I have so many questions. What’s the plan being the most important one. But Ryker cut me off when I tried to ask with a terse “no distractions while we’re out in the open.”
Ronan jerks awake with a loud snort, and Ryker mutters, “About damn time. You’re sleeping in the van tonight.”
“Give me a break, will ya’? I broke my damn nose two weeks ago and it’s not healed properly yet.” Ronan’s voice carries just a hint of an Irish accent when he’s pissed off—which seems to be most of the time.
Ryker turns down a short dirt driveway and blows out a breath when he pulls the van around the side of a squat, dilapidated house. “We’re here.”
I check my phone. No update from Austin. At least I know he landed. But if they’re watching for me, they’re also watching for him.
Twenty minutes later, everything’s unloaded, and Ryker and Graham are setting up a command station of sorts in the house’s sparse living room. Ronan is going through a metal crate full of weapons and taking inventory.
I find a seat at the small kitchen table with the encrypted tablet Ford gave me before we left. Ryker asked me to sketch the layout of the upper floors of The Crypt, and I replay our time there, trying to remember as much as I can.
A new message dings my phone, and I grab it, expecting to see Austin’s name. Instead, I freeze and the device clatters to the floor. “Ryker.” I can barely hear myself, but he’s on his feet in a split second and headed towards me.
“What is it?” He scoops up the phone, and as he taps the screen, his multi-hued eyes turn almost an icy blue-green. “You have less than twelve hours,” he reads, “to keep him alive. I do hope you are on your way.”
In the attached photo, two of Ochoa’s soldiers hold Trevor up by the arms. His head is bowed, he’s unbelievably pale, and blood spatters the floor in front of him.
“The bastard’s baiting you,” Ryker says. His very large fingers fly over the screen with a deftness I don’t think he should be capable of, and after another minute, he passes the phone back to me. “This sound enough like you for Ochoa to believe it?”
I need more time. Even the Post can’t get a Visa application approved this quickly. One more day. Please.
“Y-yes. But...we can’t leave him there another day. They’re torturing him.” My stomach is in knots, and my hands start to shake.
Snatching the phone back from me before it falls again, Ryker sends the message, then pierces me with his hard stare. “There is no fucking way we can get him out without reconnaissance and a shitton of luck. Going in there today is suicide. This whole mission is suicide.”
“Then why did you come?” I stand, holding on to the back of the chair to keep myself upright. “If you’re so sure this is going to fail, why even bother?” He doesn’t answer right away, and my anger flares hotter. “You know what? Maybe you should just go home. I don’t trust Ochoa for a second, but if I have to, I’ll let him have me on thechancehe’ll let Trevor go.”
“Not happening.” Austin’s voice startles me. Everyone else too, apparently, as he has three guns pointed at him before I can blink.
“For fuck’s sake, Pritchard. Don’t you know how stupid it is to sneak up on me?” Ryker asks as he holsters his weapon.
“Wasn’t trying to. You were all distracted.” Austin pushes through the wall the three other men made around me and folds me into a bear hug. “I’m sorry, squirt. I never should have let Trevor do this. I should have been the one to go with you.”
The tears I haven’t let fall since I discovered my birth father’s name soak into his shirt, and I cling to him with all the strength I have left. “We can’t leave him there,” I say between sobs.
“Everyone in the living room. Now,” Ryker snaps, and I flinch in Austin’s arms.
“McCabe, watch your tone,” my brother says as he guides me into the main room.
“You should know me well enough by now, Stars and Bars. Thisismy nice voice. Sit down and shut up while I explain how this is going to go.”
Anger radiates off Austin in waves, and he works his jaw back and forth. I’ve only seen him this tense two or three times in my life, and when we sit, I scoot out from under his arm in case he blows up.
“Dax called me because this is what I do,” Ryker says, his hands on his hips and his gaze fixed on me. “You don’t know me, Lois—“
“Lois? You’re supposed to be the best but you can’t even remember my name?”
“Lois Lane? Youarea reporter. Outside of this safehouse, we use codenames. You’re Lois.”
Graham, who’s seated in an old wooden chair next to me, leans over and cracks a smile. “Guess that means I’m Jimmy Olsen.”
Ryker shoots him a look, and he snaps his mouth shut.
“If the peanut gallery’s done?” No one responds, and he nods his approval. “Dani, you don’t know me. But that story I said you didn’t want to hear?”
I nod. His scars. He stripped off his jacket when we got inside, and his forearms and biceps are covered in them—along with numerous tattoos.
