Nothing was left in Bellamy’s office except for the desk and furniture, including the chair he’d nearly destroyed during their last conversation. A couple of boxes of files sat on the desk and a few more pieces of paper lay scattered across the floor. The room was otherwise cleared out—no books, nothing on the walls, and definitely no Detective Gary Bellamy.

“This office belongs to Charles Rossi,” Scott said quietly from behind him. Matt turned to find him leaning against the door jamb, his face tight with worry. “Well, it did until he retired about a month ago. Only a couple of years off pension age, too, but he said he had urgent family concerns to take care of.”

Matt stepped forward, his gaze quickly searching the room. Had he missed anything still tucked away? No. The walls were bare. He stepped up to the first box of files and emptied it on the floor. He expected Scott to say something, even perhaps grab his arm and stop him, but nothing came. The box was filled with manila folders, some with names he recognized from the firehouse—one with his. What the hell had been going on? How long had Bellamy been in town? Before Lauren even arrived? Had he had the Mancini family on his tail for months without even realizing it?

Matt cursed under his breath. He’d become complacent. Comfortable. After ten years, he thought of Monroe as home. He’d thought his nightmares were the only place he had to worry about Victor anymore. Clearly, he’d been wrong. So fucking wrong, and now it might have cost him everything. He batted the box away and headed for the other. Fuck that. It may have cost Lauren everything, and that was something he couldn’t live with.

He repeated his actions with the other box, finding more of the same. He was about to start tearing into the drywall when he noticed a small rigid piece of paper stuck into one of the bottom corner folds of the archival box. He grabbed on it and pulled, his hand emerging with a Polaroid photo. Bellamy’s grin stared back at him, mocking him. The man stood on a dock, holding a giant trout. Matt didn’t recognize the location, but from the scenery behind them, it wasn’t anywhere nearby. A second man stood next to him, holding a flounder, and behind him, another. The last man wore a tank top, and visible on his arm was a large tattoo of a red electric eel. Matt stilled. It was the tattoo from his dreams.

Scott appeared over his shoulder and jabbed at the man holding the flounder. “That’s Rossi,” he said. “On one of his many fishing trips. He used to brag about catching the big hauls with his cousin down in New Orleans.”

Matt’s jaw tensed as he pointed to Bellamy. “That the cousin?”

Scott nodded. “Yeah.”

Matt returned his nod. He had a destination.

* * *

He made it as far as the parking lot before Mason caught up with him. “Matt!” he called out. Only the fact that Mason was his best friend in the world had him slowing his steps. He wasn’t stopping, though, not for anyone. He heard a few fast-paced steps behind him and then Mason caught up, breathing a little heavily. “Jesus, what are you going to do, run down there?”

“No, Fucker, drive.”

Mason placed a hand on his arm, and Matt had to remind himself it wouldn’t be a good idea to punch his best friend and captain. Mason was trying to help. It wasn’t his fault that the only thing that made any sense to Matt right then was to get to New Orleans as quickly as possible, fuck any speed limits.

“Scott’s getting in touch with the airports and putting out an ABP,” Mason said. “But it looks like they have an hour’s head start at least, based on when they took Meg.” Matt felt a rush of guilt run through him. God, he was being a total asshole. He didn’t even know if Meg was okay. “She’s fine,” Mason said quickly, the look on Matt’s face clearly giving him away. “Liam insisted she visit the hospital for a checkup, just in case. Shane and the guys on shift checked her out at the scene, but Liam’s not taking any chances.”

Matt nodded again. He wasn’t sure if he was capable of words right then without blasting someone’s head off. He understood exactly where Liam was coming from. Once he found Lauren and Brayden—once, not if—then the hospital would be their first stop, no matter how much she protested. Then to a secure home, preferably with an armed guard. He’d take leave, quit, whatever was necessary to ensure neither of them was out of his line of sight for at least the next five years.

He huffed out a breath and ran a hand through his hair. Shit. He was beginning to sound like the man he despised. No matter how much he wanted to keep them next to him, to keep them safe, he had to let Lauren and Brayden live a normal life. They’d had that taken away from them once already, and he wouldn’t do that to them a second time, no matter how noble his intentions. That left only one option. His jaw tightened. Take out the threat against them. That, he could do.

He looked up at Mason. His best friend had been responsible for saving his life more than once over the ten years they’d known each other, and with any luck, he’d be able to do it again. That’s what Lauren and Brayden were now—his life, nothing less. “Your guy still in touch with that military guy?” Back when Mason’s fiancée Sloane had been accused of murdering a man, one of the guys who worked at another fire station nearby had put him in touch with a friend of his, a guy who worked for a cybersecurity firm out of Washington. They’d managed what the police hadn’t and had broken into Sloane’s fire-damaged cell phone. What they’d found on the phone’s memory had gone a hell of a long way toward getting the cops to open their eyes and start looking for other suspects. It was a long shot, but he’d seen the organization’s name pop up in the national newspapers every now and then since. DARC Ops—they were badass, and if anyone Matt knew had contacts anywhere in the US, it was them. Scott, and even Jesse with his FBI contacts, could only go so far, constrained by legal channels. Matt needed fast, and he was beyond caring if it was legal.

Matt didn’t need to say anything else. Mason had already pulled out his cell and was deep in conversation with someone on the other end of the line. The wait was excruciating, and he turned back to his truck, making sure his bag with his extras was ready to go and the gas tank was full. If that phone call didn’t work out, then he was out of there—whether to drive to the airport or just get on I-20 and head down to New Orleans.

Just as he slammed the truck door, Mason reappeared at his side, a smile on his face. Matt felt a glimmer of hope. If Mason looked like that, then Matt hoped it was good news. He hadn’t been sure that a security company in the nation’s capital would even take a call from a Monroe firefighter, but it looked like something might finally be going their way.

“You’re all set,” Mason said. “A plane will be waiting for us at the airport and fly us straight down to New Orleans. We’ll be there in under two hours, where a guy named Sam Hyde will be waiting for us.”

Matt finally stopped moving, and he turned to look at Mason, his eyebrows furrowed. “Sam Hyde?”

Mason’s smile turned into a grin. “Turns out they’ve been expanding. DARC Ops has a brand-spanking-new office right in the heart of the city.” His face darkened. “When the owner heard what was going on, he was only too happy to help. Those guys don’t take any kinder to assholes brutalizing women than we do here in Monroe. Their guy is already working with locals, and they’ll be waiting for us when we land.”

Matt grabbed the back of his truck to prevent his knees from hitting the concrete of the parking lot. Thank God for the good guys and for Mason’s firehouse friend. Now he just had to get there. Lauren and Brayden needed him, and he was going to be there. There was no other option.