Chapter 42

Nate followed Pete out of the interrogation room. When they hit the landing at the top of the stairs, he stopped. A police officer was escorting Sarah around the corner.

“I know what I saw,” Sarah told the officer, who was talking on his cell. Her hair was braided over one shoulder. She carried her straw bag and walked with a determined stride.

Pete was almost downstairs, unaware Nate’s heart was skipping beats. “Sarah?”

She blinked. “Nate?”

“I heard what happened.” He touched her arm, and then dropped his hand. “Are you okay?”

“I wasn’t hurt.” She looked away, and he noticed the tear tracks on her cheeks. He wanted to trace them with his thumbs, but he knew she’d back away. “This is my fault, Nate. I’d asked my assistant to do some research for me. I had no idea she was staying late.”

“This isn’t your fault.” Nate hated seeing her so sad and really hated the fact that she was blaming herself. “I’m sorry.”

She raised her chin. “My dad was a police chief in Boston, so unfortunately, I’m used to things like this. I’d just hoped Savannah was safer.”

“Nate?” Pete yelled from the bottom of the steps. “We gotta go, man.”

The tic above Nate’s eye acted up. “I couldn’t help but overhear. What did you see?”

“You’d never believe me.”

A noise distracted him. Two fully armed MPs entered the station.

“That’s odd,” she said. “What do you think they want?”

Nate took her elbow and led her into an alcove, hiding them. “What did you see?”

She pressed her smaller hands against his chest. “What are you doing?”

Could she hear what she did to his heart rate? Did she care?

“Nate?” Pete ran up the stairs, his face hard and angular. “Time to go. Now.”

“Please, Sarah. Tell me.”

The MPs were coming, and Sarah’s officer was still distracted.

Her breasts moved faster as her breath shortened. “In the shadows, I saw a man bow.”

Nate kissed her. He couldn’t help himself. He pressed his lips against hers and, after a moment, her lips softened. The scent of gardenias hit him, and his body reacted with rocket-fueled power and thrust.

Pete grabbed Nate’s arm, said, “Excuse me, ma’am,” to Sarah, and pulled Nate away.

The MPs were on the landing, talking to Sarah’s officer. Pete dragged him down the hall while Nate looked back. Sarah stood where he’d left her, watching him. His last view was of MPs running in his direction.

He slammed the door and took off his belt. His raging erection would make sure his pants didn’t fall off his ass.

Pete was halfway down the staircase. “Nate!”

Nate used his belt to tie the door handle to the fire extinguisher case and double-timed the stairs. When they hit the station’s back alley, his eardrums rang from the alarms. The night air filled his lungs, and he found his bike next to Pete’s motorcycle.

After Pete roared away, Nate pedaled fast until he turned a corner, hit a puddle, and wiped out. Since neither he nor the bike were broken, he walked it to the end of the flooded alley. When the road was clear, he hopped on again until he turned another corner and saw the MPs beneath a street lamp.

Nate pressed himself against the wall. The MPs knelt with their backs together, hands on their heads. Two other men wearing jackets over hoodies stood near the kneeling cops, and Nate saw a third man, similarly dressed, across the street. Someone whistled, and the three hooded men hit their chests and bowed at the waist.

Holy. Shit.

The two men guarding the MPs each pulled something out of their pockets. Nate was too far away to be sure, but it looked like syringes. A moment later, the warrior across the street tossed a smoke grenade. The MPs dropped to the ground, the air filled with white phosphorus, and Nate took off. Ten minutes later, he hit the club. He hated leaving the MPs with three Fianna warriors, but it wasn’t Nate’s fight.

Pete was waiting inside the back door. He’d rolled the motorcycle into the kitchen and Nate left his bike next to it. Then he went through the club, making sure the other doors were locked as well. Once satisfied the perimeter was secure, they met in the security office. The power worked, and this room had no windows to the outside.

Pete’s hands-on-his-hips routine reminded him of Kells. “Where’ve you been?”

“Backtracking.” Nate secured the door, and then plugged in his cell phone. “The MPs ran into three Fianna warriors.”

Pete hit him. A right hook caught Nate’s chin, and he fell to the side. A deep throb invaded his jaw. “What the hell?”

