Chapter Seventy-Five
AJ
Hardison shuts the door behind us, then plants himself against it, arms crossed, like this is any other shift on any other day. Except for his eyes. The flecks of green in his gold irises are practically glowing as he scans the room, then cuts his gaze back to mine with a weight I don’t like.
Not panic. Not even fear. Just a tight focus that says something’s coming, and we don’t know if it’s a rain shower or a goddamn hurricane.
I slip the comms device into my ear. “Talk to me. Jas? Connor? What’s goin’ on.”
“Two headed for the back deck,” Jasper says. “One hidin’ behind the shed. The fourth is comin’ in from the front.”
I cast a quick gaze to the door. Hardison hasn’t moved. If I didn’t know better, I’d wonder if he was breathin’. The man’s got two gears: deadpan smartass and serious as a heart attack. And right now, he ain’t crackin’ jokes.
“Copy that,” I mutter. Something about this feels…wrong.
On my phone screen, I cycle through the various security feeds. I should have sent Hardison for Parker’s laptop.
There they are. Two guys, dressed all in black, marching up the stairs to the deck like they own the whole fuckin’ place.
Connor cuts in. “Are these jackoffs trying to get dead? I’ve seen Girl Scouts with better op-sec.”
“Don’t dis the scouts, man,” Hardison says. “Some of those badges are serious business.”
I glare at him. This ain’t the time for jokes. “Girl scouts are welcome to ring the doorbell. These guys aren’t. Make ‘em regret every one of their life choices.” My tone’s sharper than I intend, but I don’t care. Grace’s safety depends on this being over. Fast.
The two on the back deck walk right up to the door and try the goddamn handle.
“Hey, assholes,” Jasper calls. The doggie door opens, and my brother fires four shots, right to their kneecaps. The men drop with guttural curses and cries, grabbing their legs and rolling around like Jas just kicked them in the nuts.
Another two shots, and Connor’s voice rumbles in my ear. “Three down. One to go.”
Flipping to the camera covering the front of the property, I watch the last man hesitate. He glances at the front door, then back at the road.
Do it. Put one goddamned foot on the step and see what happens, asshole.
The guy adjusts his grip on his gun and races up the stairs. He hurls himself at the door, shoulder first, but rebounds like he just hit a brick wall. Even on the tiny screen, it’s obvious he’s not tryin’ again.
Jasper opens the door and draws down on the idjit. “Drop the gun or I drop it for you.”
The pistol hits the wood. Jasper spins the guy around, zip tying his wrists before marching him through the house, all the way to the back deck where the two guys with no knees lie face down, whimpering something about blood loss and hospitals.
“Find out who sent them—and do it quick,” I snap.
“We ain’t amateurs, AJ,” Jas mutters.
Connor crouches next to his captive, who’s bleeding from not one but both arms. “You idjits gotta be the worst infil crew I’ve ever seen. My grandmother could’ve made it farther, and she’s been dead for ten years.”
“Yeah, because that’s the fucking point.” Hardison grabs my arm, real fear in his eyes. “They were only there to waste our time.”
Grace.
He’s half a step behind me as we bolt for the door, race down the hall, and burst into Grace’s room.
Her bed is empty, the sheets spilling onto the floor. Parker’s laptop is in two pieces. Next to it, a partial footprint smeared in blood.
Fuck!
A weak groan from behind me has me pulling my gun.
Marvin.
He’s slumped against the wall, a bright red goose egg swelling at his hairline.
“Where. Is. Grace?” I roar, hauling him to his feet. My fists ache with the overwhelming need to rearrange his anatomy in a way that would not support life.
“Parker,” he manages. “She…took…Grace. Said…she had to. That some prophet guy…was her savior. I tried to stop her, but she” —he winces— “she’s stronger…than she looks.”
“Don’t you dare,” I growl. “Don’t you dare put this on her.”
I shove Marvin toward Hardison. Gone is the snark, the lazy grin, all traces of sarcasm. What’s left is nothing but ice and steel. He secures Marvin in a headlock so fast, the bastard barely gets a breath in.
“Try that again,” Hardison grits out. “And if you so much as say her name, I’ll end you right here.”
Marvin claws weakly at Nate’s arm. I slam a knee into his groin for good measure. He folds, whimpering like the coward he is.
“Parker would die before she let anyone touch Grace,” I spit, terror and rage battling for control. In the end, rage wins. “She wouldn’t leave her side for five fuckin’ minutes. You think you can sell me that bullshit? No. This was you. All you.”
“I’d…never…” he wheezes.
“Last chance, asshole. Tell me where Grace is, or I let Hardison here snap your neck like a dry twig.”
