West whistles. “And Duncan knew—probably the whole damn time. I think we need to make some calls. Base, you and Charlie get everything you can on the DeLucas and the Rossis. Any players you can identify, base of operations, rumors…anything. We’ll reach out to Stars and Bars. Romeo can call AR. Someone should tell him his son has been taken. If we’re lucky, he’ll help us get him back.”
“Brent was madder than a hornet,” Connor says, stifling a yawn. The former FBI agent—and Graham’s boyfriend’s brother—holds the phone in a mostly dark room, a single light to his left casting shadows over his face. It’s still early as fuck in Texas. “Said he thought puttin’ me out to pasture would let him sleep through the night more often. But he confirmed that Angelo Rossi is not only alive, he’s been the head of the Rossi crime family for the past thirteen years.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Ryker cracks the seal on a bottle of water and offers it to me. “Drink. You’re about to pass out.”
“He ain’t wrong.” Connor moves the phone closer. “You look like five miles of bad road in the middle of nowhere. Why’d you let her on the plane, McCabe?”
“Didn’t have much of a choice.” Ryker lowers himself into one of the plush, leather seats. “She’s as stubborn as you are.”
Connor’s chuckle riles my anger.
“Ain’t you the one who took down a drug ring and saved your kid with a severe head injury?” I ask.
“It was aphasia and major concussive syndrome. I was damn lucky.” Pride infuses his tone. “And my kid is a badass.”
“Can we get back to business?” Ry asks. “We land in ninety minutes, and I still need to call Angelo and convince him to stay the fuck out of our way. And let Nash return to his life when this is all over.”
Connor runs a hand through his hair, the dark brown strands sticking up in all directions. “The FBI has extensive files on both the DeLucas and the Rossis, but Brent’s exact words were, ‘You ain’t gettin’ your hands on shit.’ There are at least five active investigations goin’ on, so watch out for surveillance.”
I cringe. Knowing Diego and Kellan were outside the Pinnacle Hotel when Nash and I showed up was a blow. West threatened all of us with weeks of training when this is all over.
“You’ll keep working him?” Ryker cracks his neck. “Anything you can get us will help.”
“I ain’t got an ounce of quit in me,” Connor says with a weary smile. “But if Brent has me arrested for interfering in a federal investigation, you’re payin’ for my lawyer.”
“Deal.”
The call ends, the video screen going dark, and Ry takes a healthy swig of coffee. “West? Wake up. We’re calling Angelo.”
The SEAL’s out of his seat almost immediately. “Not without coffee, we’re not. Raelynn? You want some?”
“Any more caffeine, and I’ll be in a world of hurt.” I shift my foot on my rucksack, and a flare of pure agony races up my leg.
Ryker shakes his head. “You’re already there. I knew this was a mistake.”
“Nash is in this mess because of me.” I push to my feet, clenching my jaw when the cabin threatens to spin around me. “You ain’t sidelinin’ me for this one.”
“You can barely stand on that knee. No fucking way you’re leaving the van.”
“I’m a part of this team—”
West ambles up to us, coffee in hand. “If we have to fight our way in—or out—of anywhere, you’re a liability, Raelynn. You have to see that. I can give you a shot of lidocaine for your knee, but it’s not going to fix the broken toes, the damage to your shoulder, or the fact that those assholes used you as a punching bag for over an hour.”
Before I can protest, he stares up at Ryker, a single brow arched. “But you can’t expect her to sit quietly and let us handle shit either, Ry.”
“Yes, I can,” he growls.
“Russia.”
With that single word, West shuts him down. Ryker grabs the seat back next to him, his fingers digging into the leather so hard, I can hear it over the hum of the engines.
“You gonna hit me again?” he asks the former SEAL. “Because I’m ready for it this time.”
“Nope. Don’t need to. Because now you remember how it felt knowing Wren was in danger. She was never going to stay in the van.”
I’m shocked West is on my side. Even more shocked when Ryker shakes his head and mutters, “Fine.”
Five minutes later, we huddle around the conference table, our earbuds connected to a burner phone Wren spoofed with the dead U.S. Marshal’s number.
