again. At the sight of the SUV, all my training melted away — leaving me with nothing but my basic instincts. I try reminding myself that Eli is here, but that does little to quell my panic. He’s had so many close calls on the Fringe already.
Luckily, I don’t have much time to dwell on the horrible thoughts running through my mind. We’ve reached the outskirts of town, and unfamiliar buildings are popping up all around us.
Once we break through the sparse industrial area, we emerge onto a street that looks much nicer than the pit-stop side of town. The sidewalks are lined with old-fashioned street lamps and wrought-iron benches, and artsy shops and restaurants stretch all the way down the block.
We cut through the alleyway between a rustic-looking brewpub and a stationary store, but just as we step off the sidewalk into the street, male voices drift over on the wind.
I hear the scuff of their boots, but there’s no way to tell where the men are coming from.
I duck down between a trashcan and an empty newspaper stand, and Eli does the same. There isn’t a lot of room in our little hiding place, so he has to practically fold his body over mine.
The men round the corner, but they’re still too far away for me to discern what they’re saying. They’re in their midthirties and look less intimidating than most of the drifters I’ve seen guarding the town. They aren’t dressed in black T-shirts and bandanas like the Desperados; they’re wearing faded jeans, T-shirts, and button-downs. The two I can see are armed, but their handguns are tucked into holsters.
The men seem to decide something as a group, and one of them rubs his forehead, looking agitated. They talk for a few more seconds and then head out in opposite directions.
For several minutes, the only sound is Eli’s uneven breathing against the back of my neck. Then he rises into a standing position and pulls me up, too.
“Come on.”
Glancing around to make sure the men are really gone, I follow him across the street toward one of the touristy clothing stores. Its windows are still intact, and the wooden sign hanging over the door reads “Mountain Man Outdoor Emporium.”
Eli pulls a tool out of his belt and uses it to jimmy the lock. The door swings open easily, and I follow him inside.
The shade is a welcome relief, but it’s still hot and stuffy inside the store. I pull off my mask and take a huge drink of water, surveying the racks of outdoor clothing and sporting equipment.
“Who were those guys?” I ask, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
“No idea.”
Eli removes his mask and hangs it from a hook near the cash register. Then he heads straight for the men’s clothing.
Judging by the barren walls, the store owner must have sold off or taken anything valuable with him, but there’s still plenty of clothing hanging from the metal carousels.
“Pick out something to wear,” says Eli. “Our uniforms are too recognizable.”
“We’re changing?”
“Yeah. I don’t know who those men were, but they weren’t Desperados. There’s bound to be plenty more where they came from, and I’m not taking any chances.”
Eli doesn’t look up from the clothes, but the anxiety in his voice is palpable. He selects a light blue shirt from the rack, and the full meaning of his words finally sinks in.
“You want to pretend to be drifters?”
What he’s suggesting is brilliant, but it’s also treason. Recon operatives don’t go undercover. They work by staying out of sight and shooting drifters.
“We’re not going to become best friends or anything. We’re just going to blend in.”
I stare at the clothes. Something tells me we’d have a tough time passing for drifters up close. We’re too pale and much too clean. But these clothes would help us avoid attracting unwanted attention as we make our way across town.
I wander over to the other side of the store, where there’s a small selection of women’s clothing. I
Luckily, I don’t have much time to dwell on the horrible thoughts running through my mind. We’ve reached the outskirts of town, and unfamiliar buildings are popping up all around us.
Once we break through the sparse industrial area, we emerge onto a street that looks much nicer than the pit-stop side of town. The sidewalks are lined with old-fashioned street lamps and wrought-iron benches, and artsy shops and restaurants stretch all the way down the block.
We cut through the alleyway between a rustic-looking brewpub and a stationary store, but just as we step off the sidewalk into the street, male voices drift over on the wind.
I hear the scuff of their boots, but there’s no way to tell where the men are coming from.
I duck down between a trashcan and an empty newspaper stand, and Eli does the same. There isn’t a lot of room in our little hiding place, so he has to practically fold his body over mine.
The men round the corner, but they’re still too far away for me to discern what they’re saying. They’re in their midthirties and look less intimidating than most of the drifters I’ve seen guarding the town. They aren’t dressed in black T-shirts and bandanas like the Desperados; they’re wearing faded jeans, T-shirts, and button-downs. The two I can see are armed, but their handguns are tucked into holsters.
The men seem to decide something as a group, and one of them rubs his forehead, looking agitated. They talk for a few more seconds and then head out in opposite directions.
For several minutes, the only sound is Eli’s uneven breathing against the back of my neck. Then he rises into a standing position and pulls me up, too.
“Come on.”
Glancing around to make sure the men are really gone, I follow him across the street toward one of the touristy clothing stores. Its windows are still intact, and the wooden sign hanging over the door reads “Mountain Man Outdoor Emporium.”
Eli pulls a tool out of his belt and uses it to jimmy the lock. The door swings open easily, and I follow him inside.
The shade is a welcome relief, but it’s still hot and stuffy inside the store. I pull off my mask and take a huge drink of water, surveying the racks of outdoor clothing and sporting equipment.
“Who were those guys?” I ask, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
“No idea.”
Eli removes his mask and hangs it from a hook near the cash register. Then he heads straight for the men’s clothing.
Judging by the barren walls, the store owner must have sold off or taken anything valuable with him, but there’s still plenty of clothing hanging from the metal carousels.
“Pick out something to wear,” says Eli. “Our uniforms are too recognizable.”
“We’re changing?”
“Yeah. I don’t know who those men were, but they weren’t Desperados. There’s bound to be plenty more where they came from, and I’m not taking any chances.”
Eli doesn’t look up from the clothes, but the anxiety in his voice is palpable. He selects a light blue shirt from the rack, and the full meaning of his words finally sinks in.
“You want to pretend to be drifters?”
What he’s suggesting is brilliant, but it’s also treason. Recon operatives don’t go undercover. They work by staying out of sight and shooting drifters.
“We’re not going to become best friends or anything. We’re just going to blend in.”
I stare at the clothes. Something tells me we’d have a tough time passing for drifters up close. We’re too pale and much too clean. But these clothes would help us avoid attracting unwanted attention as we make our way across town.
I wander over to the other side of the store, where there’s a small selection of women’s clothing. I
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