There’s a sharp intake of air on the line before everything goes quiet. Quiet enough to hear Jean-Pierre’s lovely, soft, Afro-French accent filter across the line.
“Jake, my love? Are you having an episode?”
I hear a few things all at once: ragged breathing, cloth being moved around, and a deepthunkas the phone hits what sounds like a carpeted floor.
“I’m here, my love,” is followed by a few whispered phrases in French.
I put the phone down and lean forward, trying to catch my breath. A few tears dot the architectural magazines on my coffee table.
“DB?” Jean-Pierre’s voice is tinny on the cell phone speaker.
I dig my nails into my palms, breaking the skin. It hurts, but I can breathe normally again. “I’m here, Jean-Pierre. This is my fault. I said something that set him off. I apologize.”
“It’s hard to know what causes the episodes,” he says, his voice measured. He’s not happy with the illegal work that Jake does for me, but he supports it, knowing that it probably helps Jake to feel like he’s in control of something. Me being the one to put him in this negative headspace is bad business all around.
“If you had to guess, what do you think started it?”
“I’m considering going to Wimberley for surgery on my knee and told him they’ll be black-bagging me.”
Jean-Pierre takes a slow, deep breath. “That is one of the more obvious triggers, of course, given what he went through. I would ask that you avoid that kind of talk around him if possible.”
His voice is still steady but has lost any pretense of niceness. Honestly, I’m a little relieved to have somebody angry at me. Specifically somebody angry at me for what I have done, and continue to do, to Jake.
“Of course. We were just bantering, and I wasn’t thinking. I’ll be more careful going forward.”
“Did you need anything else from Jake today, or can I go take care of him now?”
“No, we’re done here.”
The call ends without social niceties and my stomach clenches, hard. I make my way to my room, kick off my shoes, and crawl into bed. I don’t even care that it’s still bright outside. The day has already lost its luster.
11
DeShaun
Setting Jake off, set me off, and after the first nightmare, I didn’t even bother with sleep for the rest of the night. I ignored a call from him this morning, and I haven’t had the guts to return it yet, still too shaky from the adrenaline dump that comes with the special hell of flashbacks in dream form. Besides, I have to focus on this next thing and, damn it all to hell, it just feels like more of the same.
Grabbing my coffee, I glare at my phone, hating the fact that I have Ronan on hold, another neck to stick out for the U.S. Government. With the success of this last op, he and Jake combined their considerable analytical skills and compiled an easy-to-identify list of red flags for reviewing any data that may have been changed. The Guardians are, ultimately, about saving lives, and I am bound by my own moral code to share what they’ve learned.
Grinding my jaw, I hit the Call button.
Greg picks up on the first ring. “Wow, two calls in the same week. To what do I owe the honor?”
Loosening my shoulders, I answer his question. “I have an update on our previous conversation.”
“I’ll call you right back.” He hangs up before I can say anything else. I can’t get a great read on him, but he seems more at ease than he was on our last call.
A few moments pass and an unknown number pops up on my phone.
“DB here.”
“Hey, DeShaun.” His voice is confident, warm. “What do you have for me?”
I hesitate, then plunge headfirst into the conversation I don’t want to have. “Wanted to let you know that we’ve done some work on my side to identify the issues the Marshals were having with their client information being corrupted. There’s a pattern we’ve figured out, and I have an analyst on my team ready to talk you through it so you can run it against your data.”
He chuckles. “You’re providing the Department of Homeland Security a consult on our data integrity?”
His incredulity is cute.
