31. Rhett
RHETT
Our dining table now looks less like a place where people eat and more like the inside of my head. Maps and sketches cover nearly every inch, along with the satellite imagery Sentinel pulled for us last night. Everything’s marked up in black, red, or blue.
Boone calls it a serial killer wall in table form, and I call it the only thing keeping me from picking up a rifle and solving this the wrong way.
I’m on the line with Novak, arguing about what constitutes immediate danger, because the DEA don’t want to move unless there’s a direct threat.
“If Turner makes another move on Dr. Hollis or attacks your residence, we’ll reassess,” he says. “We’re accelerating the timeline in light of the threats, but if he’s just posturing and trying to scare you off, we need to hold for the handoff.”
According to Novak, men coming out of a draw trying to grab Wren counts as posturing. I set my pencil down before I snap it in half.
Wren’s standing by the window with a mug of tea in both hands, and she looks tired in a way that makes me want to reach through the phone and grab Novak by the neck.
Cade’s sitting on the hearth cleaning a rifle, and Boone’s leaning against the kitchen counter, arms folded, both of them listening to my side of the conversation.
“How accelerated?” I ask.
“Turner’s people are preparing for a major handoff. We have cartel movement out of the city, financial chatter, and enough on your terrain side now to put the staging valley at the center of it.”
“Then move.”
Novak exhales. “Not yet.”
I close my eyes for a beat, and when I open them, I force myself to focus on the map instead of the woman at the window.
“Prosecutors need more than Turner standing near suspicious terrain with bad friends. If we take him now, it inconveniences them. If we take him with cartel personnel, product, and money, we dismantle the regional pipeline.”
I understand the logic, and that’s the hell of it.
I’ve done plenty of my own waiting when it was the only way to make a strike count.
You wait until the package is on site, wait until the target is confirmed, wait until the second vehicle clears the choke point.
Wait, wait, wait, with your rifle up and your pulse slow while every instinct in your body screams that action is better than all the waiting.
Waiting can get people home, but it also leaves the woman you love restless while she’s trying to sleep.
“I need you defensive, not offensive,” Novak says.
“Then move faster.”
“We are.”
“Faster than that.” When he doesn’t respond, I add, “You’ll have Cade’s updated recon packet within the hour. Stills, route estimates, shift rotations, and vehicle descriptions.”
“I’ll watch for it,” he says. “In the meantime, keep your phones on, and if anything changes, I want to know before the echo fades.”
“You will.”
When I end the call, Wren turns toward me, and I’m relieved there’s no fear in her face, but there is worry.
Boone pushes off the counter. “That was cheerful.”
I drag a hand over my face. “He’s accelerating.”
“Not enough,” Boone says.
“No.”
“Not enough when I want to put Turner in a hole,” Cade says.
“That makes four of us,” Boone says.
“But it can’t just be him,” I say. “We’ll harden the cabin and keep feeding Novak intelligence so they can take down the whole thing.”
I call Sentinel with an update and a request for comms equipment, and more sensors and cameras. By late afternoon, we’ve placed more motion sensors around the perimeter and checked sightlines from every window and outbuilding.
Boone feeds everyone at dinner. Cade eats standing near the window, which would irritate me if I weren’t doing the same thing in my head. Wren sits at the table and eats enough to satisfy Boone after he gives her a look and adds another spoonful of potatoes to her plate.
I take three bites, then a message comes through from Novak, asking for clarification on coordinates. There’s a follow-up after that, and I forget the food exists.
Cade takes first watch after dark while Boone crashes on the couch with a book open on his chest and one hand resting near the pistol holstered beneath the side table.
When Wren disappears into the bathroom to take a shower, I tell myself I’ll stop in ten minutes, but ten becomes thirty, and then thirty turns into an hour.
I keep working so I can turn fear into routes and contingencies, and I keep working because every line on these maps is a place Turner might use to reach Wren.
I’m vaguely aware of the microwave running, then my plate of food from dinner appears beside my left hand.
“Eat,” Wren says.
She’s beside me in sleep shorts and an oversized sweater that slips off one shoulder. Her legs are bare, and her damp hair falls in waves around her face. There’s a faint crease between her brows.
“I ate.”
She frowns, and I’m expecting an argument. Instead, she says, “Share it with me.”
She picks up a forkful of potatoes and eats it, then hands the fork to me. Her eyes stay on mine as I put food in my mouth and chew.
She slides into the chair beside me. “You can’t protect anyone if you run yourself into the ground.”
I’ve heard similar things before, from my brothers and even my mother. Hearing it from Wren hits differently. She’s stepped fully inside our circle and isn’t afraid to push back.
She takes another bite, and I do, too. Then she insists I take two bites before she takes another. We sit side by side as Cade’s radio check crackles low from the counter, and Boone shifts in his sleep.
Before I know it, the plate is empty. I swipe gently at a small crumb at the side of Wren’s lips, then lick it from my finger. “You got me to eat. Are you happy?”
Instead of answering, she rests her head against my shoulder. The smell of her shampoo and clean skin tugs at a spot deep inside me.
Mine. Ours.
“You should go to bed,” I say.
She swivels her head so her lips press against my arm. “So should you.”
“I still have work.”
She glances down at the papers, then back at me. “You have fear dressed up like work.”
I give her a look, but she doesn’t flinch. She slides her hand around my arm.
“I’m scared, too,” she says. “But spending another hour over these maps won’t make that go away.”
I push back from the chair and stand, and her hand slides away. She has to tilt her head back to keep looking at me, but she doesn’t retreat. Her shoulder is still bare, and her pulse beats at the base of her throat.
I touch it with two fingers, and her breath catches. “Rhett.”
I slide my hand to the side of her neck, where her skin is warm under my palm and her hair damp against my knuckles. For all my control, my plans, and my restraint, I have no defense against the way she looks at me like she sees the man under the command and wants him, too.
“You know what happens if I kiss you right now?” I ask.
Her lips part. “I’m hoping to find out.”