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THE STORM SHELTER’S decaying door creaked slightly as it swung open. To the frayed nerves of the quartette hiding below, it reverberated like a gunshot. The moon hovered above the horizon, bathing the derelict farm in its cold and unblinking light.
Stephen remained at his sentry post at the top of the musty stairs for the duration of their refuge. But when the time for departure came, Don insisted on taking the first cautious step outside.
There’d been no signs of pursuit this far, but remaining inactive for several hours put all their nerves on edge. Somewhere, a Tracker was in operation. Staying in one place too long was only asking for trouble. Waiting for sunset had been hard.
They left the abandoned farmyard much as they’d found it, save for the truck hidden in the barn, and made their way under cover of darkness toward the nearby hamlet. Amos knew, as did Don and probably Sheila, of the small town awaiting them—a temporary stop-over before they’d have to move on again.
They moved through the brush as a practiced team, speed and stealth in perfect balance. The lights of the town could be seen at intervals, winking through the dark underbrush, beckoning them onward.
Amos took a deep breath, one hand cupped over his bandaged ribs. The stitch in his side only added to his discomfort. He understood their need for haste, but Don was setting a demanding pace in defiance of the rugged terrain.
Almost as if he could read his thoughts, Don signaled for a rest halt. Amos crouched down, thankful for the respite.
He resisted the temptation to check on his bandage. He knew, deep down, there was no need—he was only trying to distract himself. He was still ashamed by his reckless use of the scanner from the dead Tracker, without Doc’s knowledge or expertise. His impulsive actions had betrayed their Hub’s location, leading to the assault on the Mission.
His audacious decision to remove the hated Implant, without knowing what effect it might have, was indefensible in hindsight. To compound his growing list of trespasses, he’d left it hidden in the hills several kilometers back.
His hastily concocted strategy, as reasonable as it seemed in the moment, was little more than one bad decision compounding the next.
Yeah, you’re a real pro. His inner voice seized on his pessimistic thoughts, scoffing. Hey, everybody, you can trust Amos. There’s a least a chance he won’t get you killed.
Amos felt his jaw clench as he tried to bury the accusing voice. Stay focused. The hunt is on again. Remember the Tracker at the checkpoint?
It was impossible to know, of course, what the Tracker was doing now. Or where.
True, it hadn’t scanned him at the checkpoint, although even at the time, Amos couldn’t be sure if his Implant’s removal would guarantee his safety. Or the safety of the others with him.
We’ve learned one thing, at least. It’s the Implants they’re scanning for.
Don changed his crouching position, rising to his knees and lifting a closed fist to signal his companions. He was big and brutishly strong, yet he moved with the grace and agility of dancer.
Or a ninja, given how lethal he is when it’s needed. Intelligent, articulate, and disarmingly composed, Don was an asset who’d proved his worth many times over.
Amos felt, rather than heard, Sheila and Stephen flanking him. As one, they waited, silent and motionless, while Don continued to peer ahead through the underbrush, aided by the uncaring light of the moon.
Satisfied, Don signaled a second time with a jerk of his head, and they resumed their stealthy advance. They were near the outskirts of the little town.
They could expect nothing more than a tiny stop-over, a temporary respite. This backwater burg was simply too small, too isolated, to house a properly-equipped Hub. But Don had a goal in mind. He was leading them to a safe place. At least, safe for a few more hours.
We’ll be able to send a message, warning the other Hubs. Amos took some solace in that. The thought did little to assuage his guilt.