Page 10 of Pieces of You

I didn’t fucking know. I had odds and stats rattling around my brain at the same time as I knew several of those involved—and I believed in them. Cullen had confirmed more names. The Quinns—Darius and Gray, also Darius’s brother, one hell of a Marine marksman. River and Reese, of course. They’d worked in extractions and infiltration for years and years. Elliott Jones, Crew’s boss, also a former PMC. They knew what they were doing. Crew, too. My nephew may have had some doubts about himself, because of one single mistake in his career, but he was an excellent Recon Marine. Combat, logistics, transport, reconnaissance, mapping routes, surveillance, and high performance in smaller units—he was good to have on your team. He knew his surroundings better than a London taxi driver. Just hand over the keys and let him drive you to safety.

I inhaled deeply as Colt mirrored his laptop screen on to the two flat-screens.

About twenty folding chairs had been lined up not-so-neatly, and most of them were occupied by worried friends.

I stood in the back with my family, and Archie slipped his hand into mine.

I gave it a squeeze, unable to look away from the nearest screen.

The sound came on just as the press conference started.

A low, rushing noise invaded my ears, and I swallowed dryly. Corey snuck closer too, ending up in front of Sloan and me. I kissed the top of his head. He worried me a little since he handled his emotions differently. He hadn’t shed a tear, but we could tell the worry was eating at him.

“Shut up,” Macklin snapped.

I hadn’t noticed the murmur of conversation until it stopped abruptly.

The police officer—and it wasn’t even the chief, just some press relations officer—gave up the facts in a monotone voice. When the explosion occurred at the ranch north of Carlsbad, how many dead—holy fuck. I tensed up.

“Twelve dead?” Nora exclaimed.

“Who the hell lugs around a grenade launcher?” Jordan pressed. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

I didn’t care about all twelve of the dead. I cared about two of them, as they’d been innocent. Then, the three hostages. Several injured too. One was currently fighting for his life in the hospital after being shot in the chest.

The cartel connection was clear as day. This reeked of a vendetta.

“…twenty-nine-year-old Shay Tenley, forty-two-year-old Marisa Ortega, and eight-year-old Blake Hayward.”

“Oh my⁠—”

“Pipe down,” Colt commanded.

Three photos popped up on the screens, and there he was. I knew immediately who’d taken the photo. I recognized it. I spotted Tate somewhere in the middle of the chairs, next to Kingsley, covering a hand over his mouth. He’d taken the photo of Shay and Lane last year. Lane had obviously been cropped out, but I could see the pool in the background. Fuck, and that smile on Shay’s face. He was squinting just a bit for the sun. Dressed in a beater to reveal a lot of his tattoos, which the officer talked about. She mentioned marks, ink, and physical traits that could identify the three hostages.

“My God, she’s just a young child,” Archie murmured.

I’d seen enough of the photos. Instead, I let my gaze travel across the group of friends here today. I assessed them. I placed them in categories based on how they coped in a crisis. Macklin was going to cook even if no one was hungry. His fuse ran a little shorter when he was trying to keep it together. My sweet Archie was gonna picture our children in the places of the hostages, upsetting himself more in the process, until he tried to shake things off and dive into chores. Lucas, Tate, Cam, Gael, and Lane would probably busy themselves so they didn’t have to process anything going on. I wasn’t completely unfamiliar with the mind-set.

Where was Lane, by the way? He and Ty should be here. They were close with the Tenleys.

Lucian and Kingsley were gonna struggle with letting Cam and Tate do as they pleased, if what they did wasn’t exactly what their Doms would prefer. Both dynamics were heavily into TPE, much like Archie and me. Lucian and Kingsley were also gonna focus more on their slaves, with the bonus being they could use that as an excuse to avoid dealing with their own shit.

I was exactly the same. So were my brothers. We’d heard it from our mother all our lives.

“You breathe in and bleed out, son. You got the first part right. You’re there for others. But you need to take something for yourselves too. Let your other halves heal you the way you heal them—or you’ll have to deal with me.”

The last part came with a shaking fist.

Breathe in, bleed out.

Ma used to say she’d given birth to five workhorses.

“Don’t die on the job, sweetheart. It’s not worth it.”

Of course, she’d sprinkled religion in there too, especially when my brothers and I had geared up to go on deployments.

“Don’t you dare go down with Satan.”