“I’m gonna fuckin’ kill him,” Jasper grits out.
He’ll have to get in line.
Three goddamn years. Marvin knew. He knew where she was. Knew what they were doing to her. And he came to work every fucking day. Sat across the table from me. Pretended to care.
Hardison shoves Marvin to the floor, then drives a boot into his ribs. I don’t stop him. Hell, I give him a sharp nod. Because right now, there’s no daylight between his fury and mine.
“Cap,” Hardison says, his voice so calm, he could have just ordered coffee and donuts instead of broken a man’s ribs, “get up. We’ve gotta work the scene—and fast—before the night shift nurse checks in. Then we can make this son of a bitch piss himself a hundred times over before morning.”
He holds out his hand.
I force myself up, but something crunches under my boot. Reaching under the bed, I find Grace’s sketchbook. There’s a page ripped out, the edge jagged.
“She never tears the pages,” I whisper.
Hardison gives Marvin another kick, then picks up Grace’s pencil. With quick, practiced strokes, he shades the blank page until we can see the last image my wife drew.
Fort Worth Rodeo
We turn as one. The world’s ugliest belt buckle has always been Marvin’s pride and joy. His great uncle’s. Or so he said. Below the words, Grace captured it all. The curve of the bull rider’s arm. His hat held high. The animal’s horns.
Grace has been trying to draw this goddamn belt buckle for more than two weeks. But she could never finish it. Never understand what she was seeing.
She knew. Somewhere in the wreckage of her mind, she knew. Behind the buckle—the man wearing the buckle—she drew one of the poles with a lantern swinging in the breeze.
I’m gonna be sick. “You son of a bitch!” I snarl, slamming the sketchbook so hard against Marvin’s chest, his entire body jerks. “This is why you took Parker. Because she saw this and she recognized your goddamned belt buckle.”
Hardison steps in before Marvin can open his mouth. He grabs the offending belt buckle and uses it to haul the asshole up and slam him back against the wall.
“One question, fucker,” he growls, his voice utterly lethal. “Is Parker alive? Yes or no.”
Marvin smirks, but it falters when Hardison jerks him again, hard enough to rattle his teeth in his skull.
“She’s alive,” Marvin gasps. “Prophet didn’t want her dead. He wanted her…saved.” His lips curl. “Said he was ready for his fifth wife.”
Hardison’s gaze turns feral. “If he hurts her—if he touches her—there won’t be enough left of either of you to bury.”
Marvin’s bravado cracks just a hair. His eyes widen, and he swallows, the sound loud enough we can hear it. Hardison shoves him to the floor with a disgusted snort, then looks at me, hard edges and something dangerously close to fear. “AJ, Parker’s…family. If this goddamn Prophet takes what little soft she’s got left, we’ll lose her. Even if she survives.”
I can’t see past my rage. “Get him up. We’re goin’ somewhere no one can hear him scream.” I grab Grace’s sketchbook, the only part of her I have left. “And Nate? If he so much as looks at you funny…”
Hardison smiles—actually smiles. “I’ll make sure he can never look at anyone ever again.”
Chapter Seventy-Six
AJ
We haul Marvin out of the trunk like the sack of shit he is. Nate knows a guy who used to run this auto shop on the edge of town. But with half the sign’s letters missing, weeds pushing through the cracked asphalt, and the lingering stench of decay mingling with the smell of oil and rust in the air, the guy hasn’t been here in years. Neither has anyone else.
It’s the perfect place for a man to disappear.
Jasper and Connor wait just inside the door, arms crossed over their chests.
I never thought the two of them looked much alike, but right now, they wear the same expression we all do. Rage.
Marvin hasn’t said a fucking word since we dragged him into the hospital stairwell. Every flight, Hardison “dropped” him at least once. His knees will never be the same.
“I reckon this should do him just fine,” Jasper says, waving his hand at one of the old repair bays.
