Page 43 of DFF: Delicate Freakin’ Flower (Family Ties #5)

Gabby

I woke to the smell of coffee and the soft creak of the cabin settling around us.

For a brief, blissful second, I forgot where I was—forgot the pain, the chaos, the crushing weight pressing down on my chest. Then I sat up too fast, and reality hit like a wave.

The throb of broken bones, the sharp pull of the bandage around my side, and the dull, aching stiffness in my head all came roaring back.

And there was Ira, humming to himself in the kitchen like this was just another quiet morning on some strange, off-the-grid vacation.

He caught me looking and grinned. “Morning, sleeping beauty.”

I groaned as I pulled myself upright more carefully this time. “Remind me never to let you pick the vacation spots again.”

He laughed and brought over a battered mug of coffee, setting it on the small end table next to me. “Drink up. We’ve got work to do.”

Work. Right.

I sipped carefully and stared at the old cabin around me. It looked deceptively peaceful, which wouldn’t be enough if Clayton Barris came looking.

Ira settled into the chair across from me, pulling out a yellowed notebook and a handful of supplies from a duffel bag I hadn’t noticed last night.

“We need to set traps.” My voice was raspier than usual. “Real ones, not just noisy distractions.”

He nodded, entirely unfazed. “I figured you’d say that.”

Together—slowly and carefully—we started laying out a plan.

The first was the classic wire traps. Not the kind that set off an alarm—but the nasty ones. Trip one, and you’d find yourself jerked six feet into the air by your ankle, dangling like fresh laundry.

It took us most of the morning to rig it.

Ira worked like a man half his age, tying knots with a speed and precision that made me wonder if he’d been a Boy Scout or something a lot more interesting.

I hobbled around with him, pointing and guiding as much as my battered body would allow, tightening the snare wires and setting the tension just right.

We hid them carefully—across the paths leading to the front door, between the trees along the trail, and even near the old outhouse. They were high enough that even a cautious step wouldn’t notice them until it was too late.

“You realize we could actually maim someone with these.” I checked one last anchor point.

“That’s the idea,” Ira replied cheerfully.

I tried to suppress a smile. “You’re not supposed to enjoy this.”

“I’m eighty-three,” he told me dryly, tossing a coil of wire over his shoulder. “I’ve earned the right to enjoy whatever the hell I want.”

Point taken.

We moved on to other traps after that: cans strung to fishing line across entry points for noise alerts, sharpened sticks wedged underbrush piles, and even a few homemade spike mats hidden under thin patches of moss.

Nothing lethal—well, not immediately—but enough to slow down anyone who thought they could sneak up on us.

Enough to buy us time.

By midday, we were sweating and aching, but the perimeter was rigged better than most second-rate survival shows I’d watched on TV.

I collapsed onto the couch, breathing heavily, my head pounding in time with my heartbeat and the rest of my body reminding me that it'd been through hell. I’d only done what work I could do from the wheelchair, but it’d still drained me.

Ira sank into the old armchair, looking downright pleased with himself.

“If we don’t catch Barris,” I gasped between breaths, “we’re definitely catching some poor postal worker who took a wrong turn.”

Ira laughed—a real, belly-deep sound—and reached for the can of sardines he’d bought at Walmart. “If that happens, we’ll feed ‘em and send ‘em home with a story to tell.”

I leaned back against the cushions, exhaustion clawing at me again. But somewhere beneath the pain, the worry, the fear was a kernel of satisfaction. We weren’t helpless. We were ready.

Webb

The living room was strangely quiet—just the hum of the TV filled the charged air. Most of us were slouched in chairs or spread out on the floor, laptops open and phones buzzing quietly as we tried to track Barris’s next move.

I sat on the edge of the couch, my elbows braced against my knees, hands loosely clenched together as I stared without really seeing.

Then, the anchor’s voice sharpened, slicing through the room like a blade.

“We interrupt your programming for breaking news out of Orlando?—”

Every head lifted at the same time.

On screen, shaky footage showed Maddox being hustled through a courthouse hallway, surrounded by deputies. His designer suit was wrinkled, his face pale and twisted in a way that almost made me smile.

Almost .

“We've just learned that Colin Maddox has been officially charged,” the anchor said, her tone practically crackling. “Sources close to the case report that his own mother has agreed to testify against him and provide proof of criminal activity.”

A few low whistles broke out across the room.

Jesse leaned forward, shaking his head. “Damn, Gladys really went for the throat.”

The view shifted to the county sheriff standing behind a podium, papers fanned out before him.

“As of this morning,” the sheriff began, his voice even and grim, “Mr. Maddox is facing multiple state and federal charges. We are coordinating with federal prosecutors to pursue RICO charges, among other potential charges. Mr. Maddox will be remanded without bail pending judicial review.”

Reporters buzzed with questions as the sound of cameras taking photos suddenly grew chaotic.

The sheriff barely blinked as he added, “We thank the public for the overwhelming number of tips and evidence submitted. Anyone with further information is encouraged to call the dedicated tip line shown at the bottom of your screen.”

The number flashed up on the banner below.

