Roarke’s chest tightened as he watched them working frantically to stabilize Striker. “I’ve gotta find them.”
Wraith’s large, meaty palm clapped him on the shoulder. “We will, chum.” The Scottish slang would’ve made Roarke smile under any other circumstances.
“How?” he demanded. Not just because he was riddled with doubt. Not just because the task seemed insurmountable. Because he needed a fucking answer. A miracle.
“I’ve been thinking. He must have tracked you guys. It’s the only way he could have found them.”
He wanted to drag his hand down his face, but the heat of Striker’s blood on his palm stopped him. “I don’t see how that’s possible. Neither of them has devices?—”
“Wha’ ’bout a GPS tracker?” Wraith’s hushed tone sent goosebumps over his skin.
He hurried back to the bedroom and ran his fingers over every nook and cranny of Laine’s empty tote. He shook his head.
Wraith searched along the hems of Laine’s and Emmy’s cardigans, to see if a tracker had been sewn in.
Christ he was losing his mind. A tracker didn’t make sense, not if the bag was clear. Cameron wouldn’t have known what clothing they’d packed or?—
He inhaled a sharp breath.Holy shit.
Wraith froze, his eyes wide. “What?”
“The bunny.”
He glanced down at the stuffy strangled in his fingers.
He felt around every part of the toy. He’d probably have to cut it open to find the device. He stopped on its foot. The stitching was mended unevenly. He pulsed around. Sure enough, he hit a hard little nub.
Yanking out his knife, he flicked open the blade and then brought the sharp tip to the stitching. He hated to tamper with her stuffy, but he had to confirm his suspicions. He’d do as little damage as possible.
Carefully, he removed a chunk of cotton and fished inside. He pulled out a small disc-shaped object.
Viper whistled. “You were right.”
Roarke grunted, and dropped the device to the floor, smashing it with his foot. “That fucking rotten sonofabitch.”
Balling his hand into a fist, he turned to the wall and punched. The drywall busted open, and he drew back his arm for another strike. Wraith caught his elbow.
“Oy. Keep the heid.”
In other words,calm down.
The phrase had the opposite fucking effect. Roarke wheeled around. “I’ve never wanted to beat the Scot out of you until now.”
Wraith’s long laugh lifted the tension in the room. “Heard tha’ before.”
Roarke exhaled then stalked to the adjoining bathroom to wash his hands. The water turned vibrant red as he rinsed away Striker’s blood. The sound blurred out the chatter of the EMTs as well as his thoughts.
He was transported to a different time. A different friend. A different life.
Tragedy joined by loss. Grief. Guilt.
Shit he couldn’t do over, couldn’t change. Not now.
“Hey.” Wraith leaned around the doorjamb. “You’re gonna scrub your skin off.”
Roarke slapped the faucet shut then dried his hands. “Sorry, asshole. I’m trying to think how the GPS could benefit us.”
Wraith’s mouth hitched at the corner. “If Cameron used a tracker, that means it was online.” He lifted his finger. “The web. Cloud. Ethernet. Once shit goes there, it’s all traceable.”
