Page 19 of Buried Past (First in Line #3)

I ran through possibilities. Reading would pin us in place, silhouetted against windows. Cooking would create smoke and aromas that could be detected from a distance.

"Cards?" I suggested after spotting a deck on a bookshelf.

For the next two hours, we played poker with matchsticks for stakes, sitting at the table positioned away from direct sightlines but close enough to the window for periodic surveillance checks.

Matthew proved surprisingly skilled, while I struggled to maintain the casual facade of someone who'd learned the game in college dorms rather than Eastern European safehouses.

He won three hands out of five, his pile of matchsticks growing while mine dwindled. "You're counting cards," I accused him after he drew an inside straight.

"You're projecting. Bad poker players always assume good ones are cheating." He grinned and collected his winnings. "Besides, you've got tells."

"Such as?"

"You touch your collarbone when you're bluffing. Right here." He reached across the table and tapped the spot just below my throat. "Unconscious gesture, probably left over from some kind of stress response."

I looked down at my hand, which had indeed drifted toward the mentioned spot. "Operational security breach."

"Only if you're playing poker with people who want to hurt you." Matthew stared directly at me. "Are you? Playing poker with people who want to hurt you?"

"Not anymore. I'm playing poker with someone who's already seen the worst of me and hasn't run."

We played one more hand in comfortable silence before Matthew glanced at the clock and stretched, vertebrae popping like small firecrackers.

"Time to move."

I shouldered the canvas bag and took one last look around the cabin. Twelve hours ago, it had felt like a sanctuary. Now it was more like a waystation—a temporary shelter.

"Ready." I followed him toward the door while he checked the locks twice before stepping onto the covered porch.

Matthew's truck sat where we'd left it, raindrops beaded on the windshield and hood. I was three steps from the passenger door when I saw it.

"Wait." Matthew froze mid-stride. I pointed toward the tree line where the gravel road disappeared around a bend. "There."

A dark SUV idled in the shadows. No license plate visible from our angle, and windows tinted dark enough to hide occupants.

The SUV's engine revved once. Then it backed away from the treeline and disappeared around the bend, leaving only tire tracks in the mud and the lingering smell of exhaust.

I watched the empty space where it had been. "Time's running out."

Matthew gripped my shoulder. "Then we'd better move fast."

The truck's interior smelled like wet fabric and pine air freshener. Matthew turned the key, and the engine caught on the first try, settling into a reliable rumble.

Matthew put the truck in drive and pulled onto the forest road. "How long before they escalate?"

"Depends on their operational priorities." I adjusted the passenger mirror to watch the road behind us. "If we're their primary target, maybe hours. If we're secondary to whatever else they're running..." I shrugged. "Days, maybe weeks."

"And if we're lucky?"

"Luck's not a tactical consideration." I settled into my seat, checking my phone for the third time to confirm it was powered down. "But if we move fast enough, we might get ahead of their decision cycle."

Matthew accelerated slightly, the truck's engine note changing as we gained speed toward the main highway. "Marcus first and then dinner."

The truck carried us away from the cabin that had housed us for two nights, toward a gas station rendezvous that would hopefully expand our capabilities.

No more hiding. No more purely reactive responses. Time to see if Hoyle's organization was as invincible as they wanted us to believe.

Twenty minutes into the ride with only the road and the hum of the tires for company, I reached for the radio. "You mind?"

"Go for it." Static greeted us, and then a synth line.

It was "Say My Name" by Destiny's Child. I chuckled before I could stop myself.

Matthew glanced over. "What?"

"First CD I ever stole."

An eyebrow rose. "Stole?"

"Okay. Permanently borrowed. From my college roommate. Survivor album. Played it every night through a busted Walkman passed down from my uncle till the headphones cracked."

"Huh." He let that hang in the air, then added, "Figures."

"Figures?"

Matthew smiled. "You'd pick the one group whose whole message is: don't show weakness, just win."

"Damn right."

He smiled a little at the road, then said, "I was more of a gay heartbreak guy. Give me Jimmy Somerville's angst on the dance floor any day. Represent."

I blinked. "That sounds exhausting."

"It was. But it got me through."

I turned back toward the window. "I didn't need lyrics to understand me. I needed lyrics that reminded me how to stay upright."

A beat passed.

Matthew said quietly, "You don't always have to be upright now."

I didn't answer, but I didn't turn the radio off either.

The gas station materialized around a curve in the highway like something from a different decade—two pumps, a weathered building with hand-painted signs advertising live bait and hunting licenses, and a gravel lot pockmarked with potholes.

