Naomi leaned against the SUV beside her with a quiet wince. “I didn’t know,” she went on. “That he’d snapped like that. That he hated Strike Force so much. He never talked about it. Not once.”
Brenna nodded and let her keep talking. Sometimes people needed to hear themselves say it.
Naomi’s voice cracked. “He killed Jared.” Her breath hitched. “That bastard killed him.” Tears spilled down her face, and this time she didn’t fight them.
Brenna stared ahead. “Yeah.”
In her mind, she added the rest. Crossfire Ops would dig into it. So would the cops. There had to be a trail from Gary to Jared’s uncle. Money had probably changed hands.
And if it had, they’d find it.
A car pulled into the lot, tires crunching over gravel. Brenna looked up and let out another low groan.
Wallace.
Great. Yet someone else she didn’t want to see right now.
He parked fast and jumped out, slamming the door behind him. His eyes scanned the group of hostages until he spotted one of the hostages that Brenna knew was his sister. She was wrapped in a blanket, seated on a stretcher.
Relief washed over his face for a split second. Then it twisted into something sharper.
He turned toward Brenna and Naomi, his voice cutting through the morning air. “I heard what happened. I came to check on her. And you—you were wrong. All of you. It wasn’t me. It was Gary. The whole damn time.”
Brenna stood, but didn’t rise to meet his anger. “You had means, motive, and opportunity,” she said. “We would’ve been reckless not to include you on our list of suspects.”
Wallace shook his head, jaw tight. His eyes burned as they moved to Naomi.
“This is on you,” he snapped. “You probably put the idea in their heads to begin with.”
Naomi flinched like he’d slapped her. Her mouth opened, but whatever she’d meant to say died in her throat. She looked at him, stricken, then looked away.
Brenna stepped in, not with words, but with her presence. A quiet stand between the two of them. Wallace gave a bitter huff, then turned and walked off toward his sister without another word.
Naomi swallowed hard. “He’ll never forgive me,” she said, almost to herself. “Even though I didn’t know. Even though I lost Jared, too.”
Brenna looked at her, saw the weight in her face. The grief. The guilt.
She tore her gaze from Naomi when she heard the footsteps approaching behind them. The gait was steady and familiar.
Colt.
Naomi noticed him and straightened, brushing quickly at her cheeks. “I should go,” she said softly. “Thanks again, Brenna. For everything.” She turned and walked away, leaving Brenna standing there.
Brenna’s eyes met Colt’s as he crossed the lot toward her. He smiled. That slow, crooked grin that used to unravel her with barely a glance.
Something in her chest loosened.
He was alive. Not injured. Not lost. Not gone. Here. The weight of everything they’d survived pressed down for a second, and then lifted with that one look. The fear, the tension, the blood and smoke and wreckage—it all faded to the edges.
She took in the sight of him. Dust on his camo pants. Shirt torn near the collar. Smudges of dirt on his jaw and a nick near his temple that had already dried. He looked like hell.
And better than she remembered.
He didn’t stop when he reached her. He just stepped in and kissed her. Warm. Steady. Certain. Her breath caught, but she didn’t pull away.
When he finally leaned back, he rested his forehead against hers and said, “I couldn’t help myself. You just looked so damn good standing there.”
She snorted. “I’m covered in dirt, probably blood, and I’m pretty sure I’ve got spiderwebs in my hair.”
