The Rule of One (The Rule of One #1)(41)

I wish I could put myself back together so easily.

A hot rush of panic suddenly threatens to take over my body. Wedged tight in the single cab seat between Mira and Kipling, I squeeze my knees together and count the insects that hurtle to their death against the windshield. Five . . . eight . . . ten . . .

I remember the symptoms of an oncoming panic attack from my studies at school. Sweating, chest pain, heart palpitations, nausea, and shortness of breath can all mimic a heart attack. I try to take deep calming breaths, but I can’t. It’s like those hostile hands are trapped inside my lungs, suffocating me. I’m overwhelmed with the fear I’ll never be able to breathe without the touch of those calloused hands again.

A dead man’s hands.

Sixteen . . . twenty . . .

I turn my focus away from the suicidal bugs when Kipling begins to softly sing aloud. His voice is full of heartache and twang and works as a balm against my secret red-hot wounds.

Look at our photograph of’en,

the one from the night we firs’ became lovers.

Keep it in the pocket ’gainst yer chest,

so it can seep into yer wounded heart.

Lemme dance there from time t’ time,

’cause I still remember how nothin’ mattered

when you had yer arms wrapped round me.

I promise t’ make it a slow one.

Underneath his worn ten-gallon hat and rugged exterior, a playful smile tugs at Kipling’s eyes, like he can see something in the distance that is hidden from me.

“Where exactly are you taking us?” I ask.

Mira shifts her gaze from the barren desert floor that races past the window to the maverick cowboy at the wheel. I note how much only three days on the road have hardened her. All the innate softness in her nature is now buried somewhere deep inside or gone forever.

Kipling lifts his right shoulder in a shrug, and his smile spreads from his eyes to his lips.

“Well, it ain’t exactly on a map.”

Mira and I exchange a sidelong glance just as the shabby truck veers wildly off road and into the open desert, our bodies slamming hard into the passenger window.

“That’s why you wear your seat belts,” Kipling says, chuckling to himself.

I wish I shared his humor.

All at once the flat land drops into a massive canyon, and my mouth falls open in wonder.

Wind, water, and time have painted perfect layers of red, white, and soft pinks into the ancient rock. The sheer canyon walls plummet hundreds of feet to the valley floor, dazzling me with nature’s vitality. There’s green in every hue imaginable: forest green in the scale-like leaves of the juniper trees, patches of kelly-green grass, pure jade in some species of subshrub, and the surprisingly bright emerald green of the familiar prickly pear cactus.

I’m drawn away from the picturesque view when Kipling stops the truck. He steps out and invites Mira and me to follow him.

“It’s a bit of a hike, but somethin’ tells me ya’ll are used to walkin’.”

We trek for a mile before I spot a curious rock formation ahead. A tall, thin rock shaped like a steeple juts out from the ground with a larger, heavier rock balanced on top.

“Fascinating, ain’t it? They’re called hoodoos,” Kipling explains. He turns to point out the toadstool-shaped arrangement to Mira.

She nods but doesn’t engage in conversation. She just keeps walking and I walk with her, never letting her get too far away from me. But Kipling isn’t following, and I turn to see him standing in front of the dark mouth of a cave.

The hoodoo is a marker.

I didn’t see it before, a trick of the eye with shadows or angles, but now that it’s been revealed to me, the elusive entrance is clear and unmistakable.

Kipling beckons to us before disappearing into the veil of darkness. Mira and I cautiously follow, inching our way into the opening.

Four steps in, pitch black fills my vision. The sun—only minutes ago a nuisance—cannot reach its light this far into the cliffside chamber. I sense open space surrounding me and detect the scents of sweat and musty, damp earth.

And rubber?

Work lamps turn on in unison throughout the cave, revealing the mystery: automobiles.

Mira and I each release a small, breathy noise of astonishment. Half a dozen different makes and models, some of which appear to be barely more than scrap metal, but others look like highly valuable vintage cars. It’s as if we’ve stumbled into a version of King Tut’s tomb.

“Where did all of these come from?” I murmur, keeping my voice low in fear I’ll unleash the mummy’s curse.

“I build ’em. With no horses, a cowboy has to have somethin’ to ride.” He winks good-naturedly and leads us to the back of the cave.

I spare a glance at the rocks that hang like sharp brown icicles from the ceiling and motion Mira ahead of me, lost in speculation. How does a man in the middle of the desert have all these cars? Especially the foreign models. Even if he did build them himself, where was he able to acquire such rare overseas parts? I carefully eye the cowboy walking in front of me, his stride sure and cheerful.

Kipling must be a dealer on the black market. Maybe the names on Father’s map are all part of some interconnected underground network, and they sell illegal goods to fund their interests, interests that I’d bet include more than just smuggling people across the States. Was Father somehow involved with this group, or did he simply know this network could lead us to safety?