he’s waiting for Rachel at the second safe house. If so, he’ll protect her from Melkin until I get there.
The possibility is real, but the weight of responsibility refuses to lift from my shoulders. I can’t put any hope in possibilities. I have to contend with reality, and the reality is that even if Melkin doesn’t try to kill Rachel, they have an assassin on their trail, and he won’t hesitate to murder them both once they have the package.
As I leave the footsteps behind and enter the kitchen to restock on fuel and food, fear wraps itself around me, whispering terrible things.
You’re too late.
Rachel can’t beat an assassin. He’ll stab her through the heart and leave her like she’s nothing. Less than nothing.
Unless Melkin kills her first.
You’ve lost all the family you ever had because you’re too late.
Too late.
The kitchen is a mess. Supplies are ripped out of cupboards and strewn across grimy countertops. The remains of a mostly uneaten dinner lie on the kitchen table. Fear sinks into my heart and refuses to let go.
They left in a hurry. They left on the run.
I have to believe they’ve continued to outwit the assassin on their trail. Any other thought threatens to compromise my ability to plan ahead. Forcing the fear into a distant corner of my mind, I rewrap my ribcage and stuff additional supplies in my pack.
I need to rest, but I can’t. Every second I lose is another second Rachel comes closer to death.
Instead, I quickly eat a decent meal, drink my fill of water, and swallow a small pinch of pain medicine. Locking the house behind me, I head south again, looking closely for a sign of someone following Melkin and Rachel.
It takes nearly four hours to find it, but I do. Near a small clearing where they stopped to eat, a man hunched down behind the thick cover of a flowering azalea bush. His boots dug into the dirt in a way that suggests he was leaning forward on his toes. I can’t distinguish enough of the sole to judge his height and weight, but the maker’s mark on the tip of his boot tells me one very important fact.
He’s from Rowansmark.
Once Rachel retrieves the package, she’s dead. If Melkin fails to kill her, this man will.
My body screams for rest. My head feels heavy and off-kilter. I draw in a deep breath, brace myself for the pain, and start running.
Mind over matter.
I can’t afford to let my body rule me now. I have an assassin to kill.