Chapter 19
Ty
The motel office reeked of decades-old cigarette smoke and something fungal growing in the walls. The clerk, mid-forties with a stained Metallica shirt stretched over his gut, barely glanced up from whatever video was playing on his phone.
“Need a room,” I said, sliding cash across the counter. Always cash at places like this. No credit cards, no paper trail, no questions.
“How many guests?”
“Just me.”
He didn’t care enough to verify, just grabbed a key attached to a plastic diamond with “17” scratched into the yellowed surface. “Checkout’s at eleven. Ice machine’s broken. Don’t use the pool—it hasn’t been drained in…a while.”
“Thanks.”
I checked door numbers as I walked back to my truck.
Room seventeen sat at the far end of the building where my truck was already parked.
Perfect. Edge of the lot suited my purposes—better sight lines to spot anyone approaching, fewer neighbors to notice us, plus had a sliding glass door.
Probably installed in the seventies when this place had dreams of being respectable.
Now it was just another security risk that happened to work in our favor.
I walked back to the truck, scouting the area as I went. Through the window, Charlotte hadn’t moved. She sat rigid, staring at nothing, her brilliant mind probably trying to process the violence we’d just escaped.
Her gaze had gone somewhere distant, that thousand-yard stare I’d seen in combat zones when someone’s mind retreated to protect itself from the present.
I lightly tapped on her window, not wanting to scare her. Her eyes flared wide in surprise as she refocused on me and unlocked her door. “Hey,” I said softly, opening her door. “You ready to go in? I got us a room.”
She blinked slowly, focusing on me like she was surfacing from deep water. “You sure we’re okay to stay here?”
“Just for a few hours. Until the safe house is ready.”
I helped her out, her legs unsteady enough that I kept my hand on her elbow, grabbing my bag from behind the seat. I always kept this bag ready. Military habits that seemed paranoid in civilian life until moments like this, when paranoia became preparation.
The room inside was about what I’d expected. Two beds with quilts featuring a geometric pattern that probably looked modern during the Carter administration. Walls the color of old bones. A television bolted to a dresser that belonged in a museum.
Charlotte stood in the center of it all, looking lost in a way that had nothing to do with the shabby surroundings.
I set the bag on the dresser, unzipping it with controlled movements, pulling out a few of the items. “First aid kit, emergency rations, water bottles.” I held up a phone in a box. “Burner phone. Neither of ours is safe to use anymore.”
“You just…carry all this?” Her voice sounded hollow, like she was asking just to fill the silence.
“Always. Old habits.” I didn’t mention the knife in my boot, the spare magazine in my jacket, the cash sewn into the lining of the bag. Some things civilians didn’t need to know, even brilliant ones who’d just become targets.
She sank onto the edge of the nearest bed, the ancient springs groaning under even her slight weight. Her hands folded in her lap, but I could see the fine tremor running through them.
“You should take a shower,” I suggested, trying for casual. “Hot water might help. Then get some sleep.”
She looked at the bathroom door, then down at her hands. “I should keep working. The countermeasure—”
“You need some rest.”
“People could die while I’m—”
“People could die if you collapse from exhaustion and can’t finish it at all.
” I crouched in front of her, resisting the urge to take those shaking hands in mine.
“Charlotte, you’ve been up for nearly two days straight.
You’ve been in a car accident, attacked, and nearly—” I cut myself off before mentioning how close those bullets had come. “You need rest.”
She stared past me at the water-stained wall. “If I stop, I’ll start thinking.”
“About?”
“Everything. The break-in at my house. Us almost getting killed at Vertex. How someone knew exactly where to find us, exactly what we were doing.” Her voice cracked slightly. “You getting hurt protecting me.”
“Hey.” This time, I did take her hands, her fingers like ice between my palms. “None of this is on you.”
She laughed, but it was sharp, bitter. “Isn’t it?”
“No. You’re trying to save lives. Other people chose violence. That’s on them, not you.”
Silence stretched between us, broken only by the rattle of the ancient air conditioner and the distant sound of eighteen-wheelers on the highway.
Finally, she stood, swaying slightly. “Okay. Shower.”
While the water ran, I unwrapped the burner phone, plugging it in so it could charge while I talked. I called Ben.
“This is Garrison.” He picked up after one ring, despite the late hour and unknown number.
“Ben, it’s Ty.”
“Ty? What’s going on? It’s past midnight.”
“I need help. The situation went completely sideways.”
