Chapter Sixteen
AJ
“What the hell are you doing here?” I climb aboard the Gulfstream to find Connor Davis sitting in one of the plush, leather seats with a mug of coffee in his hand.
It’s a little after three in the morning, and waiting almost six hours to leave Austin nearly killed me.
But the private plane the former FBI agent was able to arrange will let us bring Grace back into the country without going through border control.
“Makin’ sure the plane comes home in one piece,” Connor says. “The team out in Seattle tends to destroy the transpos they use. Pritchard would have my ass if he lost his security deposit. It wasn’t…small.”
I cringe. Austin Pritchard, former head of the United States Joint Special Operations Command, started some sort of rogue mercenary group after he got shitcanned from JSOC, and he’s apparently making bank.
Chartering a private plane to fly us to Mexico and back ain’t cheap.
But it’s the fastest way to Grace. And the safest way to bring her home.
Jasper shoves his duffel bag into one of the storage lockers at the front of the plane before dropping into the seat across from Connor.
“What are you doin’ working for Pritchard?
And how do I get in on a sweet gig like that?
It probably pays a hell of a lot better than… well…the big, fat nothin’ I make now.”
Frowning, I shoot my brother a glance. “I thought the owner of your building was paying you—”
Jasper’s brows shoot up, stopping my assumption in its tracks. “He was giving me a break on the rent, not paying me, asshole. But if you’d bothered to answer the damn phone once in the past three months, you’d know that I moved in with Emi six weeks ago.”
His words sting, but all I can think about is what Grace has gone through the past three months…the past three years…to steal all her memories away and leave her so close to death.
Parker stows her own gear, as well as the bag she helped me pack for Grace, and finds a seat toward the back of the plane. “Give him a break, Jas. He’s had a hell of a day.”
I appreciate Parker having my back, but Jasper ain’t about to let me off the hook that easy.
Connor leans across the aisle and passes my brother a business card. “Give him a call. It’s not steady work.” He grimaces and pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s in pain. “Not sure that’s what you’re looking for, but it suits me just fine. My head’s still fucked more days than not.”
Six months ago, a couple of dirty cops in Dallas beat Connor within an inch of his life, then dumped him in Flash Flood Alley for a storm to finish him off.
Jasper got to him in the nick of time. I never asked how Pritchard knew Jas was close enough to find him, or why the man then called me to check on Connor in the hospital.
Pritchard and I only met once, and that was a dozen years ago when he was visiting Bergstrom Air Force Base and took a tour of the Ranger station.
The pilot emerges from the cockpit and scans our small group. “This everyone?” he asks.
Connor nods. “Yup. We’re good to go.”
“It’s a two-hour flight. Vehicles will be waiting for you at the airstrip. I need four-hours’ notice when you want to leave Chihuahua and return to Austin. Understood?”
If the pilot ain’t former military, I’ll eat my Ranger star and my Stetson.
“Copy that,” Connor says. “Won’t be a problem.”
I don’t hear the rest. All I can think about is Grace. My hands clench into fists on my thighs.
Hold on, darlin’. I’m coming.
Grace
The shadows in the corners of the room won’t stop flickering.
I try to tell myself it’s just the old heater stirring the air. It pops and cracks, the vague scent of hot metal always lingering just under the antiseptic.
Every time I move, the stitches in my side itch. I touch the bandages gingerly, then wince at the dull ache.
The nurses are kind. They smile as they check my blood pressure and bring me small meals I think they’ve cooked themselves. But I see the questions in their eyes.
How could she forget her own name?
What is an American woman doing in the middle of nowhere, Mexico?
Is she about to snap?
I think I already have.
Sleep never lasts long and always brings something dark with it. I wake up gasping, my heart racing, tears streaming down my face. I never remember dreaming—just the feeling left behind. Like I’m trapped. Like I’ll never be free again.
How could I have forgotten my entire life? My name. My childhood. My parents. Have I ever loved someone? Has someone ever loved me back?
The thick scars around my wrists catch the dim light from the bulb over my bed.
I sobbed so long and so hard when I first saw them, Dr. Reyes worried I’d tear my stitches.
They’re ugly, but it’s more than that. How evil were the people who took me that they had to—what?
—tie me up or chain me for days or weeks?
And what happens when—or if—I remember the horrors that left them?
