Page 43 of Tag (The Golden Team #9)

Aponi

T he desert swallowed sound in strange ways.

One moment, all I heard was the growl of the engine, the rush of wind through the shattered windows.

The next, it was nothing.

Just the crunch of tires on grit and the thud of my heartbeat in my ears.

Tag’s focus had sharpened into something I hadn’t seen before—tight, predatory, like every move from here on was personal.

“Where’s the safe route?” I asked, watching the dark ridgelines ahead.

“There isn’t one.” His tone was calm, almost too calm. “Not while she’s out there.”

“Then we make one.”

I didn’t realize I’d said it like a challenge until his eyes flicked to me, brief but loaded.

He swung the truck hard right, cutting away from the riverbed and onto a slope that sent gravel sliding behind us. The move made no tactical sense—unless you were trying to flush someone out.

“She’s moving with us,” Tag muttered, scanning the shadows. “Keeping pace, high ground. That’s her comfort zone.”

“Then let’s drag her somewhere she hates.”

That earned the ghost of a smile. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“I doubt it,” I said. “But mine involves making her run.”

From the back seat, Kaylie groaned. I reached over the seat, squeezing her shoulder. “Stay low. No matter what.”

A flash in the periphery—just a glint, like moonlight on glass. My gut went cold.

“Three o’clock!” I shouted.

Tag spun the wheel, accelerating straight toward the rise. A shadow detached from the rocks, sprinting low. Even without the scope, I knew it was her.

Sable.

She didn’t break stride, didn’t even look rattled by the fact that a two-ton truck was bearing down on her. At the last second, she pivoted, dropped to one knee—gun already rising.

“Tag!”

The shot rang out, slamming into the hood with a burst of steam. Tag kept driving. At twenty feet, she rolled aside, disappearing into a narrow fissure between the rocks.

Tag killed the engine, throwing it into park so abruptly the seatbelt cut across my chest. “Stay with Kaylie,” he ordered, grabbing his rifle.

“Not a chance.”

“Aponi—”

I was already out the door, boots hitting sand, my gun in hand.

His curse followed me into the dark.

The fissure narrowed fast, walls pressing close, the moon overhead just a silver strip. Every step echoed in my bones.

“Don’t do this,” Tag hissed from behind me.

“Too late,” I whispered back.

A scrape of rock ahead. The faint metallic click of a rifle bolt.

She was waiting.

I caught a flash of movement—then the sharp, cold voice that cut through the night:

“You owe me one, Tag. Time to pay up.”