“For leaving Samantha alone and letting her get kidnapped.” Pete struck Nate’s stomach. Nate blocked the hit but missed the left hook that took out his nose. “That’s for trading the map for pills.” Then Pete hit Nate in the solar plexus, and the breath left his body. “That’s for kissing the woman. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Nate stumbled to the couch and touched his nose. Bruised, not broken. “I’m trying to fix this.”

“How? By letting Samantha get kidnapped? By kissing random women? There are lots of things against us, and we don’t need people thinking you’re a sexual predator.”

“It was a kiss.”

“While being chased by MPs and trying to save our men?” Pete ran his hands over his head and paced the room. “Not only was that too damn close, your fighting skills suck. You’re a Green Beret. You used to be able to kill with a Post-it note. Now look at you. Hopped up on migraine drugs and painkillers. You can’t drive. You’re soft, and it’s affected your executive functioning. Your last few decisions—including kissing that woman—suck ass.”

“Her name is Sarah. And I fight every day.”

“How many times have you won? Or are all those bruises a fashion statement?”

“Who wins or loses isn’t important.” The whole point was to rile up the aggression to tamp down the seizures.

“Forget it.” Pete threw himself on the couch next to Nate, one hand over his eyes. “When this is over, I’m reteaching you basic self-defense and Krav Maga. You and your self-hatred should be able to handle that.”

Nate gave the sigh of failure. It killed him that Pete was right. Nate’s choices lately had been poor. Still, he didn’t need lessons in street fighting or self-defense. A refresher, maybe. But basic lessons were bullshit.

“What do we do now, Nate? We have to save Samantha.”

Nate grabbed his cell still attached to the power cord and dialed Luke. No answer.

A second later, Luke texted.

Can’t talk. MPs here for us & looking for you & Pete.

Nate nudged Pete so he could read along.

Why?

To lock us in Bragg’s preconfinement facility for own safety until trials. MPs worried we’ll take off.

“Fucking nightmare,” Pete muttered.

No kidding.

When?

Tonight. You’re on your own. Don’t get caught. Counting on you two. Last hope.

“Shit.” Pete’s elbows dug into his legs, his hands holding his head. “Now what?”

“We prioritize.”

“Which is first for you? Getting high, losing my girlfriend, or screwing the archivist? I’ve heard about historians. Quiet on the outside, wild—”

“Don’t talk about Sarah that way.”

Pete shook his head. “So, almighty XO, what’s the plan?”

Nate didn’t laugh. He hadn’t been an executive officer since his court-martial. That wound still bled. “We need a map of the city and a pen.”

“What for?”

Nate went to the desk. “We have to find Balthasar’s safe house to snag the map and retrieve the vial. We’ll use them as leverage to get Samantha back.”

“Balthasar could have them with him. And we don’t even know if Balthasar wants to give Samantha back. There’s no ransom. All we have is Montfort’s word that Balthasar has her.”

“I wouldn’t carry the map and vial around. They’re too valuable. I doubt many things, but not Rafe’s take. If Balthasar has her, he has his reasons.”

“What about Montfort? He needs the vial too.”

“Finders keepers.” Nate rummaged through another drawer. He’d seen a tourist map and…success. He laid it on the desk and smoothed it with his fist. Now he needed a pen. “Garza and I checked out five properties earlier today—all of them near Calum’s sigil but still duds. If we can figure out where the tunnels run, we may be able to locate Balthasar’s safe house. Those tunnels would be perfect for running a covert op in the middle of a city. Maybe even hiding a kidnapped woman.”

Pete leaned his ass against the table and watched. “Secret tunnels. Hunting a Fianna warrior. Stealing his map. Rescuing the girl. It’s a doomed plan with no chance of working.”

“Our favorite kind.”

“Now you sound like Jack Keeley. You remember. Your best friend rotting in prison.”

“Sarcasm noted.” Nate found a black marker and tried to remember the properties Calum had marked earlier in the day. “We can’t sit while our CO and the rest of the unit join Jack in prison. Now, mark every place you’ve seen Calum’s graffiti.”

Pete X’d the club’s alley. “I can’t believe we’re going to save the girl.”

“And our men”—Nate pointed to Iron Rack’s gym—“with a black Sharpie and a Gray Line Trolley tourist map.”

“Hooah, Brother. Hoo-fucking-ah.”