Getting to his feet, Alec grabs a blanket and drapes it over me, covering me from head to toe. I start to wheeze, the panic gripping me so strong, I might never escape it again. Until he pulls the dark wool away with a soft tsking sound. “Sorry, Quint. There’s one thing I forgot to do.” Sliding his hand into my left pocket, he withdraws my phone along with my house keys. “These things are so fucking trackable these days. But I see you disabled the facial scan. What’s your passcode?”
“Fuck you.”
His fingers wrap around my throat. I can still breathe, but he’s letting me know that could change in an instant. “You know I’ll win in the end. You never could resist my special drug cocktail. You’ll give me anything I ask for soon.” Tossing the keys to Dennis, Alec smiles up at the man. “Go get his laptop. That’s it. Don’t touch anything else and lock up when you’re done. I’ll send the bodybuilder a message so he won’t think anything of Quint going dark for a while.”
Oh, God. No. Clementine. She’ll hide. She doesn’t trust anyone—except Graham and Manny. I have to hold on to that hope.
After the door slams shut, Alec grabs my chin hard enough to leave bruises. “Passcode. Now, you piece of shit. Fighting me is useless. I’ll have it all soon anyway. Bank accounts, passwords, a new power of attorney. Dennis is a decorated member of the Dallas Police Department. Or was until he retired last week. He’ll be happy to testify about your mental state when we have our video conference with the judge in a few days. You’re only delaying the inevitable. And pissing me off.”
Giving up—giving in—takes another piece of my soul, and tears well in my eyes. “Seven, nine, one, four, five, two, two.”
Alec fiddles with the phone for a few seconds, then pulls out his own. “There we are. Your messages and calls will ring on my cell, and this old thing…well, it’s useless now.”
After he powers it off and removes the SIM card, he drops the phone next to me, picks up a tire iron lying in the corner of the van, and smashes the device into pieces.
My last tether to the life I built lies shattered just beyond my grasp.
Dennis climbs into the passenger seat, holding up my laptop like a prize. “Got it, love of my life,” he declares, and Alec blows him a kiss.
“You’re amazing,” he says sweetly, then pulls the heavy blanket over me, shrouding me in darkness and smothering heat. A few seconds later, the engine rumbles to life.
I start to sob. I’m chained on the hard, metal floor of a van, barely able to breathe and dizzy as fuck, while Alec and his latest conquest laugh at me. At how easy it was. How easy I made it for them to steal me away.
My mind wanders, coherent thoughts slipping from my grasp. Flashes of Graham’s face behind my eyes. Memories of him kissing me. The van rattles over a bumpy road, and my back spasms, the pain consuming me.
If I drift off, let the drugs take me away, it’ll be easier. I won’t hurt any more. Or…I won’t care. That’s better. Right?
The rhythm of the road changes, smooths out. We’re speeding away from my life. From my freedom. Soon, even if Graham does find me, there won’t be anything left of me to save.
Graham
The brutal hike through the mountains left us all with little energy—or desire—to talk, and as soon as we made camp, West, Raelynn, and I stretched out under a makeshift tent and were out in seconds. One of the benefits of this job? I can sleep anywhere. At the drop of a hat. Unless I’m battling bad memories. But even with as much shit as I’ve seen with Hidden Agenda, the only time I ever had a nightmare on mission? When we rescued Ripper.
Two hours later, West heats up a metal French Press with a fucking blowtorch—the man cannot and will not function without coffee—and pours me a cup. He and Ryker outdid themselves. This is as physically difficult as any mission we’ve been on, and while that’s the point—planning for the worst case scenario—all this time stuck in my own head isn’t doing me any favors.
I dreamed of Q, but instead of kissing him, of worshipping his body, of hearing him shout my name with his—or my—release, I was trapped out here in the jungle, he was the target we were sent here to rescue, and we were too late.
“Spill it,” West says quietly as we check the perimeter. “Whatever’s been eating at you since we left base.”
“You were right. About Q’s ex having Antisocial Personality Disorder.”
“Shit. Sorry, man.”
