Chapter 13
Seth
“Okay—okay—okay,” Travis mutters, shaking so hard the wheel rattles. “Now I’m officially a getaway driver. This is a felony, I can’t go to prison, man. I’m too good looking. They’ll take one look at me and—boom—I’m somebody’s bitch by breakfast.”
I press a hand against my chest where the stitches are already pulling apart. “Travis.”
He keeps rambling. “I swear to God, Seth, I’m not built for prison. They’ll pass me around like—”
“Travis!”
He snaps his mouth shut, breathing like he just ran a marathon.
I lean forward between the seats, gripping Travis’s headrest as the SUV tears down the road.
“Do you know where they took Brooke?” I ask.
His face crumples instantly. The panic that flashes across it is real, not the dramatic nonsense he usually throws around.
“No. By the time I crawled out of that freezer, both of you were gone. Hence”—he waves frantically toward Beau—“why I called him. I had no idea what the fuck was going on.”
I let my head hit the seat, exhaustion and rage scraping through me.
“As soon as you locked us in the fridge," Travis continues. "Some masked asshole in a goat mask showed up. Grabbed her. Locked me and Naomi inside. And turned the freezer all the way up.”
My hands clench.
“That man in the mask,” I say, “was Brooke's uncle.”
He whips around so fast the SUV swerves. “John? What the fuck? What the actual fuck? Why would her uncle try to kill her?”
“I don’t think he wants to kill her. He wants to kill me. But they didn’t finish the job because they wanted me to go down for the whole massacre.”
Travis stares at me, eyes huge. Beau watches him calmly, like this entire conversation is a mild inconvenience.
“And John is not alone,” I add. “He is working with Detective Grant. And there’s a group of other masked psycho fucks who helped stage the hotel massacre.”
“Jesus Christ,” Travis whispers.
“It’s all tied to Nick and Amber’s families,” I continue. “The entire thing is connected.”
Travis presses both hands to the wheel, his voice climbing. “What the fuck is this, Seth? Why is every rich psycho in California part of some murder cult? And why would they want Brooke? She didn’t do anything!”
I push myself upright again, ignoring the pain ripping through my shoulder.
“We’re going to Fresno, John probably took her there.”
Travis chokes on his own breath. “You’re still bleeding! Shouldn’t you—I don’t know—lie down before you go full Rambo? You’re dripping all over the seat.”
“Get me to Fresno,” I snap. “Right fucking now!”
“Seth, it is an eighteen-hour drive! You are going to bleed out and die in the back seat, and then I will go to prison because they will think I killed you!”
“I’m not dying,” I snap. “I’m getting Brooke back.”
Beau glances at me, an almost approving look passing over his face. “He’s fine. He’s been more injured than this.”
Travis shoots a look at him. “How is that comforting?”
Beau looks over his shoulder at me, calm as ever. “Plane?”
“You still have it?”
“Yep.”
Travis makes a strangled noise. “You two have a plane? Like a real one? Since when?!”
Beau doesn’t look up from loading a magazine. “Since always.”
“Here’s the directions to the hangar. You’re an accomplice,” he adds dryly. “And if you don’t want to be someone’s bitch in prison, you better floor it like the man said.”
Travis makes a dying whale sound and slams his foot on the gas.
I slump back and close my eyes, pressure throbbing through my shoulder, but my mind isn’t on the pain.
It’s on Brooke.
Her face. Her voice. The way she looked at me right before Grant’s bullet hit.
I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve crawled after her if I had to. I shouldn’t have passed out. I shouldn’t have—
Beau glances back at me. “Stay awake.”
“I’m awake.”
“Good. Because if you die, I’m not babysitting Shaggy here.”
“HEY!” Travis shouts.
I grip the door handle hard enough it creaks.
“We get to Fresno,” my tone hardens, “we tear that house apart.”
Beau nods. “Good plan.”
Travis mutters, “I’m gonna need to smoke so much weed to get over the stress of these two weeks,” but he keeps driving.
Fast.
We arrive at the private jet waiting for us on a dimly lit airstrip outside Denver.
No explanations needed. Beau has a pilot friend.
That friend doesn’t ask questions. People like Beau collect favors the way normal people collect phone numbers, and this one happens to fly a jet without scanning passports or running background checks.
Beau doesn’t waste time once we are in the air. As soon as the jet levels out, he cracks open the med bag and pulls on gloves. His movements are clean, practiced. This kind of efficiency only comes from doing this a hundred times before, probably on himself.
He peels back the blood-crusted gauze, cleans around the wound with antiseptic that burns deep into my nerves, and mutters something about how I tore it open worse trying to stand earlier. He repacks it tightly, pressing down with more pressure than necessary, and tapes it up again with a new roll.
“Antibiotics,” he fishes a prescription bottle out of the bag. He twists off the cap and shakes out two pills, pressing them into my palm. “And take this with it. Oxy. Don’t make a habit of it.”
I swallow both without asking for water. “You still got that doctor?”
He nods. “Yeah. Why?”
“I need Risperidone. Haven’t taken it in weeks.”
Beau stops moving. “You hallucinating again?”
I meet his gaze. “Yeah. Luke this time.”
He doesn’t ask for details. Just gives one slow nod. “I’ll make the call.”
I lean back against the headrest. My mouth is dry as sand, my tongue heavy. I hadn’t realized how dehydrated I felt until Travis’s voice cuts in from the aisle.
“Here,” he holds out a half-empty bottle of blue Gatorade he raided from the minibar. “Electrolytes. This should help, right?”
I take it without a word and drink until it is gone. It isn’t cold, but I don’t care. My body pulls it in like it has been waiting for days. I don’t realize how dizzy I still am until the sugar hits.
Travis sinks into the seat beside me. His leg bounces restlessly, like he is trying to shake the panic out of his body.
“We’re gonna get her. Don’t worry.”
I stare at the floor for a second, then force the words out.
“She’s pregnant, Travis.”
His head whips toward me. “What?”
“She told me… right before everything went to hell.”
He stares like he can’t decide if I’m messing with him. Then he leans back and drags a hand over his face.
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah,” I sigh.
“She’s strong, Seth. Brooke's a survivor.”
Luke’s voice comes from the opposite seat.
“Tick tock, Seth. Your girl’s running on borrowed time.”
Luke leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on me.
“You’re gonna be late. You’re always late.”
“I’m not,” I mutter.
Travis glances at me. “What?”
“Nothing.”
The engines hum beneath us. The cabin lights flicker faintly.
“Tsk tsk, Seth,” Luke whispers. “By the time you land, she could already be bleeding out somewhere. You can barely keep your head straight.”
I force my breathing to slow.
“You’re not real,” I mutter under my breath.
Luke’s grin sharpens. “Doesn’t make me wrong.”
I blink, and he is gone.
The jet cuts through the night, the vibration settling into my bones. The medication Beau gave me dulls the worst of the physical pain, but it does nothing for the hallucinations.
Brooke is somewhere down there. Alone. Afraid. Carrying our child. Fighting through everything on her own while I am stuck miles above her, useless and furious.
I force my breathing to steady. To stay in control. To keep from putting my fist through the window.
We're closing the distance. Every minute in the air is another step closer to her.
And when we land, I am going to tear apart every person who thinks they can take her from me and live.