Page 113 of Oathbreaker

Atlas has been throwing ideas at me—all completely ridiculous and over-the-top—so I’m trying to come up with a plan that falls somewhere between asking her while I’m deep inside her and renting out the top of the Eiffel Tower.

It has to be something romantic but private, because I know she’ll want it to be just us. I’ve tossed around the idea of asking Frankie but decided Briar needs the whole romantic gesture first. Then we can talk to Frankie. As much as I love my kid, a four-and-three-quarters-year-old is not telling me whether or not I can marry her mom.

I walk outside and my step falters.

Atlas is standing next to his Bentley, hands on his hips. There’s a nondescript black sedan parked next to him, a man in sunglasses standing beside it, and Atlas does not look at all amused.

Oh, hell.

I recognize the guy right away.

My handler.

What. The. Fuck.

I stride in their direction with a scowl.

“What are you doing here, Forrester?” I demand.

“You know this douche waffle?” Atlas asks, peering at me over the top of his sunglasses.

“I do.” I turn back to Nathan Forrester. “So? What’s going on? I told you I’m out.”

“I know.” He holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “But this is different.”

“It’s not. I’m done. I don’t want anything to do with?—”

“Colt, it’s Igor.”

This time I freeze, my gaze snapping to his.

“What?”

He holds out his phone. “This came in this morning through back channels.”

The picture on the screen makes my blood run cold.

Igor, my old teammate and the man who got me out of Siberian hell, is in chains, hanging from the ceiling of what looks like an old warehouse. His face is beaten beyond recognition, but I recognize the tattoo of an eagle on his right shoulder and biceps—it’s the mascot from our college hockey team. So, it’s definitely him.

There are bloody wounds all over his torso, his feet are bare and dirty, and there’s a pool of blood below him.

No one has to tell me it’s bad.

Or that he’s going to die if someone doesn’t stage a rescue operation.

“Do we know where he is?” I ask, my training kicking in automatically. “Where did the intel come from?”

“We have an idea.” Forrester gives me a quick rundown.

“I need an hour or two,” I say.

“Colt.” Atlas’s voice is low, tight, but he saw the picture. He has to understand.

“I know,” I say without looking at him. “But I wouldn’t be here if not for Igor.”

“Call me when you’re ready for me to pick you up,” Forrester says. “We have a plane waiting to take us to D.C. And you can pick your team.”

I don't even hesitate because I’m going off the books with this one. “Landon Grimshaw and Elliott Rageis.”