She’s soaked. Water dripping from her tactical jacket, pooling on the tile floor. Her dark hair is plastered to her skull, and she’s holding a coffee mug like she was about to make herself at home.
“Jesus Christ, Longo.” She doesn’t flinch at the Glock aimed at her chest. “You want to point that somewhere else?”
I don’t lower the weapon. “How’d you get in?”
“Security codes. Same ones you have.” She sets down the mug, raises both hands in mock surrender. “Perimeter alert didn’t trip because the storm knocked out the exterior sensors.”
“You couldn’t call?”
“Cell towers are down,” Lucia says. “Storm took them out around midnight. There was no way to reach you.”
I check my phone. Full battery, zero bars.
Wyatt steps into the light behind me, his own weapon dropping to his side. “What’s wrong?”
Lucia’s expression shifts. Something careful settling over her features, like she’s about to deliver news nobody wants to hear.
“Mudslide took out one access road, and the other was going. We had maybe an hour to get out before we were completely cut off.” She pauses. “I had to move the principals.”
The principals. Vicente and Arturo.
The floor drops out from under me.
“Move them where?” But I already know. I already know before she answers because where the fuck else would she take them in the middle of a storm with roads washing out.
“Here.” Lucia meets my eyes, her expression only marginally apologetic. “They’re in the car. Darius is with them. I wanted to warn you before I let them inside. Figured you’d need a minute.” She gestures at the coffee mug. “And caffeine.” She returns her attention to the coffee maker.
“You brought them here.” My voice comes out flat. Controlled. The Glock in my hand feels heavier suddenly, and I have to stop myself from tracking it toward the front door.
“I didn’t have a choice, Chris. The canyon house was compromised, not just the weather. We found surveillance equipment near the access road during the midnight sweep—cameras, comms relay. Someone’s been watching. They knew where we were, and the roads were already washing out. The window was closing fast.” She steps closer, lowering her voice like that’ll make this easier to swallow. “Whoever’s hunting them, they’re getting closer. This was the only safe location I could get to.”
“Safe.” The word tastes like ash.
Lucia holds my gaze for a moment longer, then moves to the front door. I hear her call something to Darius, hear the car doors open and close.
They come in out of the storm like refugees from a disaster movie. Darius first, scanning the room with professional efficiency before stepping aside.
Then Vicente. His eyes sweep the room the same way mine did: exits, angles, threats. Some things you don’t unlearn.
His gaze finds me. Holds.
I don’t look away. I don’t flinch. I stand there in my borrowed sweats with my weapon still in my hand, and I let him see whatever the fuck he wants to see.
Arturo follows, one hand at Vicente’s elbow. Protective. Possessive. After Thanksgiving, there’s something more careful in the way he looks at me—like he’s finally putting pieces together he’d rather not see. I have no idea if they’ve talked about me behind closed doors, but the session recordings I listened to suggest they probably communicate better than most men in intimate relationships.
Nina materializes beside me. She must have come down when she heard voices. Her hand finds mine, fingers threading through, and the touch is an anchor. A reminder of what’s real. Vicente sees this too and I just hope it isn’t yet another thing he uses for leverage or a mind-fuck.
“I know nobody’s sleeping after this,” Lucia says, all business. “But I need you all to stay in the main living area. Easier to keep eyes on everyone if you’re not spread across the house. And stay away from windows.”
Everyone looks around. The house is essentially made of windows: floor-to-ceiling glass facing the ocean, the band of clerestory windows along the roofline, the kitchen’s glass doors to the side yard.
“Do your best,” Lucia adds drily. She turns to Darius. “Find some towels. We’re all dripping on the hardwood.”
Darius nods, disappears down a hallway, returns a minute later with an armful of towels from a linen closet. He distributes them: Arturo and Vicente first, then Lucia, keeping one for himself.
“There’s a study down the hall,” I say. “More interior walls. Windows have shades.”
Lucia nods. “That works. Vaughn and Tabrizi are on exterior rotation. Darius, you’re at the front gate once we’re settled. Everyone stays together. Easier to keep you alive if I’m not chasing you around the house.”
