Page 46

Quaid

I collided with Costa in my race to leave the building. The sliding doors opened automatically as he entered, and I exited. I couldn’t stop my momentum in time, and we crashed bodily, knocking our heads so hard that a burst of white light flashed across my vision, and my teeth clacked together.

“Son of a—” Costa caught my arm before I bounced back and tumbled to the ground or into oncoming foot traffic, scurrying in and out of the building. He massaged his forehead. “Where the fuck are you going? Does parenthood scare you that much?” He laughed, but I was not in a joking mood.

Dizzy and disoriented from the collision, I scanned the bustling entranceway and unending traffic. “Where’s Jordyn?”

“Parking the car. Christ. Am I bleeding?” Costa removed his fingers from where he’d been prodding his forehead and examined them.

I touched my matching lump in sympathy. “No. Am I?”

He scanned my face. “No. What the fuck’s going on?”

“No time to explain. ”

Explaining would slow me down. Instead, I snagged Costa’s arm and dragged him toward the parking garage. “I need you. Get your phone out and find me the fastest route to Dawlish Avenue. It’s not far. It’s within blocks of here. I know that much.”

I gave Costa credit. He didn’t hound me or ask excessive questions. He simply went along with everything I said.

In Aslan’s Equinox, he hooked his phone to the Bluetooth so I could follow the map he’d found.

Only as I screamed out of the parking lot and nearly took out the barrier arm when it lifted too slow did he ask, “Are we running away together? I feared this might happen one day. Quaid, we aren’t compatible.

I say this in the kindest, most nonhomophobic way, but I will never sleep with you. ”

“That’s a shame.” I tossed him my phone. “Call Aslan. Tell him I’m sorry.”

The heat of my best friend’s gaze warmed my face. He didn’t move or act.

“Costa. Please.”

“You know he’s going to kick my ass, right? I’m absconding with his husband on the day his baby is being born. FYI, I pretend to be tough and show off my tattoos every chance I get because it makes Az sick with envy, but Quaid, Az lifts weights. Heavy ones. He’s the real threat. Not me.”

“Sweetheart, if you don’t call Aslan right fucking now, I will make your life utter hell for the next dozen years. If you think my teasing and flirting was bad before? Try me.”

He didn’t make me repeat myself and fumbled with my phone. I gave him the password to unlock it and waited until he found Aslan’s name in my contacts. The call must have connected, but I couldn’t hear more than Costa’s side of the conversation over the traffic and GPS telling me where to go .

“Hey, Az…” He cleared his throat. “No, it’s me. Costa. So, um, funny story. I’ve been kidnapped by your husband for reasons unknown. Did something happen? I’m not gonna lie. My virtue could be at stake.” Whispering, he added, “Help me. He’s using swear words.”

After a short pause, he held the phone between us. “He wants to talk to you.”

“Good grief. Put it on speaker.”

“What the hell is going on?” Aslan snapped the second I said his name.

“I know where Crowley is. I know where Flynn is. Nixon has hunted him down and is going after him, but he’s about twenty minutes ahead of me.”

A long pause persisted through the phone, then softly, he said, “Quaid… tell me you didn’t leave the hospital.”

“I had to. There was no time to waste. That boy’s life is in danger, and I can’t be sure Nixon isn’t on a warpath too. He found out his entire life was a lie. I’m not going far. I’ll be back as soon as possible.”

Silence bled through the line. I took my eyes off the road to glance at the phone screen where Costa held it between us. “Az?”

“Bryn’s having a baby, Quaid. Our baby. You’re supposed to be here.”

A shot of panic swamped my veins. “Is… Is it happening right now? Is she delivering?”

He sighed. “No, but it might not be long. Come back. Let Ruiz and Jordyn go.”

“I can’t. We’re almost there. Turning around will take too much time.”

“Quaid.”

“Az, I can’t. A child’s life is at stake. I’ll be back soon. I will not miss our baby being born. ”

“Quaid—”

“I promise.”

Before he could argue more, I blindly tapped the disconnect button as tears filled my eyes. Slamming the heel of my palm against the steering wheel, I cursed. I would never forgive myself if I didn’t make it back in time, but the risk was too high.

We had discussed the instability of sociopaths. They played games. They manipulated situations to suit their needs, but when things came crashing down around them, they acted impulsively, recklessly, and with hostility.

