His tail wags, and tears burn the back of my eyes. I press my forehead against his. “Braver Hund,” I whisper. “Thank you. He’ll be okay. He’ll be okay.”
I repeat those words until a pair of boots stops behind me. A voice firm but careful says, “We have to go.”
I squeeze my eyes shut to force down whatever strangled, irritated sob wants to rise. I linger with my fingers in his fur for a second longer until I finally pull away.
He watches me, waiting, while Agent Battle slips a lead over his head.
Then they take him.
He’s an obedient boy, following their commands over to the SUV. They load him up and the door slams shut. Then he’s gone just like that. Gone. Just like Noah.
I stay there, kneeling in the dirt. Pretty sure the swarming agents don’t know what to do with me, as if I’m unstable or something. I’m not sure I care. The wind shifts as the last of the suspects are loaded in transport vehicles and the scattered remains of the camp are reduced to evidence boxes and empty tents.
I’m not sure Raven’s death is the end. The war on drugs isn’t over, evenIknow that, but at least the Raven is gone.
Finally, they send a female agent over who informs me she’ll be taking me to be interviewed, then home. But I don’t have a home.
Not without Ms. Sullivan.
Not without Noah.
Not without Max.
I’m alone, and all I hear is the silence I used to covet.
Chapter 35
Noah
Adull ache throbs in my side. Well, crap, it’s everywhere: side, ribs, my thigh. Each breath exacerbates the bruising, but in my mind the urge to move is rampant.
A faintbeep, beep, beepechoes near my head, and as my eyes flutter open, a sharp fluorescent light beams in. The tension is on me quickly, and I know where I am before I even look around the room. A damn hospital.
The last thing I remember is …
Reaching for a gun.
The cold seeping from my side.
Lily’s screams.
Turning and unloading a clip into Raven.
Hell. Did I kill him?
I blink, my vision adjusting to the white walls. It takes me a moment to register the slight rhythmic motion turned pressure on my forehead.
Lily.
I close my eyes again, relishing her warm hands on my chilled skin. Her soft—wait. Lily’s palms are weathered from her climbs. The calluses on her fingertips would skim along the crevices of my abs, tickling. I’d take her hands and trace overthe marks from years of climbing—faint white scars across her palms—she’d tell me the stories of each time she slipped.
The sensation of her hands on me, stroking me, squeezing me—I shudder at the memory.
But this touch is too delicate.
My eyes pop open, and I jerk back, or try to. A sharp pain rips through my side, and I stifle a curse.
Morgan.
