“And then?” I don’t have to ask. Ford’s going after her. I just need to know when he’s leaving.
“If there’s a chance she’s alive…I’m going to find her.” His bottle of beer makes a hard thunk on the coffee table. “But that means I need you to find someone else to take over the Archer case. Or…at least run point on it with me until I hear back from Nomar.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, then press the cold bottle of beer to my temple. The pounding in my head intensifies, and if I’m not careful, I’ll be flat on my back with a migraine in half an hour. “There isn’t anyone else. Ella’s tied up on that embezzlement case. Trevor can handle the basic surveillance on days, and Vasquez at night with Ronan as backup, but Clive messaged me right before I left the office. His mom’s about to have open-heart surgery.”
“Fuck.”
This time it’s my turn to sigh. “First thing in the morning, read me in with what you have so far. If you need to leave, I’ll run point with Wren until Clive returns.”
We finish our beers in silence, and when I walk him to the door, he clears his throat. “I never stopped loving her, Dax.”
“Then you’ll get her back.” I reach out and find his arm, squeezing once—about all the physical contact I’m willing to have—with anyone. “But until we know more, don’t tell Evianna I’m involved. No need to worry her until we know there’s something to worry about.”
Confusion mars his tone, but he doesn’t argue. “Whatever you say. I’ll see you in the morning.” He’s halfway down the hall when his footsteps stop, and he adds, “Thank you.”
6
Dax
Two hours later, after another beer, I pick up the phone. “VoiceAssist: C-call…fuck.” After I punch the couch cushion, I try again. “Call Ryker.”
One ring. Two. Three. My stomach clenches, and I’m about to hang up when his rough voice carries over the line. “Dax.”
“Ry.”
Silence stretches between us. God, I wish I knew what to say. “How’s Wren?” I finally ask.
“She’s…good. Any news from the Roxbury drug ring?”
I can hear the concern in his voice. No. More than concern. Love.
“They’ve been quiet. Ford called one of his contacts in Vice last week. Wren’s safe, brother.” The word slips out, and Ry’s breath catches in his throat.
“Thank fuck.” After a pause and a few murmured words, he returns to the line. “Dax, I…don’t…I wanted to call…every damn day…but…”
“I didn’t think you were coming back.” The admission rushes out before I can stop myself. And suddenly, I’m back there, huddled in the dark, dirty cell, my eyes swollen and infected, and so fucking scared I couldn’t think straight.
“What?”
Memories tighten my throat. “After you escaped. Even with all those tricks you taught me, I never had your memory. With the fever…I was in and out. And after Kahlid…my eyes…I lost count of how many days—”
“Ten. Ten of the longest days of my life.” After a pause, he blows out a breath. “I was so fucked up they wouldn’t let me back out any sooner. One of the guards shot me twice before I snapped his neck. And when I got to the surface…I didn’t know where I was. Crawled through the snow and dirt, fell halfway down the fucking mountain. When Sampson found me, he thought I was dead. Scared the piss out of him when I grabbed his arm.”
I manage a choked laugh. I’ve only met the man a couple of times, but West Sampson’s one of the calmest guys I know.
“He and Inara were part of a joint op to try and find us. The last one CENTCOM would authorize.” His voice roughens, even more than his usual low rasp. “I fought them, Dax. Begged them to go back with me to get you out. But…we got attacked. Inara took a fucking bayonet to the thigh. And then I passed out and woke up in the field hospital two days later.”
“Kahlid told me you’d been shot. Four times. Tried to get me to tell him how we’d planned to escape. Said he’d find you and take you to a hospital. I told him to go fuck himself.”
This…despite the pain the memories still cause…this I can do. It’s like a movie in my head. One that still has pictures. Unlike the rest of my life.
“Fucker lied. But twice was enough. Once in the leg. Another in my shoulder. If I’d moved faster, done…anything different…maybe…”
I take a long swig of my third beer of the night, needing the buzz of the alcohol to loosen my tongue and keep me from shutting down completely. “You got out. You couldn’t have known…what he was going to do.”
“When?” The question is no more than a whisper. “When did it happen?”
Dropping my glasses on the couch, I trace the chemical burns under my eyes. “I think…it was the second day after you got out. Maybe the third.”