Raelynn jogs over, her steps nearly silent in the mossy, damp underbrush. A few tendrils of blond hair stick to her forehead, and she wipes her eyes with her sleeve. “It’s hotter than a cow’s teat down here. How the fuck do you two still look daisy fresh?”
“There’s a reason the warehouse is never the same temperature two days in a row. If you can train in those conditions, you can survive in these,” West says. “Any movement?”
“Quiet as a church mouse. Got some broken branches two hundred meters east-northeast, though. Someone’s been here besides us in the past forty-eight hours.” Taking a pull from her canteen, she peers off into the distance. “I can take another look if you two were in the middle of somethin’.”
“No secrets here.” I lift the binoculars and focus in on our target location. From this far away, it’s little more than a square patch of land with three buildings and tall, razor-wire fencing surrounding it. “My boyfriend’s ex is messing with him. Sending him emails, having shit delivered to his house…”
West stiffens and grabs my forearm. “He’s escalating?”
The SEAL’s concern ratchets up my own. “Yeah. But Q’s brother has guys watching the asshole and says he’s still in Dallas. Just hate not being there—or being able to do anything.”
Tapping his earbud, West connects his comms to Wren back in Seattle. “Whiskey to Base.”
“Base here.” It’s not Wren who answers, but Ripper, and a muscle in West’s jaw starts to tick.
“Where’s Juliet?” he snaps.
“Sleeping. Mission wasn’t supposed to start for another half hour, so I offered to be on standby. She’s fine. Relax.”
West blows out a breath. “Sorry. This isn’t mission related. Golf needs some intel.” Turning to me, he asks, “You know the asshole’s name?”
“Alec. That’s all I’ve got. Except he lives in Dallas, and there should be some sort of restraining order against him filed by a Quinton Silver that’s a little over a year old.”
“Anything official should be relatively easy to track down,” Rip says. “What’s this about?”
“This Alec shitstain is harassing Golf’s guy. It’s probably nothing, but in your downtime, find out everything you can about him. Including his current location. If it’s anywhere other than Texas, we need to know ASAP.” West rubs the back of his neck and glances down at the watch clipped to his chest. “Romeo will connect in twenty-three minutes, and I don’t have to tell you what’ll happen if Juliet doesn’t answer.”
“No, you don’t.” The sound Ripper makes might be a laugh, but he so rarely loosens up enough to joke around that I’m not sure. “Base out.”
I dig a protein bar out of one of my pockets and tear the wrapper, despite the ball of fear currently lodged in my throat. “Probably nothing?”
“Almost definitely nothing. But I never ignore a gut instinct.” West adjusts his rifle and jerks his head towards to the makeshift shelter. “Let’s go before Ry gets twitchy. You know he’s going to make the probie pack up all our gear.”
I offer a tight chuckle and follow West as he picks his way over the dense underbrush. I hope his gut instinct is wrong. Because I’m falling in love with Q, and if Alec is anywhere other than Dallas, I need to get back to Seattle right fucking now.
Quinton
“Hand me a candy bar, lover,” Alec says from somewhere far away.
A candy bar? He doesn’t eat sweets.
Nothing makes any sense. I can’t move, can’t see, and something thick and oppressive covers my face. My shoulders and wrists ache, and I have
to pee. Every few seconds, the raw agony of a back spasm obliterates all rational thought.
A gun. Alec forcing me to swallow a handful of pills. I turn my head, and the patch on my neck pulls at my skin. Dennis. The hatred in the blond man’s eyes.
No…
“You’re sure he’s going to cooperate?” Dennis asks.
Focus, Q. Listen.
It’s my only hope. I have to stay present. To find some way to get a message to Graham and let him know what’s happened to me. But it’s so hard. I just want to sleep.
“…get to the house, we can do whatever we want to him. Have to keep his face pretty for the judge, but get enough of the scopolamine and temazepam into him, and he’ll be putty in our hands. And if not, a couple of days chained up in the basement will do the trick.”
“Can’t we just make him OD and be done with it?”
“No!” Alec snarls. “He’s going to pay for what he did to me. To both of us.”
I can’t listen anymore. It’s too hard. He’s so angry.
Let me die.
