Page 41 of Tag (The Golden Team #9)

Aponi

T he desert at night had a different kind of silence.

Not empty.

Like it was listening.

Wind drifted over the sand like a whisper, carrying the scent of dust and dry sage. The truck’s headlights pierced narrow tunnels through the dark, and every now and then a pair of eyes—coyote or jackrabbit—flashed and disappeared along the roadside.

I sat in the passenger seat, the hum of the engine rattling faintly through my bones. Kaylie was asleep in the back, her head resting against a folded jacket.

Tag hadn’t spoken in miles.

Not a word.

His hands were locked on the wheel, knuckles pale against the dark leather. Every so often, the muscles in his jaw flexed, like he was biting back something that wanted out.

“You’re too quiet,” I said.

He didn’t look over. “So are you.”

“Yeah, but I’m not the one with a ghost from my past trying to put a bullet between my eyes.”

The corner of his mouth almost twitched—almost. “She’s not a ghost, Aponi. She’s a professional. The most dangerous one I’ve ever met. And she doesn’t quit.”

“You think I’m scared?”

“I think you should be.”

I turned toward him fully, blanket still wrapped around my shoulders. “You don’t get to decide how much fear I carry. I’ve lived through worse.”

His eyes flicked to mine, quick and sharp. “Not like this.”

The way he said it—it wasn’t arrogance. It was knowing. The kind that came from staring into the eyes of someone who’d already taken lives and wouldn’t blink at taking yours.

From behind us, a pair of headlights flared in my side mirror. Too far back to see the driver, but close enough that my instincts screamed wrong .

“Tag.”

“I see it.” His tone shifted—low, clipped, all business.

I reached under my seat, fingers brushing the cold steel of my gun.

A soft hiss came over the communications in my ear. “We’ve got company,” Faron’s voice said. “Three miles back. Another set just merged onto the road ahead.”

We were boxed in.

Tag’s knuckles flexed on the wheel. “Sable’s not chasing us,” he said, echoing Faron’s words from earlier. “She’s closing the trap.”

Something glinted in the darkness ahead—just a flicker, gone before my brain could pin it down.

Then the desert silence was shattered.

CRACK!

The front windshield spiderwebbed in front of Tag. He swore, yanking the wheel as another shot blew out the passenger mirror.

Kaylie jolted awake with a cry. I twisted in my seat, blanket falling to the floor, gun already up.

Sand sprayed around us as Tag floored it. The truck fishtailed, tires screaming, headlights swinging over a jagged cut in the road ahead.

“That’s not a road,” I said.

“It is now,” he growled.

We plunged into the dark.