Page 111

Nash

Today

Fucking hell, thisis torture. Drake watches, looking bored as hell as I pace the room, checking the damn tracker signal every few steps, making sure it’s still on course. At least Raider, Mya and Liza aren't here to witness my unraveling, having left minutes after Pops did for a new secure location.

"I should’ve gone with her, hidden in the SUV or something," I muse, then check the tracker again.

"Then what would’ve happened when he makes her move from location to location? I bet this guy is smart enough to make her change cars a few times before meeting her wherever he really intends for them to, hence the trackers."

"This is fucking bullshit," I bellow. "There has to be a way for us to get out there now without alerting this bastard."

"I'm making a mental note for this bullshit to show up on your next evaluation."

"You don't do fucking evals. Our eval is meeting the objective, and tonight's objective—"

"Snowflake, you let emotions cloud your judgment. Stop for one damn second and think. Would I really be okay, me, sitting this out?"

He's right about the emotions piece, but how do I not let the fear and fury churning inside me, flowing through every vein, dictate my actions and thoughts?

I interlace my hands behind my head as I stare at the ceiling in an attempt to clear my mind of everything except the situation.

Taking Pops, Liza and Mya out of the picture, if this wasn't personal, what would I see? What do I see?

"You don't trust them," I say, looking to Drake who's across the room, leaning a shoulder against the stone fireplace. "It's why you added the additional tracker."

"I don't trust anyone except you boys with the lives of our family." Family. Hell, guess it’s obvious to everyone how I feel about Pops. "Especially bureaucratic computer geniuses who've probably only fired a gun during their yearly qualifications. Plus we haven't confirmed the CIA piece of shit is the inside source. Until that's confirmed, I'm keeping some of our cards close. What else, Snowflake? Think."

The need to check the tracker again eats at my brain cells, shutting out everything else. Shoving aside the urgency to see that damn flashing dot, I keep my focus on Drake.

"The SUV. You made her take your SUV. But... fuck, you're a genius. There's no GPS in my truck, too old, so the FBI, CIA, this bastard—no one can track it."

"You're smarter than you look. Add in the small window after Raider left with Mya and Liza so this fucker thinks we aren't going anywhere and we're ready. So, you ready?"

"Ready? Ready for what?"

"To go protect your girl and get the assclown who's after your family."

Fuck yes.

**

BURNER PHONE IN HAND, we speed as fast as my old truck is able down the highway, closing the distance between us and the damn blinking dot.

"She's pulling off somewhere," I tell him. "Wasn't the SUV full?"

"Maybe a quarter tank gone. No reason for her to be stopping unless she needs to take a leak. Is she the type to piss a lot?"

"I don't know." I grimace across the bench seat. "Does your wife?"

"Don't talk about my wife pissing."

"Then don't talk about Pops pissing," I retort. "I'm calling her."

Lights from the oncoming cars illuminate the cab, making Drake’s slight nod in agreement, or permission—let’s go with agreement—visible.

Ten rings and voice mail.

I try again but no answer.