Nick stabbed his fork into Jeremy’s cake and scooped a huge chunk for himself.
“Hey!” Jeremy yelled, scowling and tucking the plate against his chest and that ridiculously awesome beaver T-shirt.
Nick grinned and winked at Becca. Man, the guy had pulled a total one-eighty in the days since they’d been reunited. From sullen to almost playful. Well, as playful as war-hardened soldiers who had been cheated out of their careers by betrayal and corruption could be. Sonofabitch. But, one thing was for sure, Nick Rixey wore a new lightness like a second skin.
No matter how tense things were between him and Nick, no matter how pissed he was at Nick’s silent treatment for the past year, Shane couldn’t begrudge the guy a slice of happiness. Not after everything they’d been through together.
Watching Nick and Becca smile and touch and just find solace in one another’s presence set off an old ache in Shane’s chest. Because he would never have that with someone.
God knew he didn’t deserve it.
There were some things you could never atone for.
Molly’s eight-year-old face came to mind. With her freckles, dimples, and pigtails, his sister had defined cuteness. She’d looked up to him like the sun rose and set at his feet.
And he had failed her so spectacularly that the guilt and grief had been imprinted into his very DNA. God, in the list of moments he’d accumulate in his lifetime that he wished he could take back, telling her to go away and leave him alone would never, ever be surpassed. Because an hour later, she was gone. On his watch. Forever.
So solitude was his penance. Not that it was enough. Not that it would ever be enough.
Jesus H. Christ, this is supposed to be a celebration, McCallan.
A click sounded at the door to the warehouse-turned-gym, now their situation room in an operation they were still trying to make heads or ass out of. Nick’s friend Miguel Olivero entered. “Look who I found wandering the halls,” he said in the jovial tone Shane already associated with the private investigator. Miguel ushered Charlie in through the doorway, Eileen hot on their heels.
Becca flew to her feet. “Charlie, what are you doing up?” She rounded the table and rushed to his side. The guy had been racked out in Nick’s sister’s room in the apartment across the hall since the early hours of the morning. Charlie looked about a thousand times better than when they’d grabbed him from the basement of Church’s strip club, but it was still possible a hard wind could blow him over. Not surprising given he’d been dehydrated, tortured, and maimed at the hands of the Church gang less than twenty-four hours before. A ball of gauze surrounded his right hand, shielding the stumps of the two fingers he’d lost. Shane had to give him props, though, because the guy hadn’t spilled a bean to the gang about the information his computer hacking had apparently revealed.
That someone or something named WCE had made a shitload of deposits totaling $12 million to a Singapore bank account in Frank Merritt’s name.
“Eileen had to go out,” he said, his voice like sandpaper. While Charlie’s dark blond hair was just long enough to be pulled back in a knot at the nape of his neck, his blue eyes, height, and lankiness all resembled his old man.
After learning about the money, Charlie had suspected his father was on the take, so he’d dug into the old man’s affairs, too, which led him to Nick. But his online “research” had apparently been noticed—by who they didn’t yet know—because Charlie had been kidnapped by the Church organization and interrogated about a whole host of things, including how he knew about the account, whether he had the passcode for it, and what else he knew about his father’s activities.
Becca and Miguel led Charlie to the folding chair next to Jeremy, then Miguel took the last empty chair next to Nick. The eight of them made up the “team” responsible for saving Charlie’s life. The newcomers dug into plates of food Becca had set aside for them.
As everyone cleared their plates, Nick excused himself, crossed the room to Marz’s makeshift computer desks in the back corner, and returned with a legal pad. Sitting again, he said, “We need a game plan.”
Murmurs of agreement echoed the sentiment.
“These were the questions we came up with last night. First, who or what is WCE? Second, how was Merritt connected to them and to Church?” He stabbed his pen against the paper as he articulated each of the questions. “What were they looking for when they ransacked Charlie’s and Becca’s houses. Who was Church’s company at the club? And what do the codes we found in Becca’s bracelet go to?” He scanned the group. “What am I forgetting?”
“We also need to find the pin to access the funds in Merritt’s bank account,” Marz said. Charlie nodded weakly as Nick made a notation on the pad.
Beckett sat forward, his shoulders like mountains and his expression like stone. He was one of the most reserved men Shane knew. Absolutely lethal in the field, he never met a piece of equipment he couldn’t use, fix, or make work better. Second to Marz’s prosthesis, Beckett bore the most visible scars from their ambush in the shrapnel marks around his right eye and the limp resulting from the complete reconstruction of his left leg. “It’s a bigger question, but deserves a place on the list. Who made the cover-up in Afghanistan possible? Because that shit didn’t happen on its own.”
“That’s the damn truth,” Nick said as he added the question. “What else?”
Charlie cleared his scratchy throat. “Well, I thought of something else.”
Conversation ground to an immediate halt, and all eyes swung to him. In a number of ways, he’d become the lynchpin to their investigation because he’d met their enemies, been on the inside, and his separate knowledge of Merritt’s black ops got them around the nondisclosure agreement that they’d been forced to sign to avoid a one-way trip to Leavenworth. Anyone tried to accuse them of opening their traps about the truth, Charlie’s own firsthand knowledge would offer a big old CYA.
“What is it?” Becca asked when the tension became a physical presence in the room.
The guy’s gaze flickered around the table, nervousness rattling off him. “I just don’t know if it’s relevant.”
“Everything’s relevant at this point,” Nick said.
Shane sat forward in his seat. “Damn straight.” Everyone had acceded to Becca’s wishes not to push Charlie, given his condition, but the former intel officer in him was chomping at the bit for a methodical debrief.
Looking at his plate, Charlie said, “I wasn’t the only one they were holding.” He let that information hang there for a moment, then continued. “In the first place they held me, there were three women. I didn’t see them, but I could hear them crying, and other stuff.” Pissed-off murmurs erupted around the room, and Shane tugged his hand roughly through his hair. “When they brought me to the club, there were another two in the room they put me in. Looked out of it, like maybe they were drugged. But then I passed out, and . . .” He shook his head.
Ice slid through Shane’s blood. If there had been women in with Charlie, they were gone by the time they’d found him. Where had they been taken? “How old were they?” Shane asked.
“Didn’t see the first women. Just heard them. The other ones were young, though. If they were twenty, I’d be surprised.”
Shane’s fists curled. Molly would’ve been twenty-four this year. It was close enough that the thought of those women—clearly held by Church against their will—conjured up all of the terrifying nightmares that had always plagued him about his sister’s disappearance. He shuddered.
“Anything else?” Nick asked.