The thought shouldn’t bring me peace. I want to live. To see Graham again. To cuddle Clementine and even suffer through one of Manny’s torturous therapy sessions. But it would be so easy to just give in. No more pain. If I could just…let go.
A jolt startles me awake—not that I remember falling asleep. It’s cold. My wrists burn, and I can’t see. Why can’t I see?
Blanket. Alec. Drugs. My mind struggles to put the pieces together. He’s going to break me. Make me pay for leaving him.
Fight him, Q. You’re stronger now.
Except, he doesn’t have to break me this time. All he has to do is convince a judge that I’m not mentally sound, and he’ll get access to my money. That’s all he’s after. That and control. He gets his rocks off making others do exactly what he wants.
The van slows and hits a pothole, and I stifle a whimper.
“Rest stop time!” Alec announces. “I’ll take our passenger. You keep watch. If any other cars pull off the highway, come get me.”
“Will do,” Dennis replies, his voice full of puppy dog like adoration.
The side door opens with a snap, and I jerk, the handcuffs sending sparks of pain all along my wrists. “Now, if you’re really good, Quint, maybe I’ll give you something to eat before we set off again.”
He moves around me for a couple of minutes, and I drift in and out, only vague fleeting thoughts I can’t quite grasp floating through my head.
Fresh air hits my face as the blanket slides away, and I blink hard. It’s dark outside, a single street light illuminating an empty parking lot and a plain, squat concrete building. Alec unlocks the wrist cuffs from the ring on the floor, cuts the duct tape binding my ankles, and then half drags, half carries me until I’m sitting in a wheelchair.
“Nnnoooo.” I want to fight him, but I’m too weak, in too much pain, and he slaps my cheek lightly.
“Shut up. The rest stop is deserted, and there’s no one to hear you scream, but if you make another sound, I’ll gag you anyway.” He throws a blanket over my bound hands and pushes a baseball cap low over my forehead to hide my face.
The world around me spins and tilts, but the fresh air helps me focus. Until he steers me into a large, accessible stall in the men’s bathroom and reaches for my belt.
“Don’t!” The idea of his hands on me is so repulsive, I want to vomit.
“Quiet,” he hisses. “Like I’d ever fuck you again. I don’t need to. You disgust me. But I don’t want my van smelling like piss for the next five hours. So you’re going to shut the fuck up, and I’m going to pull down your pants.”
We’re back at the van less than five minutes later, and he practically throws me out of the chair onto the floor. “Please,” I beg as he yanks my hands over my head. “Don’t. It hurts too much.”
“It won’t after your next dose of meds.” His face swims in and out of focus, but I think he’s smiling as he pulls out a pill bottle. “Open up.”
I shake my head, and his fingers dig into my jaw. As soon as he forces the pills past my lips, I spit them out. The snarl he makes sends a cold shiver down my spine, and my cheek explodes in pain, his fist snapping my head to the side as he laughs.
“Remember, Quint. I don’t need to be nice to you. I just need to keep you compliant and relatively unmarked for the next few weeks until all the legal shit is taken care of. After that, a quick overdose or maybe a shot of insulin? Doesn’t matter. No one’s going to care that you’re gone.”
“Connor,” I whisper.
“Your brother isn’t in a position to help you anymore.” Dennis sounds almost gleeful as he pries my jaw open.
Alec dumps the pills back into my mouth and then presses a strip of duct tape over my lips. I scream, but my words are lost behind the tape.
What did you do to Connor, asshole?
Thrashing earns me another punch to my side, and then someone tapes my ankles again, tucks the blanket all around me, and the engine rumbles to life. The taste of the meds dissolving on my tongue is familiar and overwhelmingly bitter, and I wheeze, fighting for every breath.
Memories mix with reality until I can’t tell what’s real anymore.
Graham. Graham is real.
But with the next pothole, I lose my train of thought, and I can’t remember what it was I was holding on to. Or why.
