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It’s clear by the sound of the dogs that they’re gaining on us. The road is far behind us now so we can’t dive into a car. A tree will have to do.
I frantically scan the forest for a climbable tree. There are none that I can see. Unlike other trees, redwood trunks don’t split off. They grow tall and straight, with branches shooting out perpendicular to the trunk high above the ground. I'd have to be at least double my height to reach the lowest branch of any of the trees around us.
Raffe jumps up below a branch. Although he jumps much higher than a normal man could, it is still not enough. He slams his fist into the trunk in frustration. He's probably never needed to jump before. Why jump when you can fly?
“Get on my shoulders,” he says.
I'm not sure what his plan is, but the dogs are getting louder. I can't tell how many of them there are, but it's not one or two, it's a pack.
He grabs my waist and lifts me up. He's strong. Strong enough to lift me all the way up until I'm standing on his shoulders. I can barely reach the lowest branch this way, but it's enough to get a grip when I push off from him. I hope the ski
He puts his hands below my feet, supporting and pushing me up until I'm securely on the branch. It wobbles but holds my weight. I look around to see if I can find a branch to break and send down to him.
But before I can do anything, he takes off ru
I watch him disappear down the hill. Now it's my turn to pound on the tree in frustration. What's he doing? If he stayed by the tree, maybe I could have managed to get him up here somehow. I could have at least helped him fight off the dogs by throwing things down on them. I have no projectile weapons but from this height, anything I throw would be a weapon.
Did he run to distract the dogs so I could be safe? Did he do it to protect me?
I slam my fist into the trunk again.
A six-pack of dogs come snarling at the tree. A couple linger, sniffing around the trunk, but the rest take off after Raffe. It only takes a moment before the loitering pair run off after the pack.
My branch leans precariously toward the ground. The branches are so sparse and thin here that all anyone would have to do is look up to see me. The lower branches only have leaves at their ends so that there is very little coverage near the trunk. I reach up for another branch and start climbing. The branches get stronger and thicker as I head up. It’s a long way up to a branch with enough leaves to give me any cover.
When a dog yelps in pain, I know they have caught up to him. I curl up and cling to the branch, trying to guess what's happening.
Below me, something large crashes through the underbrush. It turns out to be several large men. Five of them. They are in camouflage and carry rifles like they know how to use them.
One of them signals with his hand and the rest fan out. These men don't give the impression of weekend hunters shooting rabbits with one hand while drinking beer with the other. They are organized. Trained. Deadly. They move with an ease and confidence that makes me suspect they've worked together before. That they've hunted together before.
My chest drains of all heat thinking about what a rogue military group would do to an angel prisoner. I consider yelling at them, distracting them to give Raffe a chance to run. But dogs are still growling and yelping. He's fighting for his life and my yelling will only distract him and get us both caught.
If I die, Paige is as good as dead too. And I won't die for an angel, no matter what crazy things he does that coincidentally save my skin. If he could have climbed on my shoulders to get up here, would he have?