How many more?
My arms go limp. All of me goes limp. Another crack to my skull, and I stop struggling against the darkness.
Wyatt, I love you. Hurry.
Wyatt
The clock is moving backwards. It’s the only explanation for why we’re still sitting here. In a van with blacked-out windows parked a full mile and a half from the compound, with no plan or way of knowing if Hope is all right. Or even still alive.
“You’re positive?” Ry asks. “Because if that fuck stick doesn’t give the performance of his goddamn life, I’m going to find him and flay the skin from his sack with a rusty vegetable peeler.”
“That ain’t the visual I needed before breakfast,” Connor drawls over the small speaker in the center of the van’s workspace. The former FBI agent retired a month ago, but still has enough contacts he trusts at the Bureau to figure out who the hell leaked word of the investigation to Simon. “Michaels knows if he don’t fix what he broke, he’s goin’ away for the rest of his pitiful life, which in Gen Pop will last for approximately zero-point-two seconds.”
Ryker scrubs both hands over his scarred head. “I owe you one. We all do.”
“You don’t owe me shit. We’re family, remember? Tell Graham we’re comin’ out to Seattle for spring break. Finalized the dates with Q last night.”
“He’s a little busy right now, but he gave you a thumbs up. Gotta go, but anything changes, you know how to reach me.” Ry ends the call and sinks into one of the bucket seats. “Fucking piece of shit junior agent couldn’t resist a fifty grand bonus check.”
The urge to hit something grows with every passing second. Thirty-seven minutes since two of Arrens’ generals shoved Hope into the back of a car and drove away. The park was less than ten minutes from the compound. He’s had twenty-nine minutes to hurt her. To terrorize her.
“Wyatt, focus up.” West snaps his fingers, and I blink, hard. “You’re going with Graham and Raelynn. We can’t risk getting any closer with the van, and until we can make sure Arrens hasn’t tapped into the local traffic camera network, hoofing it won’t be quick. Grab your gear and stay hidden.”
Graham passes me the smallest earbud I’ve ever seen. “Bone conduction. Make sure it fits. We have a couple different sizes.”
It beeps softly once it’s in. “Yankee, you copy?” West asks.
Slinging a black backpack over my shoulder, I wince as the strap tugs at the still-healing bullet wound from my last run-in with Simon’s men. “Some reason I can’t be Bravo?”
“Yeah. Because I said so. Get a move on.”
It’s a damn good thing West is my oldest friend. I shoot him a quick glare, then follow Graham and Raelynn—Golf and Sierra, since Ryker has a lock on Romeo—into the night.
The street is deserted at 3:00 a.m. Or maybe that’s an illusion since we shot out the three closest street lights when we got here. Graham leads the way, Raelynn behind me.
No one speaks until we’re in position. The soft green glow of my watch shouldn’t be visible by anyone more than two feet away, so I risk a glance. Fuck. Fifty-three minutes.
“Golf, Sierra, and Yankee locked,” Graham says over comms.
“Indigo in position.” Inara is perched on a roof five hundred meters from the compound. Close enough she can cover the distance at a dead run in under two minutes—even with her rifle—but far enough away, she should be invisible.
“Whiskey locked. Alpha team? Status report.” With West, all five of us are ready and waiting for Ripper and Wren to work their magic.
“Still working.” The strain in Rip’s voice doesn’t reassure me. “Bastard paid a fucking fortune for this system.”
I can’t just sit behind this hedge—pine cones digging into my ass—and let Simon hurt the woman I love. “How much longer?”
“As long as it fucking takes,” Ripper snaps. “Romeo’s keeping an eye on things with the drone. We’ll see anyone coming or going.”
It’s not enough. It’ll never be enough. Not until Hope is safe in my arms again.
22
Hope
My neck aches. I try to reach up to touch it, but my arm won’t move. Each beat of my heart throbs all the way to my eardrums. Not good.
Pain prickles along the back of my scalp as someone wrenches my head back—or up. Simon’s face blurs in and out of focus. Can’t see his eyes. Need to see his eyes. Need to know how angry he is. How much he’ll hurt me.
