Page 68 of The Wrong Husband (The Davenports #6)

Phoenix

They kept him back, in exchange for the prisoners. He sent me that last message right before he left to meet with the rebels.

And somehow, I knew.

Knew his life was in danger before James came to me.

Knew, even before he left, that something was going to go wrong. That gut-deep dread, the kind you can’t shake, sank into my bones the second he kissed me and said he’d be back soon.

I knew his life would be in danger, even before he left. That’s why I didn’t want him to leave.

And now, seven desperate days later, that same unshakable instinct is the only thing keeping me upright.

Because if something had happened—if the worst had happened—I would know . I would feel it in the hollow where my soul sits waiting for his return.

Each time despair claws at me, I fight it. I stare into the abyss of everything that can go wrong and refuse to give into it.

I can feel him in my heart. In my marrow.

With every breath I take, I know he’s alive. He will come back to me. I believe in him. In us.

"Your presence made a difference today." The team leader of the Kandor outpost of the Save the Kids charity mops his forehead.

I arrived with James and Brody, to help Quentin facilitate Connor’s safe return. And once we arrived, I kept busy, using my training as a trauma specialist to help the wounded.

"We are truly grateful for your help." The team leader smiles tiredly at me. He’s employed by the charity and educated in England, though he’s originally from a nearby province.

"It’s the least I could do." I wrap my arms about my waist.

I’ve never been more grateful that I’m able to use my skill set to save lives.

The team leader runs his fingers through his graying hair.

"Get some rest. We don’t need you running yourself into the ground." He pats my shoulder, then walks in the direction of the nurse who’s been hovering in the background.

They’re hugely short-staffed. When they found out I was a qualified trauma specialist, they welcomed me with open arms.

I can’t remember the last time I slept. Or ate, for that matter.

Each time I close my eyes, I remember the last time I saw Connor’s face.

How he lovingly swept his gaze over my features. How I felt something shift inside me. How I wanted to tell him I love him and, yet, held back. I wish I hadn’t.

I wish I told him that before he left. Fatigue weighs at my eyelids. The team leader’s right. I should rest up, but I'm too restless.

I head for the cabin that the team converted into the rescue operation’s command center, to get an update.

I’m so preoccupied, it’s only when my brother calls my name, I realize he’s standing in front of me.

One look at my face, and his features soften in sympathy.

"He’s a survivor. He knows how to think on his feet. This is the kind of situation he’s trained for his entire career." James gestures to me to continue walking and falls into step with me.

"You never worked with him, did you?"

My brother shakes his head. The fact that he’s left his Michelin-starred restaurant in the hands of his second-in-command and come down here to strategize with Brody and Quentin tells me how important Connor is to my brother.

"He specialized in undercover operations, while I was a Marine. So different proficiencies, but similar mindsets."

"Do you miss it?" I’ve never thought to ask James that before. But I’m realizing, there’s a special edge that comes with being on the front lines. Not that I am… But being here, and seeing him in a different role, brings to mind that he used to be on active missions not very long ago, himself.

He pauses to consider, begins to nod, then stops.

"I don’t miss not having the luxuries in life—like clean water and a comfortable bed, and being able to shave— But do I miss the adrenaline rush from being in life and death situations?" He inclines his head. "Hell, yes."

"You’re such a jock,” I scoff.

"Because I like the thrill of being in the thick of the action?"

"Because… You like being the one doing the rescuing."

"I suppose." He scratches his whiskered beard. "And so does Connor. Which is why I was surprised when he said he wasn’t taking on any more missions in the field. He told me that right before he informed me you guys were eloping. That’s when I knew he was serious about you."

"That’s why you didn’t turn up and stop us from eloping."

James looks at me like I’ve gone crazy. "This is Connor we’re talking about. Nothing I said or did would have stopped him. Besides, it wasn’t really my place to do so. Not when you’re a grown up and know what you're doing with your life."

He winks.

"Besides… Once I was over the shock of Connor and you being together, I realized, there’s no one else I’d trust to take better care of you."

A pressure builds at the backs of my eyes.

Perhaps, it’s because we’re talking about Connor, and how we met feels like another lifetime, though it wasn’t that long ago.

Because now, I miss him even more desperately.

And all the worries I’ve been trying to hide from myself rush to the fore.

I've managed not to give in to the fears for Connor. I’ve refused to cry, even when I was alone.

But maybe, it’s the knowledge my brother won’t judge me, and I can lean on him, which causes a tear to trickle down my cheek.

"Hey." James seems taken aback, then he pulls me into an embrace, "We’re doing everything to get through to the rebels. If there’s anyone who can bring him back, it’s Brody, and Quentin, and?—"

"We’ve got contact."

James and I turn to find one of the team members from the command center beckoning us. He’s told me his name, but my state of mind is such, I can’t recall it.

James and I quicken our steps and reach the cabin.

