What Doesn't Kill Her (Cape Charade #2)(40)
Rae looked longingly over the edge of the rocks. “They have food.”
“Rae, I mean it.” Kellen used her Army-command voice. At least, she thought she had, but this time it sounded a little different. Oh, hell. It was a mother-command voice. She didn’t even know she had it in her. “I’m almost ready.”
Rae put her back against the rock, slid down onto her bottom, crossed her arms and sulked.
Kellen wrapped the head in the sleeping bag and attached it to the backpack, and as she did, she said softly, “Rae, please remember we’re secret superheroes and we don’t want to tell any of the bikers what we’re doing up here or what has happened to us. If Mommy says something that’s not quite true, that’s okay. Okay?”
Rae still sulked.
Kellen knelt down beside her and lifted her chin until Rae looked at her. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
Kellen gave her a quick kiss, then stood and pulled on the backpack. To the bikers, she said, “I’m coming down now.” Best not to make any unexpected moves around these folks. She jumped down into their midst. “Come on, honey.”
Rae bobbed up, sulk forgotten, beaming with the joy at the prospect of meeting the bikers and cajoling her second breakfast out of them. Kellen lifted her arms and caught Rae when she jumped and staggered backward.
Rae focused right on the muscular guy with the wrench in his hand. “He’s eating granola.”
Subtle. Kellen brushed Rae’s hair off her forehead. In her most cheerful voice, she said, “I know! But we had breakfast already. Remember?”
“I’m hungry!”
The guy stopped eating and, guilty and undecided, looked at his bag of granola.
Kellen turned to Roberts—
ROBERTS:
FEMALE, CAUCASIAN ANCESTRY (ASSUMED), LATE 30S, 5'3", 100 LBS. BROWN HAIR, HAZEL EYES, FAIR SKIN. COMPETENT, WATCHFUL, INTERESTED.
—who was stripping her tire from the rim and replacing it with an undamaged tire. “I can’t believe she eats so much.”
Roberts grinned. “I’ve got twins about her age. Some days they eat nothing, but most days... Growing kids need a lot of calories.” She pulled a bag of dried apricots out of her pocket. “We do this every year. We always bring too much. Give her these.”
Kellen called Rae over and handed her six apricots.
She was already eating the baggie of granola. Not even Mr. Tool-as-a-Weapon was proof against her wiles. “Thank you, Mommy. Mr. Durant gave me this. He wants me to call him Brad. Did this nice lady give these to us?”
“She did. Her name is Mrs. Roberts.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Roberts! Can you change your tire all by yourself?”
Roberts grinned at her enthusiasm. “When you’re mountain biking, you have to be able to do everything all by yourself.”
“Can I watch you?” Rae settled down to eat and observe.
Kellen eased back a step.
“Where are you headed?” One of the guys squatted on his haunches against a tree and the way he acted, as if he had the right to know, raised her hackles.
But the general attitude here was suspicion, and she needed these people. She needed the protection of a large group, and if she could somehow wrangle transportation to safety...to the Restorer... She stuck out her hand. “I’m Kellen Adams. You are...?”
“Wade McNomara.”
WADE MCNOMARA:
MALE, ASIAN ANCESTRY/IRISH SURNAME (INTERESTING), 50 YO, 5'8", SO SKINNY NO ONE WOULD USE HIS DRUMSTICKS TO MAKE SOUP. NOT THE LEADER. UNFRIENDLY.
He lifted his index finger and waved it in a circle. “I’m the founder of the Cyclomaniacs.”
“Cute name. We’re headed to the lookout on top of Horizon Ridge.”
Wade moved from foot to foot. “You don’t want to do that. That guy up there—Zone.”
“Zone? His name is Zone?”
“That’s the least of it. He’s weird. He’s crazy.”
“That’s reassuring.” She needed the information, so she squatted against another tree. “What’s wrong with him?”
“His family owned Horizon Ridge way back in the day. It’s an extinct volcano, above the tree line, and you can see forever up there. Even standing on the ground, it’s amazing, and I’ve heard in the tower the view is west to the ocean and south and east for miles. When World War II rolled around, the federal government wanted to build a lookout up there, and Zone’s great-grandfather was a shrewd old bastard with good contacts. Somehow he made them agree that if he built the lookout, his family had the right to live there in perpetuity.”
“What’s wrong with this Zone person living there? Sounds okay, if he has the right.”
“You know how it is. When you’re in the mountains, everyone helps each other and if you visit one of the National Forest lookouts, you can go up and take photos. If there’s a ranger they’ll show you around, and sometimes you can rent the place for a night or a week.”
Kellen didn’t know that. Her previous experience with the mountains was of civil war in Afghanistan. And this experience, in the Olympics, had been unrelenting terror driven by the hope of escape. But she said, “Sure.”
“Zone is hostile.”
That’s the pot calling the kettle black.
“A loner. Barricades himself in. Two years ago, I took the Cyclomaniacs there. He came out on the deck with a shotgun.”