The smuggler's truck rattled like it was held together by duct tape and prayers. Dust curled in through the cracked boards of the flatbed as Rory sat wedged between Peter and Nathan, holding on to a rusted rail. The sun had dipped below the desert horizon, casting a violet tint across the land, but the heat still clung to their skin.
Nathan sat quietly beside her, his sharp gaze constantly scanning through the wooden slats as they bounced across dry, unforgiving terrain. His instincts were screaming again. That tight, clawing sensation in his gut was back—stronger than before.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was closing in.
Peter pulled his hoodie tighter. “Okay, so I’ve watched a lot of documentaries, and I feel like we’re going the wrong way. Isn’t this how people end up
