Ford stands in the doorway, his hands shoved into his pockets. “I’ve worked with Trev for more than three years now, and I’ve never been here.”
“Trevor doesn’t let anyone in.” But staring at the picture of him from the wedding, I realize how badly he wanted to.
I point to the photo. “What do you see here?”
His lips curve into a slight smile. “Everyone who matters to me.”
“And when you look at what Trev keeps in this room, right here, what do you see?” Stepping back, I let Ford peruse the three frames, then watch as he takes in the rest of the spartan space.
His smile falls away, and he scrubs his hand over his chin. “Those photos are everything that matters to him. The only things in this room that matter to him.”
“Bingo.” I sink down onto the bed, dig into my bag, and pull out my thinking putty. The familiar feel of it between my fingers helps me gather my thoughts into something I think Ford will understand. “Trevor was never adopted. Gil and I were. After his dad died, no one ever came for him. Supposedly, he had some extended family. A second cousin, a great-aunt. But no one wanted him.”
“He told me he aged out of the system, but why the fuck wouldn’t his family want him?”
I don’t say anything. Just watch and wait for him to put the pieces together. When he does, the harsh realization pales his eyes. “We’re his family now.”
The room takes on a shimmer as I blink back my tears. “So am I.”
“We called everyone in for Ripper. But for Trev... We need more than just Ry and Graham.”
“That’s not it. You don’t need an army.” With a small shake of my head, I sigh. “An army would just attract more attention. But you do need me. Because if I’m right, he’s already been sent to The Crypt, and I can get us in there. General Ochoa is afterme.Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if he only took Trev to get to me. I can contact him and offer myself in trade.”
“No fucking way,” Ford says, almost on a growl. “You think Trev would ever want you to put yourself in danger for him?” He straightens, standing up a little taller, and if I don’t figure out the right thing to say in the next few minutes, I’m going to lose any shot at this.
But God—or whoever’s in charge up there—must be looking out for me, because I pick up my phone to give myself a minute to collect my thoughts and find a text message waiting for me. Along with a photo that threatens to stop my heart from beating.
“Ford? You need to see this.”
I angle the phone as I tap the screen, and Ford swears loudly. The text is from an unknown number, but Ochoa isn’t fooling me.
We have Señor Moana. If you wish him to remain alive, you will surrender yourself to La Cripta in the next twenty-four hours.
In the picture, Trevor lies on his back under a bright light. His eyes are closed, and blood trickles from a split lip and a cut on his cheek. The dark red jumpsuit is stained with dirt and sweat, and his wrists and ankles are chained.
“Ford, you can’t stop me. Either put me on a plane to meet up with Ryker and Graham, or I’ll find my own way there. Trevor isn’t alone anymore. He has at least one person who willalwaysshow up.” I tap my chest, right over my heart. The heart Trevor owns. “Me. I’llalwayscome for him. So either help me or get out of my way.”
* * *
Ronan,one of Second Sight’s guys, parks outside a small public airfield thirty minutes north of Boston. “I don’t like this,” he says as he pulls a large duffel bag from the trunk of the car.
“I don’t either. Let’s get that straight right now.” An hour ago, Ronan showed up at Trevor’s with a whole complement of tactical gear that’smostlymy size, a small arsenal, a laptop, batteries, comms units, and multiple GPS trackers. One of which is now embedded in my right ass cheek, thanks to Ford’s handy little dart gun.
I rub the sore spot, then sling the new rucksack over my shoulder. It’s at least thirty pounds, and I stifle my grunt. I can’t show weakness. I won’t.
“I know the drill,” I reassure Ronan, who continues to eye me with skepticism. “Do exactly what you, Ryker, or Graham say, don’t go off alone—at all—and don’t get captured or killed.”
“At least you know how to fight,” he mutters as he approaches a man in brown fatigues. “Sergeant Smith?”
“To you, anyway. If anyone finds out where we’re going, I might as well be named Sergeant Fuck-Up. Strap in. Ear protection’s in the locker under the bench. We’re flying high and fast, so if you’ve got anything warm in those bags, get it out now.”
This isn’t my first military transport plane flight, but most of the others were in full daylight, officially sanctioned, and involved a bunch of guys who—once they found out I was an Aikido expert—became overly protective of me. Tonight? My partner’s a red-haired, green-eyed kid who looks like he’s closer to his twentieth birthday than his thirtieth. But his gaze is steady and deathly calm, and he handles himself with a confidence all of the Second Sight guys seem to have in spades.
“I hate to fly,” he says as the plane’s engines start to spin up for takeoff. “Don’t make me regret this.”
I give him a saccharine-sweet smile. “Don’t fuck up, and I won’t.”
Ronan’s eyes widen, and he chuckles as he leans back and closes his eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”
