Deep cold had settled across South Dakota, but no snow, and Grace made good time on the clear roads. With a thousand miles left, if they drove six more hours today, Cruz calculated they could pull in to Pateros as early as tomorrow evening. He rubbed his thigh, the one closer to the driver’s seat where she couldn’t miss his action, and muffled a grunt. Never let it be said that a Green Beret wasn’t a master of subterfuge. She took her eyes off the road for an instant to look at him. Target acquired. He flexed his buttocks and stretched, one hand braced on the dashboard. He pushed a sigh out of his diaphragm and shifted as if the 442’s spacious seat had shrunk. “Need gas?” “We still have over half a tank. Do you need to stop?” Yep, he had her. “No. I’m good.” This time he dug four fingers into his thigh and pressed his lips together to appear as if he stifled a groan.
