“From who?”
He jerked a thumb downslope. “Project management.”
I knew better than to touch the machine, so I took photos instead. Stakes. Equipment. Their faces. The muddy runoff line bleeding toward the drainage.
One of them grabbed my wrist.
“Delete those.”
I yanked free. “Touch me again and you’ll need authorization from a dentist.”
That got his attention.
I backed uphill without turning around, made it to the hut, and called Helen from the satellite phone I’d found in Boone’s bunker and finally managed to charge.
By the next afternoon, the state water engineer’s office had an injunction request on file, and Helen had reporters making calls.
Which is how Clayton Voss made his biggest mistake.
He came up himself.
Snow was falling thick, broad flakes turning the world white and close. He arrived in a different SUV with chains on the tires and anger visible even through the windshield.
