Brooke ‘Bookeeper’'s Arc

Chapter 9 of 32

An hour past the barrier, the thin man pointed at the sky. A small shape hung above the ridgeline, four rotors humming soft as a wasp. Brooke shaded her eyes. The drone drifted, kept pace, then slid behind a tree line. Raven scout. She'd seen one once before a convoy got hit. Her cart sat bright and obvious below — red paint, books stacked high, spines in every color a thief could dream of. Brooke pulled the escorts close. The thin man said there was a broken cabin up the road where Ravens staged hits. He'd seen bikes parked behind it twice. She studied her map, then the sun, then the cart. Turning back meant losing three stops. Pushing through meant walking into the ambush they were already building. She chose a third road. Brooke had the escorts strip a tarp from the supply crate and throw it over the books, dulling the wagon's bright shell. Then she sent one escort ahead on foot toward the ruined cabin with a smoking rag tied to a stick — a decoy plume rising slow over the trees. While the drone circled the smoke, Brooke turned the cart off the main track and rolled it into a dry creek bed, wheels muffled in soft sand. They waited under brush until the humming faded west. By dusk they came out two miles past where the cabin sat. No bikes followed. The boy looked up from the books and gave her the smallest nod. Brooke marked the detour on her map in pencil. The drone was gone, but it had seen the wagon once. Next town, she'd need a new color.