Page 29 of Sam to the Rescue

While he calls our boss to work out the bail, I open my laptop and research PTSD. Whoever hired Shabana, knew what he was doing. Someone wants Suds so vulnerable, anything could trigger an episode.

What if he has one while in jail, or worse, while undercover?

Chapter 19

Suds

Sitting in the holding tank, I meditate and practice rambling inside my head. A couple of cellmates try to catch my eye but most keep their distance. When one of the bolder idiots tries to punch my lights out, I hit back so fast, he never sees it coming.

“Don’t fuck with a man when he’s finding his center, dammit.” Placing thumb to forefinger with pinkie out, I chant. “Ohmmmmm.”

I’m still at it, hours later, when a guard opens the door. “Sebastian Sutcliff?”

Stretching, I sneer, as any good criminal would, and pitch my tone with the perfect amount of disdain. “What of it?”

My Oscar winning performance is rewarded by an emotionless face and a tone so dry, it’d put the Sahara to shame. “Follow me. You made bail.”

After a brief stint in court, I grab my personal belongings and am released into the custody of my loving wife.

“Jerk.” She steps back causing my kiss to land midair.

For a moment, I honestly believe she is angry until her fingers touch mine and squeeze. She’s right to be cautious. For all we know, aliens could be listening in from outer space on their 6z network.

Damn, all I want to do is take a shower and invite her to join me but what if I’m running out of time? What if the nutcases blow up a daycare, a playground, or a grade school? I could never forgive myself.

Sam signs some paperwork, struts to the door, and taps her foot impatiently. Apparently, I don’t follow fast enough because she turns her Brooklyn ’tude to eleven.

“Well, whadda youz waitin’ for? An engraved invitation? And by the way? You see this?” She slides her hands up and down her body, then shoves a palm inches from my nose. “This no longer belongs to you, dude. You fucked up big time.”

Trying hard not to laugh, I bite my lower lip and manage to keep it together as we make our way to the waiting area. There, I shake hands with Lucky, catch his eye, and nod. In our language, it means,I owe you.

It isn’t until we’re in the backseat of his SUV that I dare kiss my wife’s luscious mouth. When the deep ache inside me lessens, I come up for air. “What did you want to tell me last night?”

“I found your ghost, only she’s real.” Eyes wide, her soft palms cup my rough cheeks and my oxygen-deprived brain has a hard time catching up.

“Say again?”

“The Afghan woman you’ve been seeing? Someone paid her to stalk you.”

I turn to Lucky. “You fucking told her I was seeing things?”That’s pretty damn low.

He just laughs. “What I said was you had someone trying to make youthinkyou were seeing things. There’s a bloody big difference.”

My so-called pal glares but before I can pursue his betrayal, big teardrops escape Sam’s eyes and slide down her cheeks. “Babe, you need to stand down. Tell the Feds to find someone else.”

I kiss away her waterworks and swallow hard, my resolve steadfast. With so many innocent lives at stake, giving up is not an option. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you lost faith in me, sugar.”

“No, of course not.” She sniffs and tries on a weak smile. “I trustyoubut mind controlling aliens, not so much.”

“That’s my gal.” It’s not like her to be so worried.

Later, back at our apartment, Lochlan gives a few minutes of privacy where I struggle between the urge to handcuff her to the apartment or kiss her senseless.

Her visit to my burqa ghost was both brilliant and dangerously stupid. “So, we have no idea who hired her?”

“Not yet, but she’s going to work with Patten’s sketch artist, later today.”

When she glances at the time on her phone, I note it’s almost noon. “Listen, I need to get back to the club.”