White Peak_A Thriller by Ronan Frost

Author:Ronan Frost [Frost, Ronan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Thrillers, General, Action & Adventure
ISBN: 9781250130099
Google: AahbDwAAQBAJ
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2019-05-21T18:40:09+00:00

FORTY-NINE

Dawn brought only pain.

Rye rolled over in the tangle of sheets, reaching for his cell phone. The clock on the display told him he’d been in bed less than five hours. Those five hours had dragged like fifty, sweating the alcohol out of his system as the temperature in the room never dipped below twenty-five Celsius.

The shower didn’t work, which meant he was going to stink of alcohol all day. He washed himself down using the bathroom tap; the water was a muddy brown, but it was cold, and splashed across his face it brought him back to the semblance of life. He knew that everything he’d done yesterday after hearing the hanging man say “the German woman” had been self-destructive. Dangerously so. He couldn’t help it. Self-destruct was his default setting since he’d listened to Hannah die. He was resigned to the fact that it would be for a long time to come, no matter what Vic wanted from him.

It was too soon.

He cleaned his teeth with the brown water, and sprayed more body spray than was good for the environment, before he bagged up his stuff and headed down to the car.

The others were waiting.

None of them said anything as he dumped his bag in the trunk. He realized that the second car Vic had sourced wasn’t a car at all, and in no better condition than the shot-up SUV it was replacing. It was a flatbed truck with wooden slats for sides. The back was filled with their gear. They threw a tarp over the top and fastened it down.

The morning was bright, the air clear but humid, the threat of rain imminent.

They divided up between the cars, Rye in with Carter Vickers this time, Iskra and Vic in the SUV. The cab of the flatbed lacked the luxury of air-conditioning, though the wooden beads draped over the seats stopped his skin from sticking to the leather. The radio didn’t work, but given the fragile state of Rye’s head he wasn’t complaining—a little silence and the rhythms of the road would be just fine for now.

They buckled up and moved out.

Long before they reached the border gate, the voice of home chirped in his ear, Jeremiah promising them that five hundred US dollars should be enough to see them over the border without the proper visas. “The joys of capitalism,” the thief said, but Rye noticed he wasn’t himself this morning. When he questioned Carter about it, the thief just brushed his concerns off, saying, “Just tired, don’t sweat it.”

But that wasn’t it.

He was hypervigilant, eyes everywhere at once, scanning the buildings and rooftops for possible threats, checking each corner and parked car for potential bogies. This was a different side of him.

Carter pulled down the sun visor and took the vehicle registration papers down from where they were secured with a thick elasticized band. He handed them to Rye as he rolled the window down.

They drove around the main temple square, following the flow of traffic toward the gate.

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