The engine turned over with a sharp growl as Aubrey twisted the key. The dashboard flickered to life.
In the backseat sat a week's worth of supplies—canned food stacked in a crate, medical kits stuffed tight with gauze and antibiotics, two rifles laid carefully over a duffel bag filled with ammunition.
She was not bluffing. She was leaving.
She shifted into reverse and the car rolled back slowly. That was when she saw Isabella standing a few yards away, watching her.
Aubrey stopped the car.
Her brows pulled together. "The hell does she want…?" she muttered.
Isabella started walking toward her.
Aubrey let her head fall back against the seat in frustration. Of course she was coming over.
Knock.
Aubrey looked at her through the glass.
Knock.
She rolled the window down halfway. "What?"
"The new rule is that vehicles and guns need to be checked out before runs," Isabella said calmly, almost as a-matter-of-factly
"I did," Aubrey replied, her voice tight.