Flynn wasn’t going to let himself get arrested, but he also wasn’t about to drag a child along when he went on the run.

Whatever had triggered him to take Crowley and demand the truth in the first place was moot.

Flynn would be in self-preservation mode, and anyone who stood in his way would be an unfortunate bystander.

Costa, in a clearer state of mind, called for backup the second I was off the phone, directing them to the address on Dawlish Avenue. “Possible hostage situation,” he told them. “Proceed with caution.”

“Are you armed?” I asked the minute he hung up.

“Yes, Quaid. I don’t work in the field without my piece.”

“Good.”

“Are you?”

“It’s in the trunk. I took it off when…”

I didn’t have to finish the sentence. Costa knew. I took off my service weapon so I could be a father and not a cop. So I could be a regular guy having a baby instead of a detective chasing down criminals. So I could officially start parental leave and not be on duty.

But dismissing a child in need wasn’t as easy as locking my gun away in a safe .

The professor’s residence was less than five minutes from the hospital, but with traffic, it took closer to ten to arrive. I located the correct address and parked illegally across the street, blocking a driveway because there were no available spots.

I immediately recognized Nixon’s car, but for the life of me, I had no idea what Flynn drove, and with over a dozen vehicles parked along both sides of the street, I had no way of knowing if he was here or not.

Costa followed me out of the Charger. I aimed for the trunk and retrieved my weapon before racing to the front of the house.

“We should wait for backup,” Costa said, scrambling a few steps behind.

Technically, he was right, but I didn’t want to wait for the district police to drag their feet and decide our call was important enough to leave the Tim Horton’s drive-through line.

It would mean summarizing the case to street cops, planning a strategy for safe extraction, and possibly calling in a negotiator.

“We don’t have time.”

Costa didn’t argue. He’d recently told me it was my passion and willingness to do what was needed for a case that made him decide I was a decent person worth knowing. Dismissing protocol was not a deal breaker for our friendship.

The front door wasn’t latched. Whoever entered last hadn’t fully pushed it shut.

That ominous discovery sent a prickle of goose bumps up my spine.

I motioned to Costa that I planned to enter.

We had never worked in this capacity before, but he understood my hand gestures without trouble, unholstering his weapon when I did and pressing himself against the brick wall on the opposite side of the archway.

I nudged the door with my foot. It swung inward, and I flattened against the wall opposite Costa .

We listened. The steady, pulsing beat of hip-hop emanated from a distant room, but otherwise, I didn’t hear people. Cueing Costa, I made a quick sweep of the front foyer before calling it clear.

Upon entering, we checked blind spots and a coat closet to be sure no one was hidden nearby. The house tipped the scale of superfluous. Its modern style boasted high ceilings, oversized windows, and intricate architecture with oak accents and white walls.

The foyer contained a sweeping, carpeted staircase to the upper level, several archways led into joining rooms, and a long, shadowed hallway pointed to the back of the house.

Due to the angle of the stairs, we couldn’t see the top.

The archways were an open design with no doors. The hallway led to who knew where.

The music sounded from a nearby room, possibly a television.

Muffled, indistinct voices arose from somewhere deeper in the house.

I couldn’t make out words, but the low tones, at the distant range of my hearing, seemed to suggest it was two men.

Costa registered them too. He motioned to the archways and pointed to his eyes.

I nodded, and we moved together to sweep those closer rooms before venturing further into the house. The nearer room contained built-in bookcases, a billiard table, an eloquent bar, and a stone fireplace. Clean, sharp angles, and expensive furniture.

The second was an entertainment room. A smart TV took up an entire wall, playing classic Much Music videos on YouTube.

White leather couches and recliners surrounded the screen, along with chic tables and luxurious décor.

An abandoned juice box and a plate full of crumbs told me someone—a child—had been in here recently.

Sitting on the table closest to the television was a brilliantly white cockatoo with yellow head feathers, bopping up and down to the music .

Costa snorted, and when I scowled in his direction, he motioned to the bird, mouthing, “Come on. Look at that. He’s getting down with the beat.” He mimicked its dancing, and I scowled harder.

Though I had to admit that a dancing bird wasn’t something you saw every day, we didn’t have time to watch the show.