Jon motioned to the truck. “Let’s get going. I don’t care which of you rides up front, but I better not see you measuring dicks for it.” He turned and strode around the front, shaking his head at the predictable banter that trailed behind him.
Foxe climbed into the passenger seat. Alex took the rear passenger side, Billy the driver’s, and Herb squished his skinny ass into the middle. Jenna had been right; there was no way he could have shoved all four of them back there. Alex would have had to take a lap, and that would just have been awkward.
“So,” Billy said, “what’s this about missing women?”
“No, no,” Herb cut in, “someone said Mr. Marine had a girlfriend. Tell us about that first.”
Jon groaned as he rolled the engine over and started toward the nearest parking lot exit. “Yes, I have a girlfriend, and if you behave a little maybe I’ll let you meet her.” He paused because he didn’t feel like shouting over the noise that followed. There was a reason he’d never tried his hand at being a Drill Instructor. “The missing women,” he finally said, “are likely being trafficked by the Veracruz Cartel. I’ve had a few run-ins with them since I got back, and day before last a group of them tried to kill my girl. They’re also the assholes who put Lance in the hospital.”
“Fuck,” Foxe muttered. “So, it’s like that.”
Herb said a few choice words in Spanish that more or less echoed the sentiment.
“That explains why Blackburn’s not here, then,” Billy said. “Damn shame.”
Jon flexed his hands on the steering wheel. “He’s expecting to be released today, so we might get some help from him depending on how this plays out. But we shouldn’t assume.” And Billy was right. That was a damn shame.
They made it about a mile down the road before Jon’s phone went off with a message. His phone was attached to the charger in the center console and upside down from his angle, so all Jon was confident in when he glanced down was that the message was not from Jenna or Lance. But something niggled at him, so he said, “Mind checking that for me, Foxe?”
“Sure.” Foxe lifted the device. “You got it face-locked, or—”
“One-one-zero-eight,” Jon said.
Foxe typed in the code and a noise came from the backseat.
Alex propped his elbow on the window ledge. “Swear I saw a number like that on a piece of paper recently.”
Jon tossed him a glare in the rearview mirror.
“Army knows your secret code?” Billy asked.
Knowing it was a mistake, Jon grunted, “It’s Jenna’s birthday.” He’d changed his usual code when he’d acquired a new phone, and since he’d already decided to make the trip home, he’d been feeling nostalgic. He should have known it was fucking sign.
The Force Recon buddies in his back seat wasted no time giving him shit and shoving at his seat like he wasn’t driving on a mountain road. But Foxe didn’t join in.
Jon cut his eyes sideways in time to see Foxe sweep an arm out to shut the other two up. “What is it?”
“You might want to pull over, man.”
Jon stretched out his hand. “Just give it to me.” He’d done more dangerous things than texting and driving, as stupid as it was.
“Jon, I’m serious,” Foxe argue. “There are other cars on this damn road. Pull over.”
Jon ground his teeth and slowed down, aiming for the nearest stable patch of shoulder. He threw the truck into park for good measure and held his hand out again. “Satisfied? Hand it over.”
Foxe set the phone in his hand.
Jon lowered his eyes to the screen. There were two messages, both from an unknown number. But he knew far more than he wanted—and nowhere near enough—the moment he laid eyes on the picture that had been sent to him.
It was Jenna, in the backseat of some unfamiliar vehicle, with what looked to be a black bar obscuring part of the frame. As though it overlapped her. Or as if she were behind it. The camera was zoomed in enough that he could see her face fairly well. He could see the fire of outrage in her eyes … and the dried blood on the corner of her lips. What looked like the beginnings of a bruise darkened one cheek and a smaller one darkened the opposite jaw, beneath the blood. He could also see the way her shoulders were wrenched back, as if her arms were being held behind her.
His blood boiled and he felt his arm shake with the spiking of his temper. He knew exactly who’d sent the fucking photo, exactly who’s vehicle that was, and exactly who had put their hands on her. Fucking Drew Parker.
He dropped his glare to the text that had come with the picture.
I have something you want, Water Boy. And I feel like getting dirty. Do you remember which cave is my favorite?
Fucking Drew Parker.He was a dead man.
