19. Verge, My Ass
VERGE, MY ASS
WILLA
“I need to go home.”
“Can I have one more night?”
“Exton, I have a job, a home. I didn’t leave on Thursday morning prepared to be gone for this long.”
“It’s one more night, baby. And tomorrow we’ll go check on your house and maybe play in the mirror again.” He waggles his brows.
“Fine,” I huff. “One more night, but then, I’m putting my foot down.”
He smirks. “Fuck, woman. Said it before and will say it again, you’re perfect.”
“Whatever.” I cross my arms and look away, but I fight my grin with all I have so it doesn’t betray me.
I sit, back to the headboard, watching him move through his bedroom.
He’s wearing crisp trousers, a starched shirt, and fancy dress shoes to go to the San Antonio FBI branch for a meeting.
Damn. And I thought his ass in denim did it for me.
“What?” he asks.
“Just that you, Mr. Ranger, clean up nice.” I wave a hand from his head to his feet as if it should be obvious.
He leans down, hands on either side of my hips, and whispers playfully, pecking my lips, “I like it more when you make me dirty, Miss Jayne.”
He takes one more kiss, this one languid and no mere peck. His eyes are fire when he pulls back. “Home soon,” he says, before pulling open the bedroom door and leaving the house.
Pop yells something as he hits the porch but I can’t make out the words. Exton’s chuckle, though, can be heard plainly.
I take a sip of my coffee. It’s not as piping hot as it was when Exton brought it to me after his shower and he woke me up. Saturday and Sunday wake-ups are better, but I have to look Pop in the face with Exton gone, so Monday wake-ups apparently are chaste.
I get up and do my business, taking an extra moment when I catch my reflection in the mirror.
Happiness looks good on me. Happiness and contentment that will inevitably change on Wednesday when Exton goes home to D.C.
We’ll have had a week. One whole week of bliss—well, fighting and fucking and laughing—but it counts.
My phone dings, and I grab it as I take another sip of coffee.
Me: We have her. If you want her alive, you need to come get her.
I look again. The message comes from my name. My number.
Me: Look familiar?
I drop my phone and reach for the bed to steady myself. There in the picture attached is the still-healing bamboo I inked on Jackie. Now, though, two deep gashes forming an ‘X’ slash through it.
With trembling fingers, I type back one word: Where?
My phone immediately pings with a message from the carrier saying, “Service Error: Your message cannot be delivered at this time.”
Me: Come now. Deadline is noon. Clock is ticking. 1249 Centennial Drive, Dallas
Me: We’ve tracked your phone. Call anyone, notify anyone, and she’s dead. And you’ll get the video to prove it.
I run, but get nowhere.
I’m glad the moment isn’t recorded for posterity, because the inability to form a coherent thought means I head for the door only to double back and grab my phone.
I run again and recognize I’m not dressed.
I throw on the first clothes I see and grab the elastic from my wrist and knot my hair away from my face.
I reach for the door and know I’m forgetting something but can’t register what and don’t have time to suss it out.
I dial Exton, knowing my phone isn’t tracked the way they claim. Hell, I set it up only yesterday and there’s no way they could do that in the twenty-four hours it’s been on or without that hacker chick knowing.
His voicemail picks up. I disconnect and run.
Down the hall. Down the stairs. Through the living room. Out the front door and to my car still parked in front of the house.
Miraculously, the key fob is in the cupholder where Exton left it when we parked earlier.
I peel out, heading for the ranch gates, dust and rock flying in my wake.
The wait while they pull open is hell on what little patience I have left, and I bounce in my seat, fumbling my new phone twice while I fight to input the address in the navigation app.
It’s more direct to go through Austin, but morning rush hour and the potential for any snag on I-35 pushes me to choose the country route west of the city.
I’ll connect with the interstate path south of Waco.
The gates open and I turn left, leaving the ranch and heading north for the Dallas metroplex. I have little more than four hours to get there and almost four hours to travel if I don’t catch traffic or have to stop for gas. Fuck! That’s when I see the gauge.
I stop at the next station, and my frantic heart and racing mind cause me to forget my zip code and have to cancel and reenter.
I don’t have time for this shit.
Back in the car and on the road, I turn off the radio and look at the colors, trying to find something for my mind to focus on so I don’t lose my shit.
The pale greens of grasses coming to life greet me. Their silver dew sparkles when it catches the sun. The kelly greens of the oaks are imposed on the wispy pale blue sky, shot through with oranges and pinks of a spring sunrise.