Marvin chokes, then…laughs.
“In twenty-four hours, Nova’s sacrifice will bring salvation to the entire Blessed Flock. You can’t touch me, Stone. Nothing can. Not now. Not ever.”
“Her name is Grace.” I press the SIG to his temple hard enough he flinches. “And the only one dying tonight is you if you don’t talk.”
“Cap,” Hardison cuts in, his voice sharp. “Not here. Not in this building. We take him somewhere private. And then we make him beg.”
I grit my teeth so hard my jaw pops. “We don’t have time for private. Grace—”
“Has twenty-four hours.” Hardison’s voice dips so low, it’s barely a guttural whisper. The emotion in it…I’ve never heard from him before. “Hopefully Parker does too. You want answers? We take him somewhere he can scream.”
Marvin gives a wet, rattling laugh that makes me want to peel his skin off his bones. I shove the barrel harder into his temple, but before I can threaten to end him, Jasper’s voice cuts in over comms.
“AJ.” Rage grinds the words ragged. “If Marvin’s a member of the cult—”
The truth detonates inside me. My knees give out. I hit the edge of Grace’s bed, then the floor, and the sheets—Christ—the sheets still smell like her. Her shampoo. Her skin. I bury my face in them and choke back the scream tearing at my throat.
Hardison doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t soften. He just says what I can’t.
“It’s been him. The whole goddamn time. Intel from his CIs sent you and Jasper on that stakeout. That’s why you and Grace weren’t out of town that weekend.”
“I’m gonna fuckin’ kill him,” Jasper grits out.
He’ll have to get in line.
Three goddamn years. Marvin knew. He knew where she was. Knew what they were doing to her. And he came to work every fucking day. Sat across the table from me. Pretended to care.
Hardison shoves Marvin to the floor, then drives a boot into his ribs. I don’t stop him. Hell, I give him a sharp nod. Because right now, there’s no daylight between his fury and mine.
“Cap,” Hardison says, his voice so calm, he could have just ordered coffee and donuts instead of broken a man’s ribs, “get up. We’ve gotta work the scene—and fast—before the night shift nurse checks in. Then we can make this son of a bitch piss himself a hundred times over before morning.”
He holds out his hand.
I force myself up, but something crunches under my boot. Reaching under the bed, I find Grace’s sketchbook. There’s a page ripped out, the edge jagged.
“She never tears the pages,” I whisper.
Hardison gives Marvin another kick, then picks up Grace’s pencil. With quick, practiced strokes, he shades the blank page until we can see the last image my wife drew.
Fort Worth Rodeo
We turn as one. The world’s ugliest belt buckle has always been Marvin’s pride and joy. His great uncle’s. Or so he said. Below the words, Grace captured it all. The curve of the bull rider’s arm. His hat held high. The animal’s horns.
Grace has been trying to draw this goddamn belt buckle for more than two weeks. But she could never finish it. Never understand what she was seeing.
She knew. Somewhere in the wreckage of her mind, she knew. Behind the buckle—the man wearing the buckle—she drew one of the poles with a lantern swinging in the breeze.
I’m gonna be sick. “You son of a bitch!” I snarl, slamming the sketchbook so hard against Marvin’s chest, his entire body jerks. “This is why you took Parker. Because she saw this and she recognized your goddamned belt buckle.”
Hardison steps in before Marvin can open his mouth. He grabs the offending belt buckle and uses it to haul the asshole up and slam him back against the wall.
“One question, fucker,” he growls, his voice utterly lethal. “Is Parker alive? Yes or no.”
Marvin smirks, but it falters when Hardison jerks him again, hard enough to rattle his teeth in his skull.
“She’s alive,” Marvin gasps. “Prophet didn’t want her dead. He wanted her…saved.” His lips curl. “Said he was ready for his fifth wife.”
Hardison’s gaze turns feral. “If he hurts her—if he touches her—there won’t be enough left of either of you to bury.”
Marvin’s bravado cracks just a hair. His eyes widen, and he swallows, the sound loud enough we can hear it.
Hardison shoves him to the floor with a disgusted snort, then looks at me, hard edges and something dangerously close to fear.
“AJ, Parker’s…family. If this goddamn Prophet takes what little soft she’s got left, we’ll lose her. Even if she survives.”
I can’t see past my rage. “Get him up. We’re goin’ somewhere no one can hear him scream.” I grab Grace’s sketchbook, the only part of her I have left. “And Nate? If he so much as looks at you funny…”
Hardison smiles—actually smiles. “I’ll make sure he can never look at anyone ever again.”