I touch my forehead to the wall, knocking it with the side of my fist, unable to stop my own tears. The sound of two grown men sobbing fills the little shop, and the rest of the team joins us in the shop. Odd comes up behind me, rubbing my back.
"We'll find him. We'll get him back to you alive."
I shake my head. “I just got him back, Odd. I can't lose him again."
"Hey, come here," Odd says, giving me a strong hug.
And as horrible as the situation is, it’s a reminder that I’ve never had people in my life who would support me like this. Honestly, I can't tell what makes me cry harder: the fact that I'm sick with worry over Ronan, or the fact that this here—this hug—is the thing that erases all doubt about whether or not I’m worthy of love.
I’ve been to therapy, I’ve been to group, I’ve got great friends. I’ve even fallen in love. Butthisis the rubber meeting the road.
Just as I finally let out all of the tears I have in me, the notification from Wimberley’s video message app sounds off on my phone. I step back from Odd’s embrace and wipe my face, then pull up the app. Everyone crowds around me as Hedy’s face appears on my screen.
“Folks, we know where he’s holding him. He’s in Salado, a little less than an hour north of you. I’m sending you the details now. Looks like he had another neighborhood that he started at the same time as the Georgetown location.”
Fuck. Why had none of that been with the information we got from the Marshals? DB’s hand forms a fist, and I know that he’s thinking the same thing I am.
Odd whispers in my ear, “Take my brother with you.”
We look each other in the eye, and I know exactly what he’s telling me.
“Anders, you’re with me,” I say, running for the door.
As we buckle in, I realize that I’ve seen Anders on ops, and I’ve seen Anders in love, but I’ve never met the man seated next to me. As sweet as Anders can be, there is no doubt that I am in the presence of a serial killer.
Good.
I pull out onto the street and stomp on the gas, putting miles between me and the team.
There’s one thing I know with absolute certainty.
It’ll all be over by the time they catch up with us.
20
Ronan
So, being kidnapped sucks.
In case you were curious.
I thought I was back at the house in Georgetown for the first several hours of my captivity, but after staring out the window long enough, I realize that the fields are different. Wherever my location, I’m currently locked in a large room full of cribs. Based on that, and the small mountain of diapers, Blake appears to be expanding his operations. I swear, the more I meet the people that we get rid of, the more I appreciate Anders Fucking Bash.
Here’s the thing that burns my biscuits. I shot that asshole right in the heart, but I made no assumptions. My gun was out and ready when I went to check on his body. I knew right away that something was off because there was no blood and his chest was still rising and falling. I hadn’t yet put together that he was wearing a vest, but I made to kick his gun away because he was still a clear threat. That’s when he took me down, mid-kick. In retrospect, I should’ve shot him in the head, just to be sure.
Noted for next time.
I know the team will cover all the bases, but there’s absolutely nothing in the files that connects this place to Blake or his operation. I try not to despair at the thought. The only thing that’s keeping me going is the fact that I’m working on the rope, which is wrapped tightly from wrist to mid-forearm.
He forced me into a cross-legged sit after tying my hands, foolishly assuming I couldn’t get up with my hands tightly bound behind my back.
You see, this is where my ability to suck my own cock is gonna come in real handy.
I wiggle around until the edges of my feet are in the right position, then, using every bit of core strength I have, I stand up. Leaning against the nearest crib, I nearly pass out from the pain. There’s at least one rib that’s slightly more than bruised, and it pisses me off. Son of a bitch probably kicked me while I was passed out.
I keep my steps silent as I search for something, anything to help me with my bindings. Carefully, I open closet doors with my awkward backwards approach and use my shoulder to move aside coats and tiny baby clothes, looking for hidden weapons or any tiny shard of metal to cut away the uncomfortable, pokey hemp rope.
Getting nothing from the closet, I walk over to the dresser, wondering if you’d ever need a knife around a baby. Probably not. The drawer full of soft garments and burping cloths confirms it. Just as I’m hipping the drawer shut, a small flash of metal catches my eye. A set of baby nail clippers. Accompanied by a tiny, curved pair of very pointy scissors.
