Page 4 of Holding the Line
But the part where they all looked wary of him?That nearly broke him.
Obsidian Ridge had always been a place to heal—at least, that was Ezra’s favorite pitch.But Marsh hadn’t healed.He’d retreated.Burrowed into the lab like a wounded animal.Stopped eating with the others.Stopped sleeping.Let the equipment pile around him like armor.
Another chirp.
Not from the translation rig.
From the other terminal—the one tucked behind the server shelf, hidden like a dirty secret.It ran quietly.Constantly.A watchdog program designed to scrape outgoing and incoming Obsidian Ridge comms for flagged terms—his name, injury, and a handful of less-public locations of interest.
Marsh wheeled himself over, scowling as he read the new entry.
Voice message.Timestamped fifteen minutes ago.Caller ID anonymized but triangulated near Cheyenne.Calling Ezra.Immediately he became suspicious.
He clicked it.
A male voice came through, warm, slightly breathless, tinged with a New York accent and a touch of Spanish influence that curled at the edges like a secret smile.
“Hey, this is Eli Carmino.Uh ...long drive, turns out.Car’s being a little temperamental, and the GPS on my phone has no idea where I am.But I’m sure I can work out where I need to get to.Should be there by mid-morning, tops.Looking forward to getting started and working with Marsh.”
Working with Marsh.
He didn’t work with anyone.No mention of what he was starting.No indication who he was reporting to.Just that warm, open tone.
Too warm.Too practiced.
Marsh narrowed his eyes.
A therapist.
It had Ezra written all over it.The vague arrival, the unnamed project, the New York lilt designed to disarm.Another soft-voiced fixer sent to reassemble Marsh Clarkson, one pat-on-the-shoulder at a time.
Well, fuck that.
He looked around the lab—tools scattered, empty mugs, grease-smeared schematics pinned to the wall like war plans.It was a chaos only he could decipher.The only space left that felt like it belonged to him.And now even that felt invaded.
If this Eli bastard was here for him, Marsh would make damn sure he regretted the drive.
****
Eli Carmino squintedthrough the cracked windshield, wincing as the setting sun glared off the hood of the rust-riddled beast he dared to call a car.Well, technically, it was a 1987 Buick LeSabre that looked like it had moonlighted as a drug dealer’s mobile office—or maybe a temporary shelter for feral raccoons.Cream and mossy green, in a faded two-tone that might’ve once been charming in a 70s-sitcom kind of way.
He loved it.
Sure, it took a flattened teaspoon jammed into the ignition slot to start it, and it had the distinct aroma of cigarette smoke and gasoline, but it had gotten him out of Cheyenne and helped him to escape from New York.It had cost him five hundred bucks, his last five hundred bucks if he were to be honest, but the car was his.
And besides, the teaspoon made a better keychain than the Colonel ever had for his fleet of pompous-ass vehicles that screamed asshole.
He adjusted his grip on the steering wheel as a jolt of pain lanced through his ribs.The seatbelt rubbed wrong against his side, and the steering wheel sat too high—just another design flaw in a long list of flaws he’d discovered through recent life choices.
Driving hurt.Everything still hurt.
He’d flown into Cheyenne the day before, eyes darting across the airport for shadows he didn’t want to recognize.He’d grabbed his bag and hustled out before anyone could notice.Before anyone could stop him.He found the Buick waiting on the fringe of a Craigslist miracle—a mechanic’s lot on the edge of town that dealt more in favors than receipts.
He’d test driven it with a busted stereo playing nothing but static and a half-used air freshener that dangled like a sad pine-scented prayer.The guy hadn’t asked questions, just took his cash and handed him the keys with a grin that said, “She’ll probably make it to wherever you’re headed.”
Probably.
And that was good enough for Eli.