that transponder was someone Kjell wasn’t all that eager to meet.
It was impossible to ignore the stares that followed us across the bar, but I kept my eyes glued to the door, counting down the distance between me and safety with each step.
“Hope we see you tomorrow, Kjell,” Margit called after us. “But if not, at least we know where to find her .”
3
T he air outside was crisp. I inhaled deeply, surprised yet grateful for the clarity it brought. Even at the height of summer, the night in Norway holds a hint of what’s to come in the long, hard winter months. My senses were unusually sharp that night. I could hear everything—from the stream two miles into the woods to the dog barking in the next town over. The metallic taste of danger lingered in the air, dissipating in the night breeze off the fjord. I tried to pause, wanting to savor the sensation, but Kjell towed me toward his car as if we didn’t have a moment to spare.
The low hum of engines filled my ears. Headlights flickered through the trees like lightning bugs. Four sets of high beams traced the road along the fjord, still a few miles out but approaching fast. Given the astronomically steep penalty for speeding in Norway, it had to be an emergency for them to risk going that fast. Almost hidden by the normal car sounds, I caught the faint rattling of metal, the grating sound of guns bouncing in a truck bed, concealed by something—a heavy blanket, judging by the way the sound was muffled. Don’t ask me how I knew, I just did. My supersonic hearing bothered me considerably less than the way that violent voice was urging me to arm myself. To prepare an ambush.
I shook it off, pretty sure I’d be ending the summer in a padded cell.
“Come on,” Kjell said, tugging on my arm. “Get in the car.”
He didn’t need to tell me twice.
This time, there was no gentlemanly opening of my door, no polite pause while he waited for me to fasten my seat belt. We were backing out of the lot before my door was even closed.
I didn’t have to ask why. The proximity of danger had my pulse thrumming, but this time part of me embraced it. I told myself it had to be shock, the way I wanted to stand my ground, the lack of the fear my rational self knew I should have, given that four trucks armed with rifles were hurtling toward us at a breakneck pace.
Deep grooves of concentration creased Kjell’s forehead as he backed the car out of the parking lot, keeping the headlights off. He hesitated, looking a long time in both directions, seeming torn about whether to head back toward Skavøpoll, crossing paths with the approaching trucks, or to drive off into the blackness on the other side of Selje.
Then he settled on a compromise. He drove up one of the residential roads and paused behind a dented white cargo van. His car had just come to a stop when three battered fishing trucks flew past and pulled into the parking lot of the hotel. They were still weighted down with mesh crab traps, and for a moment I thought that explained the rattling metal I’d somehow heard from miles away. But then two men exploded out of the cab of the first truck before it had even come to a complete stop. One reached into the truck bed and pulled out a rifle. He tossed it to his companion before pulling out a second and switching off the safety.
They sprinted around the side of the building while the second and third trucks circled the hotel in opposite directions, toward the water, out of sight. And the fourth truck just slowed as it continued past, off into the darkness on the far side of town.
My new, strange instinct told me they were coordinated, that they had carefully planned and rehearsed this attack, even though they were vastly underprepared to take on anything but an oversized salmon. They were afraid. The cloud of fear was thick, clinging to their pores, no matter how headlong and recklessly they rushed forward to confront the object of it. But as they moved, something
It was impossible to ignore the stares that followed us across the bar, but I kept my eyes glued to the door, counting down the distance between me and safety with each step.
“Hope we see you tomorrow, Kjell,” Margit called after us. “But if not, at least we know where to find her .”
3
T he air outside was crisp. I inhaled deeply, surprised yet grateful for the clarity it brought. Even at the height of summer, the night in Norway holds a hint of what’s to come in the long, hard winter months. My senses were unusually sharp that night. I could hear everything—from the stream two miles into the woods to the dog barking in the next town over. The metallic taste of danger lingered in the air, dissipating in the night breeze off the fjord. I tried to pause, wanting to savor the sensation, but Kjell towed me toward his car as if we didn’t have a moment to spare.
The low hum of engines filled my ears. Headlights flickered through the trees like lightning bugs. Four sets of high beams traced the road along the fjord, still a few miles out but approaching fast. Given the astronomically steep penalty for speeding in Norway, it had to be an emergency for them to risk going that fast. Almost hidden by the normal car sounds, I caught the faint rattling of metal, the grating sound of guns bouncing in a truck bed, concealed by something—a heavy blanket, judging by the way the sound was muffled. Don’t ask me how I knew, I just did. My supersonic hearing bothered me considerably less than the way that violent voice was urging me to arm myself. To prepare an ambush.
I shook it off, pretty sure I’d be ending the summer in a padded cell.
“Come on,” Kjell said, tugging on my arm. “Get in the car.”
He didn’t need to tell me twice.
This time, there was no gentlemanly opening of my door, no polite pause while he waited for me to fasten my seat belt. We were backing out of the lot before my door was even closed.
I didn’t have to ask why. The proximity of danger had my pulse thrumming, but this time part of me embraced it. I told myself it had to be shock, the way I wanted to stand my ground, the lack of the fear my rational self knew I should have, given that four trucks armed with rifles were hurtling toward us at a breakneck pace.
Deep grooves of concentration creased Kjell’s forehead as he backed the car out of the parking lot, keeping the headlights off. He hesitated, looking a long time in both directions, seeming torn about whether to head back toward Skavøpoll, crossing paths with the approaching trucks, or to drive off into the blackness on the other side of Selje.
Then he settled on a compromise. He drove up one of the residential roads and paused behind a dented white cargo van. His car had just come to a stop when three battered fishing trucks flew past and pulled into the parking lot of the hotel. They were still weighted down with mesh crab traps, and for a moment I thought that explained the rattling metal I’d somehow heard from miles away. But then two men exploded out of the cab of the first truck before it had even come to a complete stop. One reached into the truck bed and pulled out a rifle. He tossed it to his companion before pulling out a second and switching off the safety.
They sprinted around the side of the building while the second and third trucks circled the hotel in opposite directions, toward the water, out of sight. And the fourth truck just slowed as it continued past, off into the darkness on the far side of town.
My new, strange instinct told me they were coordinated, that they had carefully planned and rehearsed this attack, even though they were vastly underprepared to take on anything but an oversized salmon. They were afraid. The cloud of fear was thick, clinging to their pores, no matter how headlong and recklessly they rushed forward to confront the object of it. But as they moved, something
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