Page 10 of Oliver (The Golden Team #7)

Oliver

S he didn’t sleep.

I heard her moving around in the early hours—quiet footsteps, the click of the fridge, the soft creak of the porch swing.

She was pretending to be fine.

I knew that move. I’d lived it.

I left her alone until late morning, then knocked on her door with two mugs of coffee—one black, one the way Cyclone said she liked it: cream, no sugar.

She opened the door in an oversized shirt and a pair of leggings, hair up in a loose knot.

“You always bring coffee to women hiding in a safe house?” she asked, one brow lifted.

I grinned. “Only the ones I rescue from armed kidnappers.”

She took the cup. “Charming.”

We sat on the back patio. Ocean breeze rolling in, the salt air cutting through the heaviness that never fully left her eyes.

She was trying.

But something was still locked inside her.

“You remembered anything?” I asked gently.

She shook her head. “No. I’ve replayed every moment, every second. All I know is they seemed certain I had something. But I didn’t. I was just training. I didn’t see anything.”

“Sometimes the brain buries things,” I said. “To protect you.”

“My brain doesn’t feel protected.”

No, she looked like she was barely keeping it together.

I leaned back in my chair and stared out at the water.

“My son’s name is Olly,” I said.

Her head turned toward me, surprised.

“He’s six. Lives with me full time.”

Her face softened. “I didn’t know you had a child. You should go to him. Cyclone and Tag are here.”

“I don’t really talk about him to anyone but my friends,” I chuckled. “I’m sure they think I talk too much about him,” I said. “Dana—his mom—we were divorced. But when she got sick, she brought him to me. Cancer took her fast. I didn’t know about Olly until she brought him to me.”

Emery's voice dropped. “That must’ve been hard for Olly.”

“Yeah. Dana was so brave. She didn’t want to fight with me at the end. Just wanted Olly to have a parent who was present.” I paused. “I took care of her. I helped her leave this world with someone by her side.”

“That’s beautiful,” she said quietly.

“She was a good mom, she loved him more than anything. It was hard watching her fade away. She told me she wasn’t afraid of dying, she was just going to miss Olly so much. Olly’s the best thing I’ve ever done.”

Emery looked at me as if she were seeing something new. “You’re not what I expected, either.”

I shrugged. “Most people just see the tattoos and assume I’m the muscle. Not the dad.”

She smiled, but it faded fast.

“I hate this,” she said. “The not knowing. The waiting. The feeling that I’m broken somehow. You have to leave your son to protect me.”

“You’re not broken, Emery. I’ll see my son soon.”

She didn’t answer.

I leaned forward. “They kept you in a basement? Did you hear anything?”

“I heard voices upstairs. Maybe five, six men total.”

“Did they speak English?”

“Only when they brought me food. The rest of the time, it sounded… Russian. Or maybe Chechen?”

That narrowed things down. But not by much.

Too much, and not enough.

“You were training at a private gym, where not to many people went.” I asked. “Anyone new around? Photographers, reporters, fans?”

She frowned, thinking. “I went there because it was private, and I was told there were no photographers or anyone else. There was a guy… tall, bald, wore aviators indoors. He didn’t talk to anyone, but he continued to hang around. I thought he was maybe security. I would see security around often.”

“Do you remember his face?”

“Not really. But he had this scar above his eye, high up on his forehead. I noticed it because he once stopped in front of me like he was going to say something. But he ended up walking around me, and he watched everything. Not just me—the whole facility. I was taken the next day.”

That set off every alarm in my gut.

I stood. “I need to run that past the team.”

“Do you think he was the one?”

“I think someone was watching you,” I said. “And it might not be about ransom at all. It might be about whatever you saw—and forgot.”

Her expression changed. Eyes sharpening. “Then I need to remember.”

Emery rose from her chair, her entire body tense as if she had just heard the sound of a starter pistol firing.

“I want to go back to the gym,” she said. “Retrace my steps.”

I shook my head. “Too risky. If someone was watching you there, they might be watching still.”

“I’ll wear a disguise.”

I stepped in front of her. “No.”

She crossed her arms. “You don’t get to make that call.”

“Yes, I do,” I said, quieter now. “Because I’m the one who dragged you out of hell, and I’m not about to let you walk back into it.”

Her jaw flexed, eyes burning. “I’m not a porcelain doll, Oliver. I was taken. I survived. I need answers.”

“You think I don’t want them too?”

We stood there, staring each other down, frustration tangled with something fiercer—something hotter.

She looked away first. “If I don’t remember, then I’ll always be waiting for the next time. The next cell. I can’t live like that.”

I let out a slow breath. She was right. But we had to be smart.

“I’ll take you to a gym, where I know the owner,” I said. “At night. Quiet. You don’t go in alone.”

Her lips parted in surprise, then softened into a look of relief. “Okay.” She smiled. You’re a softy.”

“Don’t ever tell anyone I’m a softy, I’ll deny it.”

Since the training facility was in another country, we went to a gym in town to see if her memory could be jogged.

So later that night, just after the sun dipped below the horizon, we parked two blocks from the private training facility in La Jolla.

Emery wore a hoodie, baseball cap, and black joggers.

She looked like any other athlete slipping in for a late swim session.

But her hands trembled.

I rested mine over hers. “You’re not alone.”

She nodded, swallowed hard, and stepped out of the SUV.

The facility had already closed for the day, but I had access through the back gate. I led us inside with a keycard, passing empty locker rooms and long glass windows that overlooked the pool.

I could tell the smell hit her first—chlorine, sweat, old leather. She looked at home.

She stopped cold, like her body remembered something her brain hadn’t caught up to yet.

“Emery?” I asked.

She didn’t answer.

She walked slowly toward the far end of the pool, near a storage closet where she’d said she left her bag that day.

She stared at the floor, blinking fast.

Then her breath caught.

And she whispered, “There was a phone.”

I moved closer. “What kind of phone?”

“I don’t know—it was just… there. In the coach’s office. On the desk. But it wasn’t his. He always used an iPad. This one was black. Old. Like your burner phone and old. I only noticed because the light was blinking. Like it had a message or something.”

Her hand went to her mouth.

“I looked at it.”

I froze. “What did you see?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice cracked. “It was a video. I touched it and it opened by accident. Just a few seconds. Someone in a uniform—military maybe—handing a package to a man I didn’t recognize. I shut it fast, thought it was one of the coaches watching weird footage.”

She looked at me, eyes wide. “But that wasn’t it, was it?”

I didn’t answer.

Because we both knew.

She hadn’t been kidnapped for money.

She’d seen something—maybe a weapons exchange, or intel being passed—and whoever was involved wasn’t ready for it to come to light.

Her voice dropped. “I didn’t tell anyone. But someone knew I saw it.”

“Which means,” I said, heart thudding, “someone close to you might’ve been involved.”

I didn’t see anyone around. I hurriedly left his office and went to the locker room. Someone was watching me. It had to be on one of the cameras. This is really bad. The Russians think I know something I shouldn’t.