Page 105 of Breaking His Exile

Evander had seen men come apart before. He’d seen it in Afghanistan, in prison, in the mirror more times than he wanted to count. He knew the signs. The way the body tried to fold in on itself. The way the voice went thin and then disappeared altogether. River was three seconds from implosion.

He crossed the kitchen in two strides and grabbed River by the shoulders. “Look at me.”

River’s head came up. His eyes were wild, wet, lost in a place Evander recognized too well.

“She doesn’t have time for either of us to turn guilt into self-punishment.” Evander held his gaze. “Not you. Not me. You can fall apart after she’s safe, but right now you need to pull your shit together and help me get her back.”

River stared at him. Something moved across his face—raw, unfinished. Then his jaw set. He nodded. Once. Hard.

Evander released him and turned back to the table.

The satellite phone rang.

He answered it. Put it on speaker. Set it on the table.

Mal’s voice filled the kitchen. Cool. Amused. “Mr. Cole. I’m starting to wonder if you’re taking this seriously.”

“I’m on my way.”

“Alone? Unarmed?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Because I’ve got Hobbs sitting across from your songbird with a very large gun, and Hobbs has been awake for thirty-six hours, which does not improve his temperament.” A pause. The sound of someone shifting position. “The turnout. County 14. Power lines. You know it?”

“I know it.”

“Get here by eleven, or she dies.” The line went dead.

Evander set the phone down. Looked at Brandt.

The marshal’s expression gave nothing away. “He’s bluffing on the timeline. Or partially bluffing. He wants you moving. Wants you rushing. Rushing men make mistakes.”

“Or he’ll shoot her at eleven-oh-one,” Evander said.

“Also possible.” Brandt pushed off the door. “Ghost. Patch him in.”

Walker reached for the radio on the counter. Keyed it. “Ghost, what do you have for us?”

Thirty seconds of silence. Then Ghost’s voice, clipped and dry, came through the speaker. “Still working.”

“We need the utility vehicle’s last known location,” Brandt said. “Side-by-side. This morning, pre-dawn.”

“Tracking.” The sound of keys. Ghost worked fast. Evander had watched him operate enough to know the man moved through digital space the way Evander moved through terrain—reading patterns, anticipating gaps, never taking the obvious route. “Last ping from the GPS was 05:17. Dead-end track off County 12, northeast quadrant. Coordinates coming to your phone.”

Walker’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it. Nodded.

“That’s not the turnout,” Brandt said. “He moved her. County 14 is the meet. County 12 is where they took her first.” He looked at Evander. “How many men did you hear on the call?”

“Mal Granger. Hobbs. At least one other voice in the background. Couldn’t ID it.”

“Creed,” River said. “It’s Creed. Has to be.”

“Possible.” Brandt’s gaze swept the table. “We operate on worst-case. Mal, Hobbs, Creed, Gemma. Four hostiles. Rainey as primary. Cole as secondary target.” He looked at Evander. “You drive in. Alone. No weapon visible. They’ll search you. Let them. Our approach comes through the timber on the north and east. High ground above the turnout gives us overwatch. I want two shooters there. Ghost, you’re one. Cole, who’s your second?”

The question landed. Evander looked at the faces around him. Walker, steady at the head of the table. Bear, his medical kit already packed and waiting. Jonah, calm and ready. X, vibrating with contained energy. Jax, silent and lethal against the wall. River, standing straight now, his grief compressed into something harder.

“Jax,” Evander said.