The line rang several times, and then Striker’s voicemail greeting clicked on.
“Fuck!” Roarke slammed his palm against the dash. The windows rattled and his hand stung, but he didn’t give a shit.
Laine. Emmy.Christ.
The thought of that bastard being anywhere near them made his gut wrench. He never should have left them. Hell, they would’ve been better off staying in London.
But Roarke had wanted them in the US.
Stupidly, he’d thought Cameron wouldn’t find them here. But he had. How? It didn’t make sense.
“Look, man. You’ve gotta keep it together. We’ll be there in five minutes. It’s a miracle I haven’t gotten pulled over,” he added with a snort.
“I can’t keep it together. You haven’t heard the threats that cocksucker made. What he’ll do to them—to Laine.”
He brought his fist to his mouth and leaned his elbow on his knee. Jesus, he hadn’t thrown up since he got food poisoning in Kabul, four years ago. Wraith’s voice flitted through the air, spewing reassuring words and “have faith” bullshit they didn’t have time for.
A cramp cinched his chest. He wheezed deeply.
“You all right, boss?”
Roarke grunted. “Just drive.”
They traveled in silence for the last few minutes. Wraith barely stopped at the three stop signs situated between the main road and their rental. The truck lurched over the driveway and jolted into park.
Roarke flew from the vehicle. He was barely aware of his boots hitting the asphalt. Barely conscious of the cold air in his nostrils and the weight of his AR-15 in his hands.
The front door sat partially open. Roarke barged inside. “Laine! Emmy! It’s me!” he called.
Wraith jetted toward the kitchen. Roarke needed to check the bedrooms. Needed to confirm—or deny—his worst, soul-crushing fear.
He skidded into the main bedroom. Glass covered the carpet, and the dresser was in the middle of the room. The blankets were thrown back and the bathroom door hung off its hinges.
His gaze scoured the carpet for signs of blood and bodies. He’d been trained to detect the worst-case scenario before he stumbled onto it.
With his hands on his weapon and his finger on the trigger, he pivoted into the bathroom. Big bun laid on the floor, like a forgotten remnant. The door was battered, the jamb busted. The bathmat was askew and the shower curtain torn to the side. A cellphone laid on the floor near the tub. He bent to pick it up, his heart splitting in two—she’d called him in her last moments here. Needing him.
And he hadn’t fucking made it in time.
Pressure mounted on his chest. He strode into the room and peeked into the tub. Only empty white porcelain stared back at him.
Goddammit, no.
He turned and picked up Emmy’s stuffed animal. The fluff too damn soft for his rough, angry hands. Rage blurred his vision.
I’ll find you, motherfucker.
Chapter
Twenty-One
Laine sat in the middle row of the van with Cameron wedged next to her and his gun pointed at her abdomen. One of his men drove. Amir and Emmy sat on the bench seat behind her.
She’d shifted a few inches so she was at an angle that allowed her to look back at her daughter whenever Cameron was distracted.
The streetlights cast an orange glow over the interior of the car as they flickered by. Emmy cried softly.
She wanted to demand Cameron tell her where he was taking them, but it would be no use. Laine winked at Emmy, striving to comfort her baby even though she couldn’t touch her, then shifted her gaze to the floor of the van.
