“Because,” Thomas said, glancing nervously toward the front window, “they finally found me. The people I’ve been running from. And I finally decided I was done hiding in the woods like a ghost.”
Suddenly, outside, a dry branch cracked with the sharp report of a rifle shot.
Marcus, who had been leaning quietly against the doorframe, immediately spun around, his hand flying to the handle of his knife.
Thomas's entire posture changed instantly. The weary, broken old man vanished, replaced by the hardened soldier Ray remembered. He stood up, kicking his chair back, his eyes darting to the window.
“Did anyone follow you up the trail?” Thomas demanded, his voice tight.
“No,” Ray said automatically.
Thomas moved swiftly to the fireplace, reaching his hand up into the dark soot of the chimney and pulling down a heavy, dull black Glock 19. He racked the slide with a terrifying familiarity.
“Are you sure?” Thomas asked, his eyes locked on Ray.
Ray froze. He thought of the massive crowd at the crossing. The frantic teenagers with their cell phones recording the train. The local deputies arriving just as they slipped into the woods. He and Marcus were two large bikers tromping through a mountain trail. Anyone watching the highway with binoculars could have seen exactly which direction they walked.
“Hell,” Marcus whispered from the window, peering through a crack in the blinds.
Thomas moved toward the window, hugging the wall.
Then he stopped.
Faint, sweeping beams of headlights appeared through the dense trees, cutting through the encroaching dusk.
A vehicle—something heavy, with a deep, rumbling diesel engine—was approaching the clearing with its headlights completely blacked out, using only infrared or faint running lights.
Ray felt the fragile, shocking reality he had just stepped into violently shift again beneath his feet.
Marcus looked toward the back door in the kitchen. “You expecting company, Tom?”
Thomas's face hardened into a mask of pure granite.
“No. My perimeter alarms didn’t trigger this time. They found the blind spots.”
The heavy vehicle stopped entirely, just beyond the tree line, remaining hidden in the deep shadows.
A heavy car door opened with a metallic click. And closed quietly.
Then another.
Thomas lunged back to the table, grabbed the thick manila envelope, and slammed it hard against Ray's chest.
“Take this. Put it in your cut. Now.”
Ray refused to move his hands to take it. He stared at Thomas.
“What the hell is inside it?”
“Everything I couldn't tell you twenty years ago. The names, the bank accounts, the supply logs. Proof of who ordered the hit on our squad to cover their tracks.”
“Thomas—”
Thomas gripped the lapels of Ray's leather vest with surprising, desperate strength, practically lifting Ray onto his toes.
“Hammer, listen to me! If you ever trusted me, if you ever loved me as a brother, trust me for five more minutes. Take the damn envelope.”
Ray looked deeply into his friend's weathered, exhausted face.
For the first time since entering the cabin, he saw something beyond guilt, beyond sorrow, beyond the weariness of a twenty-year exile.
He saw terror.
Not fear for himself. Thomas had clearly accepted his death a long time ago.
He saw absolute, paralyzing fear for Ray.
Thomas shoved the envelope into Ray's inside pocket, then pointed a trembling finger toward the dark hallway at the rear of the cabin.
“There is a root cellar under the kitchen floor. It connects to a drainage pipe that empties into a dry creek bed behind the cabin. It spits you out half a mile down, and there's a deer trail that reaches the county road two miles east. Take Marcus. Take the dog. Go.”