“My stepfather was ruled by his emotions. Anger, jealousy, the need to control everything around him.” Rowan’s hands clenched tighter. “I swore I’d never be like that. Never let feelings make me hurt the people I was supposed to protect.”
“But your real dad was different, right?”
Rowan looked at him. “My dad died stepping in front of a horse to save me. Pure emotion, no tactical thinking, just panic.” Rowan’s voice cracked slightly. “Got himself killed because he acted on his emotion instead of thought.”
Saxon was quiet for a moment, then spoke carefully. “That was love, Hammer. We’re all affected by our emotions, but living by our emotions and letting love lead are two different things.”
“How so?”
“You can feel something—anger, fear, whatever—but love is combined with truth. Love sees the bigger picture.” Saxon took a corner, heading deeper into the industrial district. “Love says, I will do the hard thing, say the hard thing because it’s right. Emotion simply reacts to panic and fear and hate. God has emotion—He feels jealous. And angry. But everything He does is out of love. That’s the plumb line, the thing that keeps us moving in the right direction. And keeps us from going off the deep end.”
He glanced at Rowan. “And as far as helplessness, the truth is that God is on our side, at least according to Kane, right?”
Kane. His Delta Force buddy who’d nearly lost the woman he loved last summer, who’d trusted God even when everything looked hopeless.
“Kane trusted God when Sanchez was taken,” Rowan said quietly. “Said that God was bigger than his worst fears.”
Rowan looked out the window, at the industrial landscape, concrete and steel, loading docks and chain-link fences. But beyond it all, the Rocky Mountains rose against the afternoon sky, their granite faces catching the golden sunlight and throwing it back in displays of purple and rose.
Whom have I in heaven but you? The psalm drifted through his mind, words from Sunday’s sermon that suddenly felt desperately personal. And earth has nothing I desire besides you.
God. I want to trust You. Help me to trust You.
The Alpine Fresh Foods complex appeared ahead of them. Everything about it looked legitimate, from the company sign to the employee parking area.
“Looks normal,” Saxon said as they pulled into the visitor parking area.
“Too normal. If you wanted to hold someone, this would be perfect. Soundproof buildings, legitimate cover, easy access for vehicles.”
They got out, and Martinelli joined them. “Stay behind me,” he said as he approached the main entrance.
Fine. But Saxon and Rowan flanked him.
The front door was locked.
“Around back,” Martinelli said.
Rowan nodded, and they edged along the building to the loading area.
The giant garage door was closed, but they tried the side door.
Unlocked.
“Backup is twenty minutes out,” Martinelli whispered. “We could wait.”
“Or we could end this now.” Rowan pulled out his Glock. So did Saxon.
“For the love. Listen, on me, and this doesn’t get messy. No shooting.”
Inside, darkness and shadow blanketed the area, a couple trucks parked in the space. Light streamed through the grimy window of a back office.
Rowan scrambled up to it, pressed against the wall, and Saxon took the other side. Rowan peeked in.
Ralph Rousseau sat tied to a chair in the center of the room, wearing a T-shirt and pajamas. A gash across his forehead had dried into a dark scab, and his left eye was swollen shut.
Three men sat inside, smoking cigarettes.
Rowan glanced at Saxon.
