I pull in a breath and steady myself. Wallace has information. There are omegas unaccounted for, facilities we haven't found, threads we’ll need him alive to pull. He is more useful breathing unfortunately.
“Can you take him to the OHC? Adrian and I would like a few words with him,” I say.
Levi raises his brows and looks back at Wallace. “Better there than dirtying my cells. Less paperwork too.”
Levi signals the team and they drop down from the platform, picking up Wallace and dragging the betas.
“Thank you, Levi,” I say. “I mean that.”
He shakes his head. “Just take care of your pack, Kev.”
We walk back up to the platform and are halfway across when Levi goes stiff. There's something on the ground behind a bolted-down bin. Levi crouches toward it. A sweatshirt. Grey, dirty, the hood flipped inside out. Sera has gone very still at my side.
“Isla Wilson,” she says, quiet. “That's hers.”
Levi picks up the sweatshirt and lifts it to his face.
Something moves through his expression that he doesn’t even try to hide.
He lowers the fabric slowly.
He looks shattered.
“Mate,” he says.
Chapter Forty-Three
Sera
The night air in the parking lot feels painfully clean. I drag it into my lungs and hold it there.
How the hell did Espie survive breathing that in for years?
The SWAT team loads Wallace into the back of the van. He's not fully conscious, probably from blood loss, and they don't treat him gently, which I appreciate.
I hope he has fun trying to wipe his ass with no fingers.
Two of his modified betas go in after him, cuffed at the wrists and ankles, and then the van doors close. The van pulls away and satisfaction burns in my chest.
Ezra had dealt with my hand while the SWAT team was still clearing the platform. He'd unwrapped the field dressing Wallace's people had thrown on it, cleaned the wound, and followed it with a nerve block that had my whole hand going pleasantly numb from the wrist down. It's wrapped, it's clean, and Ezra knows what he's doing.
“I'm amazed you're still on your feet,” Kev says.
“I'm very motivated to stay vertical,” I say.
He makes a sound that falls somewhere short of a laugh and slides his hand into my hair, his thumb moving in slow, soothing strokes.
Espie has both arms around my waist from one side. Aubrey has his face in my neck from the other. I'm holding them both and their scents are soaking through my jacket and into my skin, and the pull is there. All five threads. Espie first, gardenia thick at the back of my throat. Aubrey underneath that, cedar going warm now, chamomile sweetening. And then behind those two, threaded through them both like they're the door the others walked through: oakwood, Earl Grey, fresh linen.
Levi holds Isla's sweatshirt in both hands, the fabric bunched between his fingers. His shoulders are carrying weight that wasn't there an hour ago. He's not looking at me. He's looking at the sweatshirt.
“She was on the train,” I say. “When they took me inside the platform, the train pulled out. She was in a cage in one of the cars. Four other omegas with her.”
His jaw works.
“They could have transferred them anywhere along that line,” I say. “We don't know how many stations they're using.”
“We know one.” He lifts his chin toward the platform entrance. “We know Ashcroft. We know the layout. We have Wallace in a van.” His voice is flat, operational. He's doing what I do, using the work to hold the rest of it at bay. “With the right persuasion, he'll give us the network.”
