Ten minutes went by.
Then another twenty.
The frequencies started melding together, and he had to dig deep and remember the sound of the right one. She was waiting for him to save her and, damn it, he would. Somehow. God, he had to find her. If he didn’t, he was done.
Ryker shoved away from his desk, lines cutting into the sides of his mouth. His hair was a disheveled mess, and whiskers covered his jaw. His eyes were bloodshot like he hadn’t slept in far too long. “He disabled all the cameras in the neighborhood days before he planted the bombs. He’s good.”
“What about farther out?” Heath asked, hearing over the earphones. “There are several banks just three blocks away. He didn’t appear out of nowhere.” Anybody could be traced—with enough time. They didn’t have time. But there had to be a way to find Daniel. The guy wasn’t invincible. Heath’s solar plexus pounded like he’d been punched with a brick. Anya. Where was she?
Ryker shook his head. “So far, I haven’t found a thing on any of the cameras even close to our headquarters. My guess is he used back alleys and dark areas to get her out of town. He definitely knows how to stay under the radar.”
If Isobel Madison hadn’t tagged Daniel like a dog, then they’d never find him. How ironic that Heath’s only chance of finding Anya rested with Madison being even more evil than he’d known.
A knock sounded on the door, and he took out his gun, not pausing in listening to different frequencies.
Ryker waited a beat and then turned to open it.
Detective Malloy came inside, covered with snow and ice. “The FBI has put out a BOLO on you, Heath, because of the fake ID near Carl’s body. I’m gonna have to take you in. We’ll get this figured out, I promise.”
Something buzzed through the headphones. Heath sat up, his heart kicking into gear. That was it. The right sound. Madison had tagged Daniel. She had actually done it. “Got it.” Glancing toward the radio, he rattled off the frequency to Denver, who was looking at the cop grimly.
“Denver? Get me the location,” Heath said. He tossed the earphones to the side and stood, the need to run out the door and find his woman nearly making him insane. “Malloy? I’ll meet you anywhere and anytime tomorrow. Got something to do tonight.” He was so fucking close. Was she still alive? She had to be. There was no alternative.
Malloy winced. “I promised the FBI I’d bring you in to keep them from setting up roadblocks and plastering your face all over the television. I’m helping you out here.” He put his hands into his trench coat pockets. “This was the only thing I could think of to help you for now. You have to come with me.”
There wasn’t time for this shit. “I don’t want to shoot you, Detective.” Heath glanced toward the shaded window. If Malloy had brought backup, they’d be already in position outside. He didn’t have time for a shoot-out.
Denver started typing, his head close to the keyboard. “Got it,” he muttered. “Found the asshole.”
“Give me the address,” Heath said, his body gearing up to run. He turned to Malloy. “I’m not going anywhere with you.” His gun lay heavy in his hand. He couldn’t shoot the cop, but he could knock the guy out.
Malloy shook his head. “There’s no other option here, boys.”
Denver shoved to his feet.
Heath noted belatedly that his brother’s face had lost all color. “Denver?”
“I’ll go in Heath’s place and be arrested,” Denver said. “Explain the mix-up later.” He grabbed the desk and curled his fingers over it.
Ryker paused. “Den?”
“I’m fine.” Denver wavered. Then he crashed to the floor, taking his keyboard with him. It clattered across the wood, several keys falling out to bounce away.
Zara rushed to him and slid to her knees. Her dark hair tumbled out if its clip. “Denver? What’s wrong?” She patted his hand and then his face.
He was out cold.
Heath moved past Malloy to crouch and feel Denver’s pulse at his neck. Weak but there. The scent of blood caught his attention. What the hell? He tugged up Denver’s dark T-shirt. It was soaking wet. “Oh God.” He pushed the shirt up more to see a festering wound below Denver’s right pec. His stitches had popped wide open, and he was losing too much blood. “Call a bus, Malloy,” Heath ordered curtly.
Malloy bent over and then whistled. “Got it.” He moved to the side and yanked out a cell phone.
Ryker caught Heath’s eye and then jerked his head toward Denver’s console.
Heath’s breath stopped. Indecision slammed through him. He couldn’t leave Denver. Why hadn’t the man said something? Because of Anya. Denver had ignored his pain to find Anya, working until he’d literally passed out cold. Now, that was a brother. One he loved and would die for. In an instant.
Heath dropped his chin to his chest. The world tore him in two.
“Get the girl,” Ryker mouthed, tugging off his shirt. He pressed the worn material against Denver’s wound. “We’ll take care of Denver.”