Jesse squinted at it and snorted. “Should’ve made it 1800-IM-A-DUMBASS.”

Across the room, Wes laughed from where he sat sprawled in an armchair. “Nah. Should be 1800-IM-FUCKED. That's way more fitting.”

A few chuckles broke out, even from Marcus and Elijah—who were both normally steady as bedrock—but I barely heard them.

I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the screen. It should have felt like a victory—Maddox’s empire was collapsing, his crimes being dragged into the light for everyone to see. And Gladys…she was a goddamn warrior, holding her ground and making sure the world couldn’t look away.

And yet, my gut twisted hard because Gabby wasn’t here to see any of it. She wasn’t here for the takedown, the reckoning, the justice. And the worst part—we still didn’t know exactly where she was.

I knew she’d run and that Ira had helped her. We had a few leads, but it wasn’t enough. And if she was out there in the bayou, alone, injured, trying to stay hidden, Barris would find her. That bastard would sniff her out like a bloodhound if we didn’t get to him first.

I clenched my fists tighter, feeling the pressure dig into my palms.

“Webb,” Jesse called quietly, noticing the look on my face. We’ll find her. We’ll find him, too.”

I nodded stiffly, but my chest felt like it was caving in.

Gabby was tough—maybe the toughest woman I’d ever met.

But she was hurt. Vulnerable. And the bayou—while beautiful and quiet on the surface—was something else entirely.

It was wild, unpredictable, and unforgiving.

And so was Barris. If we didn’t move fast enough, I might lose her before I ever got to tell her the whole truth that I wasn’t just in love with her.

I loved her like my soul depended on it.

We were still glued to the screens when a sharp knock at the door broke through the room’s tense focus. Everyone froze for a beat—hands hovering near weapons and Malcolm instinctively snapping his laptop half-shut.

Marcus was closest to the door. He moved quickly, peeking through the crack—and then opened it wider with a stunned look.

Standing there, holding two bulging grocery bags in each hand like she was delivering homemade pies, was Gladys.

She smiled warmly, utterly unaffected by the suspicious stares she was getting. "I figured you boys might be hungry, so I brought some provisions.”

No one moved at first—but it didn’t matter. She breezed right in, patting Marcus on the back as she passed, completely unbothered by our reactions. “Oh, stop looking at me like I’m here to kill you. After everything, we’re practically old friends. Now, where’s your kitchen?”

Sasha immediately stepped forward, linking arms with Gladys like they’d been gossiping neighbors for years. “This way! Come on, we’ll set it all up.”

The rest of us stayed frozen for another second as they disappeared, chatting away like old friends.

Wes leaned toward me and said under his breath, “I have serious questions about Sasha’s sanity.”

Jackson heard it, smirked and smacked Wes lightly on the back of the head. “Only I’m allowed to say that." There was a brief pause before he added, "Because it’s true.”

Meanwhile, Gladys was unloading enough food to cater a small wedding—fried chicken, mashed potatoes, greens, biscuits, and what looked like a peach cobbler. It filled the house with a smell so good my stomach practically curled inward in hunger.

Still, I pushed toward the kitchen, needing answers more than food.

Gladys caught my approach and smiled brightly. “Relax, honey. I know Ira took Gabby.”

I tensed. “How do you know?”

“He told me,” She explained, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Said he’d keep her safe.”

I gritted my teeth. “With all due respect, how’s a man who was around when the first draft of the Bible was being written supposed to keep her safe?”

Gladys’s laugh rang out loud and genuine. “Oh, it wasn’t the first draft. It was the second one. They had Moses parting mountains in the first, and it just didn’t work. Too messy. Water was much better.”

Malcolm, still half-focused on his laptop, snickered. “I love this woman.”

Gladys winked at him. “Thanks, sugar.”

I leaned forward, trying to get back on track. “Why should we trust him with her?”

Gladys’s smile turned secretive. “Because of what he used to do.”

The entire room seemed to lean in, the air tightening with expectation.

When she didn’t continue, Marcus groaned. “What did he use to do?”

She lowered her voice conspiratorially, glancing around.

“I can’t say it outright—I’m sworn to secrecy.

But let’s just say he belonged to a very selective group.

Black ops. Special missions. The kind of work that doesn’t officially exist. The kind where records are sealed, names are erased, and deniability is built into every layer. ”

The room went absolutely still.

Remy squinted. “So... like, clandestine operations?”

Gladys grinned. “Exactly. Quiet, dangerous, and smart as hell. And Ira's loyal to the core.”

Benny let out a low whistle, his grin wide. “That’s way cooler than what I thought. I can’t wait to get old and mess with people like that.”

Sasha, smirking, asked, “What’s the difference between now and then?”

Benny shrugged, already chewing on a biscuit he’d swiped. “When I’m old, no one’ll get mad at me. Especially if I’m as cute as Gladys.” He gestured toward her with a buttery biscuit. “I mean, look at her. She even brought food while she was messing with us. That’s adorable.”

Gladys just winked at him again and went back to arranging plates as if this were any other Sunday family dinner.

And for a fleeting moment, I let myself believe that maybe we still had time to save the ones we loved.