I fight to keep my mind focused on the art swirling and flying by me. The way the colors of the cars passing me streak against the landscape.
It works.
Until my phone rings.
Exton’s name flashes on the screen. God, I want to answer. I want to tell him everything. I want to ask for his help. I know he would help and rally anyone he has at his disposal to assist too. And I need his help.
I know I’m walking into a trap that’s been laid. And I can’t do that. Can’t lose my head while Jackie’s life is on the line. I’m no Navy SEAL.
Hell, I’m no anything.
Exton will tell me to turn around and go back to the ranch, but I need to get to Jackie. Then I can figure it out.
The phone rings again. It just won’t quit.
When Exton’s name stops flashing, Brighton’s begins. I’d smile at her Dolly Parton ringtone if I weren’t so shocked that she was stored into my phone. When Pop’s name flashes and ringing fills the car again, I throw the phone into airplane mode.
The Ranger family has me on the verge of tears. They’re just that… a family. They’ve claimed me as one of their own in just a matter of a weekend. Three days and they’re programmed in my phone with their own songs and calling me when they know something’s wrong.
Tears stream down my face. Verge, my ass.
My nav app is freaking out with no signal, so when I get close to the highway, I flip it on, gauge the time—still running late—and see thirty-six notifications on my phone app. Texts look the same and I only open in case there’s one from them.
Only one.
Me: She’s asking for you. I want you too.
I select airplane mode again and think.
I drive and think.
I speed and think.
It turns out, I don’t know enough about what’s happening to know how to solve this problem.
So I drive to Dallas.
To Jackie.
To my fate.
Exton
“When?”
“Before eight,” I tell Jon, who is grilling me on what I know.
I repeat everything I’ve been told. Everything Pop relayed about Willa bolting from the house not long after I left, after I missed her call while I was in that meeting. Everything I can see from her old phone’s messages.
“You have the address. Can you have the Dallas County sheriff do anything?”
“Not on hearsay from an assistant DA outside of jurisdiction.”
“What about a friend you have on the force?”
“Let me ask.”
“Fuck asking, Jon. I’m calling in a favor. I’m leaving San Antonio now but I’m easily five hours away—I don’t have the luxury of waiting.”
“Sit tight for me for just a few more moments. Give me a second.”
“You’ve got one hundred and twenty. After that, I’ll handle this myself and count on you to get me out of it.”
I disconnect and pace, calming the frenetic energy that vibrates in my chest.
Me: That phone you traced. Can you ping it? Need anything and everything you can get.
Marissa: You know that’s not legal.
Me: Don’t give a fuck.
Marissa: Give me five.
Me: You’ve got three.
A hand hits my chest. It’s Fitz. “Not now, Young.”
“Ranger.” His hands hit his hips, and he pins me with a hard stare. “I overheard your call. I can help.”
I stare dumbfounded for one second before moving. “How? And yes, thank you. I accept.”
He turns to his phone and punches some buttons, turning away to make a call.
“Let’s go.” He strides away, and I match him step for step.
“Our helicopter is at an airfield ten minutes away. You can fill me in en route.”
I do before dialing Willa one more time to discover her phone is off or disabled. We will talk about that tactic when I find her. My first thought is to spank her ass. My second is that might just encourage her.
We’ve just arrived at the chopper when my phone dings with an incoming message.
Marissa: Phone is refracting off a burner that’s located within a quarter of a mile of the address we pinged before. Nothing at that location but an abandoned warehouse. No municipal or private cameras to get a closer look.
Marissa: Burner location looks like a meth den. Can’t be sure, but too much activity. Too many people. I count at least fourteen. And the heat map is off.
Marissa: Hacked another phone at the location. Feeding that video and audio to the cloud so you can listen or watch from there. That’s not strictly legal, of course, and I didn’t get a warrant, but I’m assuming this isn’t an official op, so listen at your own risk.
She links a cloud site, and I click it as the blades whirl and we lift off.
“Young, Agent Ranger, forty-five-minute flight time,” the pilot says through comms. “We’ll touch down a mile or so from the site.”
I nod once and focus on the audio as we fly.
Audio plays of two men discussing an upcoming haul, distribution, who got laid, when rent is due. All in all, there are twenty-seven minutes of audio. My blood runs cold, only to singe my veins when I hear one’s last words before the feed dies, “Bitch just showed.”