Cane's POV
The woods weren't friendly. They were wet and thick, smelling of rotting leaves and cold dirt. Every twig I stepped on sounded like a gunshot to my ears. Henry moved ahead of me. He didn't move like an old man. He moved like part of the forest. A quiet shift of shadow. I tried to copy him, but my body was too loud. My heart was beating in my throat, not my chest.
The little red dot on the phone had stopped blinking out here, in the middle of nowhere. We'd left the van a mile back and followed the signal on foot until we hit a fancy private road. A big iron gate with cameras that slowly turned, looking for trouble. We weren't that stupid. We turned back into the trees and started to circle.
It took forever. My legs burned. The cut on my temple from the boat blast throbbed with every step. We climbed a steep, muddy ridge, grabbing at roots to pull ourselves up. When we got to the top, we lay flat in the wet leaves.