"A few minutes ago, we noticed activity at the rebel base."

I know, they’ve been monitoring it since Connor went inside to negotiate the release of the other hostages and the supplies.

"The gates opened, and an SUV drove out," the other man replies.

"Is he… Is he in it?" My heart somersaults into my throat. I don’t want to get my hopes up. But I also want to stay positive. I want to…lean into the glimmer of expectation unfolding in my chest.

"We don’t know yet. Brody’s already set off, with three of the team, to intercept it." The team member keeps this voice steady. The glint in his eyes indicates he’s buzzing with anticipation.

I pant as I keep up with the men’s longer strides. I step into the operations room and am instantly hit with the tension that envelops everything and everyone inside like a pea soup fog.

One wall holds an intelligence board—photos of what I know is the rebel camp, grainy thermal images, and handwritten reports pinned to it. In the middle, someone’s pinned a note. The language is the kind they use to outline missions in the military. I’ve read it so often, I have it memorized.

PRIORITY TARGET: CONNOR DAVENPORT

Status: MIA – Deep Rebel Territory

ENTRY 17 – LIVE EXTRACTION FEED: TACTICAL OPS

· Location: Sector Delta, Kandor – Pinged 06:14 via Drone 17

· Visual: Last confirmed sighting—Connor, entering the rebel encampment in his SUV.

Directive: Hold fire until ID is confirmed.

Mandate: Whatever it takes. We bring him home.

Home. He’s my home. He will be home.

The tears threaten again. I swallow them back. I am not going to cry. I’m going to be strong. For him.

A portable generator thrums outside. A ventilation unit spins in the corner, its blades fighting a losing battle against the heat trapped inside—air saturated with sweat, dust, and unspoken pressure.

Against one wall stands a reinforced table, cluttered with encrypted satellite phones, laptops displaying real-time data streams, and stacks of mission briefs annotated in grease pencil and digital overlays alike.

Fiber-optic cables snake across the surface, connecting field routers to portable comms relays, their indicator lights blinking in silent conversation.

The wall above the table features a row of mounted monitors flickering with satellite feeds, heat-mapped terrain, drone footage, and a live comms dashboard. Each screen pulses with data: timestamps, coordinates, flagged activity in red.

One shows a looping aerial scan of what I now know is the rebel corridor leading to the highway, which is the only route between the rebel camp and this one.

Another tracks NGO supply trucks in real time.

On a third, there is live action unfolding.

It’s grainy, but I can make out an SUV. It’s battered and has seen better days.

There’s a gun fitted to the top of the roof.

A fist closes around my heart at that. I try to push the significance of what that gun means from my mind. He’s going to be safe. He is.

The SUV crawls up the highway in the direction of our camp.

Hurry up, I silently urge it along. It comes to a stop.

The camera on the drone pulls back to show another SUV.

This one carries the colors of Save the Kids.

It drives up slowly and comes to a halt, perhaps, half a mile away from the rebels’ vehicles.

"Tango-1. Visual on target. Holding position." A voice I recognize as Brody’s comes over the comms console.

For a few seconds…minutes…nothing happens. Time stretches.

"What are they doing?" I whisper.

"Assessing the situation," James answers.

More minutes pass. My heartbeat kicks up. Sweat pools under my arms. I have my fingers clasped together so tightly, my hands feel numb.

Then, just when I think I’m going to scream from the tension, one of the doors of the rebel’s SUV opens.

A man steps out. He has on a desert scarf and wears a flowing shirt and loose pants, the kind of clothes favored by the rebels.

But the shape of his shoulders, the way he walks… "Connor," I exclaim.

"Do you see him? Is that Connor?" James asks impatiently.

"It’s Connor. Can’t you see?" I snap.

"They just want Brody to confirm." James wraps his arm about my shoulder, but I’m so full of tension, I can’t bear for anyone else to touch me right now. Unless it’s Connor. Connor! I shake off James’ hand.

I grab the back of the chair on which the operator who’s managing the drone sits. "Can you zoom in?" I swallow. "Please."

"Do it," James orders.

He maneuvers a joystick. The camera on screen swoops in closer. There’s no mistaking my husband’s beloved features.

My knees threaten to collapse. This time, when James grabs my shoulder, I let him support me.

"What the fuck?" There’s a surprised comment from the communications channel.

"What is it. What do you see?" James asks impatiently.

"One of the rebel’s standing up through the roof hatch. He’s reaching for the gun. Fuck—" His voice cuts off.

On screen, the hospital’s SUV drives forward, then picks up speed. Connor must realize something is wrong, for he begins to run to meet it. That’s when the gun behind him explodes. At the same time, men hang out from the Save the Kids SUV and return fire. I don’t take my eyes off Connor.

"Run. Connor. Run."

I’m not aware I’m yelling until I hear my own voice. He’s almost at the SUV, which comes to a stop. Arms reach for him. He raises his hand, then stumbles.