Chapter Twenty-One
Graham
Thank fuck Ryker didn’t want to be away from Wren any longer than absolutely necessary. As soon as we rescued the “hostage,” one of a team of seven former members of the Cuerpo de Fuerzas Especiales—Mexican Special Forces who helped us stage this mission—Ry called in a transport helicopter to pick us up. The trip to Culiacán only took twenty minutes, and the plane carrying us back to Seattle is twice as fast as the piece of shit we rode to get here. Also a hell of a lot nicer. Actual seats. With cushions.
It’s a little after 7:00 a.m. back home, and before we take off from Culiacán, I turn on my phone. Q’s message fills the screen, and holy shit. That’s the little park on the corner of his street. He did it.
“I’m slow as fuck. But when you get back, give me ten minutes’ notice, and I’ll meet you on this bench. I have something important to tell you, and I want to do it right here.”
He might be up already, and even though I probably should wait to reply, I can’t help myself.
“We land around nine-thirty. I need a shower—trust me—but I’ll meet you on that bench at ten.”
The little read notice appears next to the message, but he doesn’t reply. Odd. Maybe I woke him up?
Ryker taps his ear. “Alpha Team to Base. We’re on the transpo about to head home. I’ll contact you on our private channel in a few minutes.” Circling his finger in the air, he signals the pilot to take off before moving to the back of the plane to talk to his wife.
West and Inara are asleep in seconds, and Raelynn pulls out a small notebook and starts writing. Her instincts were spot on in the field, but she needs to learn how to trust her team. Unsurprising as she barely knows any of us. Ryker or West will give her “the talk” when we get back. Remind her that going off on her own could get her—or any of us—killed, and then assign her climbing wall drills for a solid week. Or worse. Make her clean the whole warehouse.
I’ve done it. It’s not fun.
Despite how worn out I am, every time I close my eyes, I see the picture of Q sitting on that little bench. I’ll message him again in an hour. Until then, I’ll fantasize about how good it’s going to feel to kiss him outside in the sun.
The engines change pitch as we start our descent, and I’m still staring at my phone. I’ve texted Q two more times, and he’s read both of them, but hasn’t responded. Worry makes my shoulders ache—though hiking more than ten kilometers carrying fifty pounds of gear didn’t help.
The city comes into view, and the device in my ear beeps. “Base to Alpha Team. Ry? Is Graham on comms?” Wren’s stre
ssed, her voice tight, the all-business tone she adopts for missions gone. And she used our names.
I sit up straight. “I’m here, Wren. What’s wrong?”
“Cam called me a few minutes ago. That motion sensor you left at the warehouse? It was tampered with. Deliberately.”
“Fuck me.” My phone slips out of my hands, and I scramble to pick it up and unlock it so I can text Q again when I hear Ripper’s voice.
“There’s more. Alec Harrow. Took too long to find his name because Quinton Silver didn’t file the restraining order. Quinton Davis did. Then legally changed his name to Quinton Silver a week later. The affidavit states Harrow messed with Quinton’s prescribed medication daily for a period of at least eight weeks after an accident that left him unable to walk. The tox screen performed at the Fort Worth ER on the day Quinton escaped from Harrow’s care? Scopolamine, temazepam, Oxy, Valium…” Ripper clears his throat. “Wren…I can’t…”
“Rip. Brother, meet me on the private channel,” Ry says sharply. “West…?”
“Yeah. Go.” West unbuckles his seat belt and slides across the aisle to sit next to me. Panic makes it hard to breathe. I need my meds and paw through my ruck in search of the little plastic box until West blocks me with an arm across my chest. “Stop. I’ll find them. Wren needs Q’s cell number so she can make sure he’s still in Seattle.”
The SEAL’s order carries weight, and I rattle off the digits without thinking. West presses my pill case into my hands, followed by a bottle of water. The Clonazepam won’t compromise my judgement, but it’ll keep me calm enough to think. Once it kicks in.
Until I hear Wren’s voice. “I can’t get a ping. Last known location was within half a mile of his place, but that was last night around 6:00 p.m.”
The plane touches down, and within two minutes, we’re in an SUV, West behind the wheel, Inara on the phone to Royce and Cam, trying to access Q’s security system remotely.
Braving His Past: An Away From Keyboard Romantic Suspense Standalone Page 17
