The Gender War (The Gender Game #4) by Bella Forrest (read novel full TXT) 📗

“No! We don’t know this area. We followed a tracker that was installed on… oh… hmm.” He trailed off, his face pensive.

There was a pause from the cabin. “A tracker on what?”

I was glad Viggo couldn’t see the expression on Henrik’s face, a weird mixture of amusement and regret. “On you, Viggo.”

From the cabin came one of the longest explosions of swearing that I had yet heard from Viggo. The truck seemed to accelerate madly, the engine’s roar echoing loudly in the tunnel.

“So Desmond could be following us right now?” he shouted furiously, once his speech had become intelligible again. “When did that happen? How do we get it off? And, uh… where the hell is it?”

Henrik put his face in his hands and answered the questions one after another. If the situation hadn’t been so serious, I was sure he would have been laughing. I didn’t find it funny at all—had our whole escape been yet another ruse?

“They would have attached it while you were unconscious,” Henrik said. “I don’t think it was one of the ingestible ones. It’s either a skin-colored patch with a very strong adhesive… or a chip inserted underneath your skin. They’ve probably put it in a difficult-to-notice position on your body, like the middle of your back. Getting it out could be difficult, depending on the method they used to attach it…”

“Well, it can’t wait!” Viggo’s voice was grim. I couldn’t see his face through the window because he faced forward, but I knew he was furious. I was furious. I thought of the tracker I’d once slipped Viggo in his flask of water—then thought of somebody cutting him while he was down and sliding another such device into him. My left hand curled into a clumsy fist.

“While you’re driving?” Henrik asked. “If you think you can handle it…”

“I don’t have much choice, do I?” Viggo thundered, and the truck jerked underneath us as his foot, presumably, punched the gas again.

“All right,” Henrik said. “Well, we can switch drivers, and…”

“Don’t have time!” Viggo hollered.

“Fair,” Henrik said. “Then maybe I can come up there and…” His eyes fell on me. “Violet,” he said, quieter now, “could you fit through that window? It had probably better be you.”

I shook the last of the dizziness from my head, or at least tried to. “I can do it,” I said.

Henrik smiled at me as though he’d known I would say yes. He dug around in his pockets and held out a small folding knife, his eyes serious again. “I hope you don’t need this. Check the middle of his back first. If it’s not there… Well, check anywhere you can think of. It’s most likely there, though.” I pocketed the knife and climbed forward.

With his eyes on the road, Viggo growled as I struggled to fit myself through the small back window. “Henrik, I will blame you if I crash and we all die—” He turned his head and saw me, then cracked a dark smile. “Oh, Violet, it’s you. Well, at least I get a beautiful nurse.”

I could feel myself blushing. “Don’t distract me, patient,” I said, with more bravery than I felt.

He made to reply, then swore and swerved as an overturned sand barrel appeared in the truck’s headlights. As we skidded around it into the other lane, I seized the headrest of the passenger’s side with my left hand and hung on for dear life, trying not to crush poor Samuel.

“Sorry,” Viggo said, although the swerve wasn’t his fault at all. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Okay… I need you to lean forward. And… take off your shirt.”

Taking off the filthy t-shirt while he was driving took effort from both of us. I hiked up the back and arranged it so that it was easy for Viggo to yank one hand, then the other, through the short sleeves, then pulled the collar up over his head until the whole thing was bunched around his face and he could pull it off, only blocking his eyes for a second. Then I was peering at the broad, taut muscles of Viggo’s back in the tunnel’s yellow light, running my hands over him gently, trying to find a patch… or an injury.

My fingers found a bump. It wasn’t a patch—just a little lump in the skin, smaller than my thumbnail, with a tiny puckered red mark on one side that had to be the insertion wound. Fury curled tight in my stomach, warring with nerves. I touched the spot, and Viggo growled.

“Viggo,” I said, trying to sound calm and efficient, “it’s under your skin. Henrik gave me a knife. I’m going to have to cut it out.” I didn’t say, With my left hand. In a moving vehicle. While you’re driving it.

He stared straight ahead at the road. “Just make it quick, Violet,” he said tightly. “I’ll be fine.”

I fumbled uselessly with the knife for several seconds, my left hand shaking not only from the unfamiliar motions, but from the thought that I was going to have to cut Viggo’s skin to get the tracker out. I couldn’t avoid hurting him. It was a whole new kind of torture, and I hated it with every fiber of my being.

“How’s it going in there?” Henrik shouted, and I yelled back, “Fine!”

With the bumping of the truck, I had to brace myself against Viggo’s body with my knees, wrapping my right arm under his armpit and hooking it around his shoulder, my left arm crossing his back. I positioned the knife across his skin by the entry wound, but didn’t cut in.

“Violet,” he almost groaned. “There’s trouble up ahead. You have to do it now!”

Adrenaline surging through my veins, I pressed the little knife against Viggo’s skin, wincing as red blossomed there and he sucked in a breath. The truck jolted, and the knife jounced against something hard—I yanked it away from his skin, afraid of slipping, threw the knife on the seat and dug back