“Fuck. What happened?”
“Charlotte’s house got broken in to earlier tonight before we got there. They ransacked the place, destroyed everything looking for the countermeasure drive. I ran into someone while securing the scene and almost got my ass handed to me.”
“Shit. That’s not random.”
“Gets worse. We had to go back to Vertex to get Charlotte’s equipment, and the place got hit while we were inside. They came in hard and fast. We barely made it out.”
“Jesus, Ty. Are you both okay?”
“We made it out in one piece. But it was close.” I kept my voice low, glancing at the bathroom door where the shower was still running. “Right now, we’re holed up in a motel off I-44, but we can’t stay here long.”
“What do you need?”
“Depends. Where are you? Still on assignment?”
“No, that wrapped up. Jolly and I are hanging out with your favorite grumpy-ass brother.”
“You’re in Rocheport?” For the first time since arriving at Charlotte’s ransacked house, something was actually going right. Ben was relatively nearby and with Donovan. Two men who were competent, capable, and had my complete trust.
“Yeah. Checking in, you know?”
Because Donovan was still struggling to adjust to civilian life. “Yeah, I get it.”
“So, what do you need?”
“George sent me an FBI safe house location.” I gave Ben the address. “He says it won’t be ready for another three hours, but something about this whole thing doesn’t feel right.”
I didn’t know what it was. Maybe too much shit going down in too short of a period. Maybe I was paranoid. But paying attention to my gut had saved my ass more than once.
“You want us to check it out before you get there,” Ben said. It wasn’t a question.
“Exactly. After tonight, I’m not taking any chances.”
“Smart call.” Donovan’s voice came through. Ben had obviously put the call on speaker. “We’ll check it out. Full sweep.”
“Appreciate it. How fast can you get there?”
“Two hours if we push it,” Ben calculated. “Another hour to check it properly.
“Thanks. And, guys…go armed. These people aren’t fucking around.”
“Neither are we,” Donovan said, and I could hear something in his voice I hadn’t heard in months—purpose. “Been too long since I had something real to do.”
“This isn’t an official job—”
“You’re family,” Donovan interrupted. “That makes it official enough.”
“Fuck yeah,” Ben added.
I nodded even though they couldn’t see me. Ben wasn’t biologically related to Donovan and me, but biological relations didn’t mean shit when it came to someone being family.
“Thanks, you guys.” I gave them the name of our motel, and they said they’d get back in contact as soon as they checked out the safe house.
We hung up, and I set the phone aside. The shower had turned off, so I hurried to clean myself up. I stripped off my ruined shirt and used the bathing wipes from my kit to clean my body before changing into the spare set of clothes.
I needed to do something about my souvenir from that asshole at Charlotte’s house. I looked at my temple wound in the mirror. She was right; I probably did need a few stitches, but that wasn’t an option.
I was struggling with the small mirror, trying to see the wound properly and figure out how to apply the butterfly bandage, when the bathroom door opened.
Charlotte emerged in the same clothes, her wet hair dripping dark spots onto her shoulders.
The shower had brought some color back to her cheeks, but exhaustion still pulled at every line of her body.
“I heard you talking.”
I nodded. “To people I trust. My brother Donovan and Ben Garrison, one of my colleagues from Citadel Solutions.”
“They weren’t upset?” she asked quietly. “About being woken up in the middle of the night?”
“Trust me, they’re probably grateful for something to do.”
“Are they…together? Ben and your brother?”
The question surprised a laugh out of me, breaking some of the tension. “No, just friends. Battle buddies. Served two tours in Afghanistan side by side. That creates bonds that are hard to explain to people who haven’t been there. Both of them are K9 handlers.”
“Oh.” She seemed to consider this.
And then her gaze sharpened, focusing on my head. “Sit down.”
“I need to clean—”
“Sit.” Command voice. The same tone she’d used directing her team through complex coding problems. “That needs proper attention.”
I sat on the other bed, becoming acutely aware of how the adrenaline dump was affecting me. The room tilted slightly before steadying. My head throbbed in time with my heartbeat, each pulse sending fresh fire through the wound.
Her fingers were gentle but sure as they parted my hair, examining the gash. I could feel her breath on my neck, warm and somehow soothing.
“This needs stitches,” she murmured.
“Butterfly bandages will have to do.”
She found them in the kit, along with proper antibiotic ointment and sterile gauze. Her movements were determined, exact—the same focus she brought to her code but applied to keeping me functional.