“And I should care about the old man’s kids why?”
Rixey thought about this for a moment, shoving down the knee-jerk responses and really chewing on what he thought could possibly be at stake. Finally, he said, “Because my gut’s telling me what our bad guys are looking for is somehow connected to what happened to us. And there just might be an opportunity here to get our hands on some intel that would allow us to prove our innocence, to prove that we were railroaded right out of the damn Army. I’m talking about a chance to reclaim our honor. For the five of us—and for the six who never made it off the road that day.” He never counted Merritt among the losses, not when he’d caused them. Was the same reason the tat on his arm only commemorated six soldiers.
“Shit,” Shane said, the southern lilt returning to his words. “Just how far out on a limb are you with that bit of speculation?”
“Possibly pretty far. Maybe all the way.” But Rixey had heard the consideration in his friend’s voice. “But maybe closer than I think, too.”
“Your gut’s a fucking burr on my balls.”
The corner of Rixey’s mouth twitched. Come on, Shane.
“When do you want me?”
On Becca’s behalf, relief had Nick easing against the chair’s backrest to let his head fall back. He stared at the ceiling. “As soon as you can get here. Tonight.”
“Course you do. Fucker.” Rixey could almost hear the wheels turning in McCallan’s brain. “Fine. I’ll throw some things in a bag and hit the road. You still at your brother’s?”
“Yeah.”
“With rush hour, it’ll probably take me an hour and a half to get there.”
“Roger that. And thanks.”
Shane disconnected without a reply.
Pulling the phone from his ear, Rixey prepared to eat his next big helping of crow. His next of three. Only question was whether Beckett Murda, Edward Cantrell, and Derek DiMarzio would give him the same chance as Shane.
And there was only one way to find out.
BECCA CAME AWAKE on a gasp, the sensation of being watched sending her heart into an immediate sprint. After her bath, which she’d had to keep on the shallow side because of the stitches, she’d curled up on the couch and turned the TV on for background noise while she’d waited for Nick to finish with his calls and his friend Miguel to arrive. But the combination of her recent lack of sleep and the aftereffects of the attack at the hospital had made it impossible to keep her eyes open. Her nap hadn’t been particularly restful, though, as nightmares kept jolting her into bleary-eyed consciousness. She pushed up onto her elbow and found Nick standing at the foot of the sofa.
“Sorry,” he said.
She shook her head and slid into a sitting position in the corner, her knees tucked up underneath her. The puppy was curled on the floor in front of her, and she only opened her eyes long enough to make sure Becca was still there. “Everything okay?” she asked. Nick’s expression was like a storm, dark and turbulent, but she had no idea what could’ve caused it. Before her bath, he’d seemed quiet, almost pensive, but not agitated the way he did now.
“Everything’s fine.” His hands curled into fists.
She wished she knew how to help him, how to lighten whatever load he carried. Oh, who was she kidding? The load she’d pretty much dropped on top of him. Becca patted the leather cushion. “Sit with me?”
On a tired exhale, Nick settled into the far end of the leather sofa. He braced a still-booted foot against his knee. After hours of being in his own home, he still hadn’t fully relaxed. She was half surprised he wasn’t wearing his holster.
For a moment, she allowed herself to admire him—the strong profile, the curl of dark hair at his neckline, the band of ink around his thick bicep, the way the black denim clung to the bulk of his thigh muscles. He was so freaking gorgeous, it was hard not to look at him.
But it wasn’t just the physical, impressive as that was, that drew Becca in. He wore weariness like a second skin, maybe one he didn’t even realize he’d donned. She saw it in the tense set of his broad shoulders, like they bore an unseen weight. In the shadows of his yellow-green eyes, which never quite reflected humor or happiness even in those rare instances when he smiled. As someone who’d experienced way too much loss, Becca knew what grief felt like, the way it both hollowed you out and weighed you down. As a nurse, she was used to seeing people in pain. She knew what it looked like. The loss, the grief, the pain—it was sitting right in front of her. And it made her feel closer to him, or at least it made her want to be closer.
“I’m sorry about all this,” she said.
He looked her way. “What?”
Becca shifted toward him. “I pretty much just crash-landed into your life.”
He studied her for a long moment, something dark flashing behind his eyes, then he nodded. “I just hope I can help.”
“You already have.”
Without the least attempt to shield it, Nick ran his gaze over Becca’s body, clad in a plain lavender shirt and jeans. She shivered under his avid interest, as if it had been his fingers responsible for the exploration. Heat ran over her flesh, remembering all too well how good his touch felt. God, they’d come so close to having se—
“Are you okay, Becca? When I came into that room, and he had you halfway out that door, a blade in your side . . .” His hand gripped tight around his ankle and he looked away.
She scooted herself onto the middle cushion but stopped shy of touching him. His body almost vibrated with tension. “Nick, look at me.” When he did, she smiled. “We don’t know each other well, right? But I promise to be honest with you.” His brow furrowed, and she rushed to explain her words. “I want you to know that, especially with everything you’re doing for me. So, in the spirit of honesty, I’m ready to crawl out of my skin over Charlie, my joints ache, these damn stitches sting like crazy, and my headache still hasn’t gone away. And I’m pissed as hell about . . . all of it.” She reached out and placed her palm on his forearm, stroking her thumb over the corded muscle. “But I’m okay. By morning, the worst of the aches will be gone. Until then, ibuprofen is my friend.”
His jaw ticked and his gaze fell to her hand. “I don’t know all the details yet, but I think Miguel’s worried we can’t trust the police.”
Can’t trust the police? Blood rushed through her ears until it thumped out an echo of the quickening pace of her heart. She forced herself to take a calming breath, not that it really worked. “Then how can we—”
“I called some friends, the remains of my team. Your father’s team,” he said, an odd tenor to his voice.
Her mouth dropped open. She’d never met any of the men on her dad’s A-Team. Heard a few stories, but that was about it. By the time she became an adult, her father’s deployment averaged over three hundred days a year. Sometimes she thought the other SF guys were more his family than she was. “The other four.” Without meaning to, her gaze dropped to his tattoo. With the six soldiers.
He nodded. “They’re all on their way. Three of them will be here tonight.” He looked at the chunky black watch on his wrist. “Probably within the next hour or so. The fourth is flying in tomorrow morning. These guys are the best. We’ll come up with a plan to figure this thing out.”
The news was good, a relief even, and prickled over Becca’s skin. “Wow. That’s . . . amazing.” But didn’t it also mean that . . . “Wait. If you guys are going to go after whoever has Charlie, whoever attacked me . . .” She searched his gaze. “Without the police . . .”