Walk The Edge (Thunder Road #2)(65)

She squishes her lips to the side as she fiddles with the zipper of her pack. “I was curious if time travel was possible. Stupid, I know, but it was either that or redoing a crossword puzzle I had already done, which doesn’t help much with the itch in my brain.”

“Why time travel?”

She tilts her head as if I should already know and my gut twists.

“Do you wish you never met me?” I ask.

“No,” she rushes out. “Not at all. It’s Kyle I’d like to dissect from my life.”

The peace she always brings unbalances me. I settle my hand over hers, which is fidgeting with the bag. “I’m glad we met, too.”

I look into her eyes for one second. Another. Breanna’s searching my face longer than anyone I have known and it’s not for a battle of dominance. It’s as if she honestly likes what she sees. I hope she finds something redeemable in me, because I like what I see in her.

A thump. Breanna jumps and withdraws her hand from mine. I stand and survey the area. Someone must have dropped a book a few rows over. I’m stupid for letting down my guard in public. There’s a reason why I sought her out so early. “Kyle’s been busy on his phone.”

Breanna beams. “And?”

“I found your picture on his cell, his home computer, and I’ve figured out four of the five people in his group.” It helped that I knew two names instead of one.

She blows out a breath and her shoulders relax. “All of this from one computer virus.”

I nod. Pigpen taught me how to upload code from the internet and how to get it on people’s computers and phones so I have a back door to their network. So far, the code he sent me is complete magic.

Words to live by: never use public Wi-Fi. Protecting our clients means discovering who is after them and almost everyone leaves a digital trail for someone savvy enough to follow.

“You keep surprising me,” she says.

It’s nice to prove to Breanna that I also have a few smart tricks up my sleeve.

“What about the fifth person?” she asks as she stands. “And are you sure you have the correct three other people and can you delete the pictures without them knowing and how will you know you get them all and what if they find out and...”

The bell rings and I risk touching her as I lay one finger over her soft lips. She goes absolutely still and it takes massive amounts of self-control not to tunnel my fingers in her hair and press my mouth to hers.

“Breanna?” I say, and it comes out much lower than I had intended.

She licks her lips. My eyes briefly shut as her warm tongue grazes my finger. She turns red and I’m haunted by images of her doing that again, but on purpose and slower. I clear my throat and continue, “Trust me.”

I lower my hand and she breathes out, “I can do that.”



Breanna: What if this first one isn’t a code? What if it’s the cipher?

I lean against the seat of my motorcycle parked on the side of the road. Next to me is a stranded semitruck full of fine Kentucky bourbon. It’s a cold autumn night, which means this winter is going to be a bitch. My cut is on over my zipped-up leather jacket. My fingers are numb as I discarded my gloves so I could text with Breanna.

In the past month, on this same road in the mountains of the Tennessee/North Carolina border, three other rigs not under Terror Security have met the same fate of two blown tires. Those trucks were jacked of their cargo at gunpoint while the driver had been fixing the problem.

With the black night surrounding us and the occasional flash of headlights from passing cars, there’s an eerie sensation to this scenario. My neck itches, like there’s a scope of a high-powered rifle trained on me.

Me: Cipher?

Breanna: The key to the lock. I’m going to take a look at the second code and see what I can do with that and let my mind play on the idea of the other code being a cipher.

This is the first night in two weeks Breanna and I haven’t talked on the phone. I even called last weekend when I was on break, but there’s tension in the air tonight. The foreboding feeling of everything going to hell in a matter of seconds.

Me: Sounds like a plan. Gotta go. Break’s up.

Breanna: Be safe.

Be safe... I can hear her gentle voice saying the words and it wraps around my bones like a caress. Damn, this girl has me tied in knots.

Off in the trees crickets chirp, and to my right Eli and Pigpen scan the area with their backs toward the driver who’s repairing the tire. Pigpen has his fingers on the piece strapped to his side. Eli’s hand rests on the gun holstered to his back. Man O’ War is up near the front of the rig. We’re rotating watch every ten minutes to stay alert.

Am I safe? No. None of us believe we’re safe. We’re on borrowed time until someone strikes. When I explained to Breanna what I do part-time for the security company, her forehead wrinkled and she fell silent. I never miss how her eyes linger on the patch on my cut that informs law enforcement that I carry a weapon.

The patch is there as a warning to anyone who wants to f*ck with me and it’s a calling card to police that I’m legal and papered up on my weapon and that I won’t draw unless someone tries to shoot me first.

It’s hard to witness Breanna’s struggles not to ask the million questions forming in her head or accept when I won’t answer. Some days, I think we’ll make it. Other days, I’m not sure.