"What I should've done a long time ago," he snaps, lifting his chin as he turns to Coyote. "Anything from your team on the ground?"
Coyote frowns. "Nothing yet, sir."
"Keep checking."
"On it."
Please say they got away.
I can die at peace, knowing Ambrose failed again and that they might still find him and make him pay for everything he's done and is about to do if I can't stop him.
Coyote speaks quietly into his earpiece, repeatedly asking his men for a report that doesn't seem to be coming, and it gives me hope.
Until I hear her voice out in the hall.
"Get your hands off me," she shouts. "I came here on my own, didn't I?"
There's the sound of a slap. "Don't touch me! I can do it myself."
Ambrose grins with a sort of crazed malice in his eyes that I recognize, and smiles the kind of smile that can only belong to a narcissistic sociopath, and I see a man who clearly enjoys inflicting pain on people who are powerless to stop him.
A man who fancies himself a god.
Ignoring the swell of emotion in my chest at hearing her voice, I look for anything I can use.
I'm not sure, but I think if I throw myself forward with all my weight—do it fast and without warning—I might be able break out of this guy's grip. But then what? My eyes track to the shelves again. The mirror—I could break it and use the glass. Or the scissors on the desk?
If I'm really lucky, I could get my hands on a gun. Dropping my head like I'm resigned to whatever is about to happen, I look behind me, gaze darting over the tac vest and then snagging on the holstered weapon at his side.
If I can get free, I can try to make a grab for it.
Incrementally, I sag in his grip, making a little sobbing sound in my throat. The sound says I'm not fighting anymore. It promises that I've given up when I am more than ready to fight.
The doors open, and a woman is shoved into the room. Her teeth are white as she grimaces, spins on her heel, and shoves the man who brought her here right back with a curse on her lips.
She only stops when she sees me, going still.
There's no denying it. Diana De La Rosa looks older than she did in all the photographs—in the footage of her dropping me at that fire station—but all the things she passed to me are still there.
The oceanic blue eyes. Her bone structure. The long dark hair—now shot through with wide threads of gray.
The sharpness in her eyes dulls, growing softer as the same soul-deep recognition is mirrored in them.
"Hello,wife."
60
WHAT HE TOOK
AURORA
"Get her on her feet," Ambrose commands, and I'm manhandled into standing.
At the sound of his voice, my mother pales, her shoulders pulling in and fists clenching as she turns to face him. "Tell that man to take his hands off my daughter."
"You're looking well, Diana. A life on the run suits you."
"You didn't need to hurt her. I said I would come and I'm here."