Everything’s fuzzy. Like I’ve had half a dozen shots of tequila on an empty stomach. When I move, my head fills with static that builds and builds until I feel like I’m about to fall out of bed—despite the rails on either side of me.
Exhaustion burns my eyes. The shadows are still there, and every time they move, I’m less and less sure they’re just shadows.
Dr. Reyes keeps assuring me I’ll get my memory back eventually. But if I do, will I survive knowing who hurt me? And why?
Sunlight spills across the tile floor. But the cold knot in my stomach laughs in the face of its warmth.
“Buenos dias, my dear.” The doctor slips into the room carrying a plate covered with tin foil. “I thought you might like an ‘American’ breakfast today. Eggs and hash browns.”
As soon as he pulls off the foil, my stomach lurches. The smell is…wrong. Bile burns the back of my throat. “No. God, no.”
I can’t even look at the food without wanting to throw up.
“?Lourdes, entra aquí! ?Quita este plato!” Dr. Reyes calls, and the nurse rushes in and snatches the plate from his hand.
Once it’s gone, I can breathe again.
Pulling a pen light from his pocket, Reyes checks my eyes and frowns. “Have you been nauseous all night?”
“No.” I collapse back against the pillows as another staticky zap inside my head turns the world sideways for a beat.
“You had huevos rancheros yesterday. Those did not bother you. I thought something familiar might help trigger your memories. But perhaps your body is remembering what your mind cannot. Pain hides in the strangest places.”
I should like eggs. Or…at least be able to eat them without smothering them in salsa. Right? What happened to me that I can’t even look at them?
Dr. Reyes checks my temperature, then pats my shoulder lightly. “Lourdes made gorditas de harina this morning as well. They are not unlike pancakes. Can I have her bring you some? You must keep up your strength.”
Now that I’m no longer about to vomit, I am hungry. I nod, careful not to trigger another one of those awful brain zaps.
And when he slides a plate of sweet, crispy griddle cakes in front of me, I eat every bite.
AJ
Fifteen of the longest hours of my life come to an end as Jasper parks the SUV in front of a clay-walled, single story building in the middle of nowhere, Mexico. Connor and Parker pull up right behind us.
My wife is in there somewhere. Injured. Confused. With no idea who she is—or who I am.
I grab the duffel bag with Grace’s things—her favorite sweater, the silky pjs she always wore on cold nights, the quilt her mother made for our wedding, and the perfume I’ve been spraying on her pillow every Saturday night just so I could smell her again—and head for the front door.
Jasper, Connor, and Parker follow close behind.
But my steps slow, then stop too soon. What if the doctor was wrong? What if the woman he’s treating isn’t Grace?
Hope is a dangerous thing. For years, I lived on scraps of it. Barely enough to breathe, let alone survive. But now? I’m bursting with it. If that’s not my wife in there, I’ll crash and burn so hard and fast, I’ll never recover.
“Go on, Aaron,” Jasper says, his hand on my shoulder. “We got your back.”
I swallow hard. No one calls me Aaron. Not anymore. Even our mama calls me AJ. For years, the only one who ever used my first name was Grace. Even then, she reserved it for sex, or when I was being a complete dumbass.
I should apologize to my brother—for shutting him out when he told me to move on, for ignoring every olive branch he offered after.
When that rich developer asshole tried to kill him and Emi this past fall, he’d reached out again. And again, I’d shut him down.
Yet, one phone call, and he’s standing at my side like nothing happened between us.
“What if she’s—what if they…” I can’t give words to my biggest fear. That the assholes who took her left her so broken, she’ll never come back to me.
“What ifs are bullshit,” Parker says softly as she takes up post on my other side. “You can what if yourself to death out here, or you can walk through that door and tell your wife you love her.”
Ain’t that the core of it? Out here, Grace is still gone. In there…I have a chance to get her back.
Despite the faded walls, the dusty roof, and the cracked, pothole-riddled parking lot, the inside of the building is pristine.
A hint of antiseptic lingers in the air. The old tile floors, though chipped in places, are hand-painted with brightly colored flowers. White plaster walls carry faint cracks, but they’ve been scrubbed spotless. Even the reception desk gleams.
“Senor Stone?” a young woman asks.
“Yes. Dr. Reyes—”
“Sí, sí. I know. One minute. I will get him for you.” She disappears down a hallway, and the urge to call Grace’s name—to tear through the clinic until I find her—is so strong, I’m two steps after the woman before I catch myself.