Perfect.

Matthew pulled up to the rear of the building, positioning the truck with its nose pointed toward the exit road. Through the rain-streaked windshield, I spotted Marcus's vehicle—a dark blue extended-cab pickup.

Two figures stood beside the truck. One was clearly Marcus. The family resemblance was apparent, with his arms crossed, watching our approach with patient attention.

Beside him, a man with sandy hair gestured with precise movements while speaking, expressive hands cutting through the air like he was explaining complex data to an invisible audience.

That had to be James, Marcus's partner. Seeing them together made their dynamic immediately clear. Marcus anchored himself in stillness while James moved with restless intellectual energy. I'd seen it in mission analysts—people who saw patterns where the rest of us saw noise.

Matthew killed the engine and reached for his door handle. "Remember—Marcus is direct. James sees patterns. Between them, they'll figure out more than you tell them."

"Copy that." I checked my jacket pockets, confirming the placement of identification documents and the burner phone. "How much do they need to know?"

"Everything that matters. Nothing that doesn't."

The rain began again, a gentle sprinkle, as we exited Matthew's truck. Marcus approached with measured steps. When he reached Matthew, he pulled him into a brief hug, genuine, but over quickly.

Marcus spoke much like Matthew but with an undertone of authority. "You look like hell. When's the last time you slept?"

"Last night. Some." Matthew gestured toward me. "Marcus, this is Dorian. Dorian, my brother Marcus. And James."

James stepped forward, chewing his lower lip briefly before extending his hand. "James Reynolds. His grip was firm.

I braced for interrogation. Questions about my background, my intentions, and my relationship with Matthew. The protective scrutiny that came with badges and academic credentials.

Instead, Marcus reached into his cab and emerged with a stainless steel thermos.

"Coffee. Real stuff, not gas station sludge.

" He offered it to me, and I accepted it with surprise.

The metal was warm against my palms, and when I unscrewed the cap, the aroma that escaped was rich enough to cut through the smell of gasoline and wet asphalt.

James tracked my movements as I took a sip—not suspicious, but observant, professional interest rather than personal judgment.

"You're riding with us." Marcus was already moving toward his driver's door. "Matthew, follow at the standard interval. We'll drop your truck at the usual place.

The usual place. Code between brothers, developed over decades of shared experience. I glanced at Matthew, who nodded once.

"See you in a few." Matthew squeezed my shoulder briefly before heading back to his truck.

Marcus's pickup was cleaner inside than out. He'd secured tactical gear in custom holders and mounted communication equipment within easy reach. James claimed the passenger seat, leaving me the jump seat behind them. As we pulled out of the gas station lot, James twisted around to face me.

"So." His hands moved as he spoke. "Matthew mentioned you're dealing with some complicated circumstances. Academic curiosity—what field of work puts someone in the crosshairs of professional surveillance?"

I sipped the coffee again, buying time to frame my response. "Information brokerage. Sometimes you learn things people would prefer stayed buried."

James's eyebrows rose slightly. "Corporate espionage?"

"Institutional. Humanitarian organizations with government contracts. They are places where legitimate operations intersect with less legitimate interests." I watched James's expression shift from curiosity to something sharper. "Pattern recognition becomes a survival skill in that environment."

"Ah." James turned back around. In the rearview mirror, I watched Matthew's headlights maintaining a precise interval.

Marcus joined the conversation. "How much trouble are we talking about?"

"The permanent kind. The sort that follows you across state lines and doesn't care about collateral damage." I leaned forward slightly. "Matthew's already at risk by association. You are, too, now."

Marcus nodded once and filed the information away. James drummed his fingers against his thigh.

"Resources?" Marcus asked.

"Limited. Some digital evidence, contacts who may or may not still be breathing, and whatever goodwill I can generate from people with reasons to distrust institutions." I took another sip of the coffee. "Not exactly overwhelming firepower."

"But you're not running anymore." It was a flat, emotionless observation from James. "It suggests you've identified a weakness."

"Something like that."

The forest closed around us as we gained elevation, Douglas firs crowding the roadway until the world outside consisted of green shadows and streaming rain. In the distance, Matthew's headlights cut through the gray afternoon.

For months, survival had meant isolation with no allies. Now, I was riding through the mountains with two men who'd offered assistance based on nothing more than Matthew's request.

This is the part where everything changes.

Either we'd found the resources to fight back, or we'd just expanded the target list to include people who didn't deserve what was coming. I tried not to think about whether Marcus and James had any idea what was ahead as the road curved into unknown territory.