I process that. Hendricks is former CIA, now private sector. The work he offers isn't the kind that shows up on tax returns, and the clients he represents don't exist on paper. It's the type of contract that could fund Blackthorn's operations for months.
It's also the type of contract that requires full commitment. No distractions. No divided attention.
I frown. The idea of not seeing Lily doesn’t sit well. “When's the meeting?”
“Tuesday. Fourteen hundred hours.”
Three days from now.
Three days to decide if I'm all-in on Hendricks's job, or if I put my focus on Lily.
The mare is five feet away now. Close enough that I can see the white star on her forehead, the old scars on her flanks where someone used spurs too hard. She stretches her neck toward my hand, nostrils flaring.
I don't move.
“Luke told me about Lily,” Jake says quietly. “About the tattoo.”
There it is. The conversation I knew was coming. “Yeah.”
“Turner's operation,” Jake says. It's not a question. “She was taken.”
My jaw is so tight it feels like it could snap. “Appears so.”
The silence that follows is heavy. Luke and Jake both know what that means. They've seen the aftermath of trafficking operations before—the broken bodies, the shattered minds, the survivors who carry the weight of what was done to them like a second skeleton.
“She’s not like them,” I say, wanting them to know.
Luke hums. “She doesn’t move like a victim, except for being skittish sometimes.”
“Doesn’t that make you wonder if she actually is a victim?” Jake asks objectively.
“He doesn’t think so,” Luke replies. “Do you, Ace?”
I shake my head.
“And you want to help her.” Jake's voice is careful, but there's an edge underneath. Not judgment—concern.
I turn around and meet his gaze, my arms folded across my chest. “She’s mine.”
“It can’t be a coincidence that she’s here in Iron Ridge, where Turner’s operation stems,” Luke points out. “You don’t get free and then hang around your prison.”
Agreeing, I nod. “I don’t know what she’s got in mind, but she's got backup.”
“Backup,” Luke repeats with a sly smirk. “That what we're calling it these days?”
I don't answer. I can't. The truth is more complicated than backup, more dangerous than operational support.
The truth is I watched her through a window last night and wanted to break down the door. Wanted to pull her into my arms and promise her she'd never have to be scared again. Wanted to hunt down every man who ever put a hand on her and make them pay in blood.
The truth is I'm compromised in ways that have nothing to do with mission parameters.
The mare's nose touches my neck. Soft. Tentative. Testing.
I hold perfectly still.
“If she did escape, and Turner doesn’t know,” Jake says quietly, “him seeing her tattoo?—”
“He won't.” The words come out harder than I intend. “I'll make sure of it.”
