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And that, somehow, was enough.
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
GRACE
It was mid-afternoon when we arrived back at the new safe house. We’d picked up a larger vehicle, rolled our passenger over into it and then picked up Lunchbox, Alphabet, and Goblin from the outdoor cafe where they’d stopped for lunch.
They both looked showered and fresh, somehow. Considering my own bedraggled and somewhat offensive to myself state, I eyed them with more than a little envy. They brought bags of croissant sandwiches that were to die for.
Arriving at the safe house, Alphabet and I waited with Goblin and our guest in the car while the guys cleared the house. I sat sideways in the front seat, studying the building. What did they see when they looked at it? The house? The safety? The weaknesses?
Maybe all of the above.
“Gracie…”
Twisting around, I met Alphabet’s gaze. His stubble was rough, his eyes sharp despite the bruised shadows beneath them. His hair had dried in a mess of half-curls and cowlicks, giving him that charmingly disheveled look.
God help me, I loved it.
“Yes, AB?”
“You really doing okay? After everything?”
Voodoo stepped out front, waved us in, then veered off toward the back of the SUV.
“I think so,” I said as the rear hatch lifted with a mechanical sigh. “I'm wiped, and yeah, it was a lot. Hopefully, I pulled my weight. Bones pretty much had to drag me through the last half.”
“He said you did good, Firecracker,” Voodoo called from the back. “And he doesn't hand out compliments unless he means 'em.”
“Facts,” Alphabet added, both of us reaching for our doors. I eased out with a groan, legs protesting every inch. Goblin hopped down beside me, stretching like a pissed-off cat. None of us were moving fast. My whole body felt like one big bruise, and I hadn’t even done the bulk of the fighting.
Voodoo hoisted our prisoner out like a sack of grain, slinging him over his shoulder with casual effort. As I stretched, a warm hand pressed gently against my lower back. I glanced toward the house, watching Voodoo disappear inside with his unwilling cargo.
“Problem?” Alphabet asked, nudging me lightly.
“Just thinking…” I gestured toward the door. “When did bringing prisoners back from field ops become normal? He was already lugging that guy when we regrouped in the garden—after weraideda warlord’s compound.”
I paused, brow furrowing.
“Is Reznik even a warlord? Is that the right word?”
Alphabet snorted, grabbing his gear. “He’s a jackass. Criminal. Traitor. Backstabber. Petty motherfucker fits too. Warlord feels like we’re giving him too much credit.”
I took one of the bags and slung it over my shoulder, walking beside him toward the house.
“Petty jackass it is, then.”
The safe house hummed with activity. Lunchbox was scrubbing his hands in the sink as we came in. “Go shower, Gracie. I’m going to get food started.” He held up a wet finger when I opened my mouth to say “thank you,” and I snapped it closed again. “You might not be hungry now. You might not be hungry later, but you still need fuel for recovery. I’ll make sure you have light options.”
When I drifted closer and pushed up on my toes, he dipped his head. “Thank you,” I whispered, then pressed a light kiss to his lips. “For the food,” I continued, then gave him another kiss. “For remembering that you’re all giants and I am short.”
His eyes softened and lit up with his quick grin. “Anytime, Gracie.”
“I’m gonna start sorting the files,” Alphabet said.
I snapped my fingers. “Wait.” Memory hit like a sudden jolt. “I’ve got something for you.”