Trusting His Instincts, page 13
Nash’s warmth, his scent, the way he holds me like I’m the most precious thing in the world…everything’s easier with him. Even talking about Brooks, who was once my everything, with the man who’s becoming all that and more.
“The night he died…” I shudder, and Nash tightens his arm around me. “The storm was a real toad strangler. Pastures flooded, and one of the fences came down. He was fixin’ it while I rounded up the herd. I didn’t see him get hit. Thunder spooked his horse and I was chasin’ him down. By the time I got back to Brooks, he was barely breathin’.” My tears spill over, and I don’t try to stop them. Not this time. “He died in my arms.”
I don’t know how long we stay locked together. Long enough for me to stop crying, for my eyes to burn. For the gaping wound in my heart to scar over.
“I thought I was doin’ fine here,” I say quietly, tipping my head so I can look him in the eyes. “But I was wrong. What I feel with you…for you…it’s like I’m livin’ again for the first time in years.”
His rough hand cups my cheek, his fingers sliding into my hair as he leans down to claim my lips. The kiss is tender, gentle, and everything I need in this moment.
“There’s a difference between living and being alive,” he murmurs. “I’m not sure I realized what it was until I met you.”
Chapter Sixteen
Nash
South Seattle is full of warehouses like this. Big. Gray. Nondescript. Some have stripes of color. Others…nothing but broken, boarded-up windows and weeds poking through cracks in the asphalt.
Hidden Agenda fits right in. Paint peeling in spots, more than one of the dozens of windows along the roofline covered in plywood, and most of the white lines in the parking lot worn clean off.
Raelynn takes my hand, and I wonder if she’s as nervous as I am. Or if she’s worried I’m going to bolt.
“We’ll keep you safe,” she murmurs as we approach the door. “It’s what we do, and we’re damn good at it.”
More than once last night, I woke to find her staring at me in the darkness. Every time, I told her I wouldn’t run, but what if I don’t have a choice?
Inside, I stop short. “Whoa. This is…”
Every inch of the place is sparkling clean. A climbing wall stretches all the way to the ceiling directly in front of me, with a boxing ring, a complete set of free weights, and two pull-up bars next to it.
In the far corner, three men and a woman banter in a kitchenette with stainless steel appliances and shiny black counters, while a dozen feet away, a petite redhead leans against the biggest man I’ve ever seen, his hands spread across her very pregnant belly.
Almost as one, they turn toward us.
“Welcome to Hidden Agenda,” Raelynn says quietly. “Come on. I’ll introduce you.”
I clutch my backpack tighter. Bandit, my cell phone, and five hundred dollars in cash are tucked safely inside. She doesn’t know about the cash. If I have to run, I have what’s most important to me.
Except Raelynn.
She’ll stay here. With her family. Where she’s safe.
It’s obvious who’s in charge. The massive, scarred man who looks like a mountain with an attitude problem. But every single one of the men and women standing in front of me look like they could kick my ass. Even the pregnant redhead.
“Nash.” West steps forward, offering me his hand, and though he should be a friendly face, all I can think about is how I lied on the dojo’s intake form.
“Hey.”
The big, bald one stares me down, and between that and West’s iron grip, I’m starting to think this was a very bad idea.
Raelynn starts with the introductions. “Inara,” she says, gesturing to a woman with short black hair and pale gray eyes. “Then there’s Graham, and Tank, out here from Boston.”
One by one, the others step forward to shake my hand or meet my gaze with a nod.
“Wyatt is the big lug with the beard. But don’t be surprised if we all start callin’ him ‘probie.’ Right?” She shoots West a look.
The former SEAL grumbles what might be a “yes” and I glance at Raelynn, confused.
“Rite of passage,” she says. “Newest member of the team gets hazed for at least a year. Or until someone else joins. I’ve been the goddamn probie for way too long.”
“I’m Wren,” the redhead says. Her giant protector softens his gaze, staring down at her with such adoration, it’s obvious they’re completely in sync. “And the grumpy, yet lovable mountain of granite behind me is Ryker.”
“I thought we agreed,” Ryker grumbles, “you weren’t going to use the words lovable, teddy bear, or ‘puddle of goo’ to describe me in public anymore.”
“You agreed.” Wren tips her head back to smile up at the big man. “I merely agreed not to tell anyone what happened when you saw the ultrasound for the first time.”
She winks at Raelynn and traces a single finger down her cheek.
“Little bird…”
The last man in the room steps out from behind the couple. He’s bulkier than West, but shorter than Wyatt and Ryker. His dark eyes shift between me and Raelynn, and he sticks close to the mountain of muscle with an attitude. “That’s Ripper,” Raelynn says, but stops me when I offer to shake. “He doesn’t…”
“Oh.” I shove my hand into my pocket. “Sorry, this is all kind of overwhelming. I haven’t met this many people at once in…years.” If I hadn’t promised Raelynn I’d listen, that I’d give this family of hers a chance, I’d have been out the door two seconds after we walked in.
My admission seems to ease Ripper’s discomfort, and Ryker gives the other man a terse nod before turning back to me. “So, Nash Grace…want to tell us who you really are?”
West clears his throat. “Ry, maybe we move this to the command center? Pretty sure Wren would like to get off her feet.”
“Fuck. Sorry, little bird. Sit down and relax.” Ryker slides his arm around Wren’s shoulders and guides her to a plush recliner. Several couches, low tables, and lamps give the area a comfortable, lived-in look—if it weren’t for the three large flat screen monitors along the wall.
Wren sinks down with a sigh. “I only have another month of this,” she says, her green eyes flicking to mine as she rubs her belly. “Then it’s all sleepless nights and diapers and watching this one,” she pats the big guy’s hand, “turn into a—”
“Don’t say it,” Ryker warns. “Or I’ll cancel tomorrow’s ice cream delivery.”
She tips her head up and bats her eyelashes at him. “You and I both know you’d never do that. You love me too much.”
He leans over to press a kiss to her lips. “This kid is going to ruin my reputation. Let’s get started before West has to scrape me up off the floor.”
Wren aims a remote at the wall, and two of the three screens flicker to life.
Oh, shit.
The first one has my driver’s license, records from my last two high schools, and a grainy, live video feed of the alley behind my studio. On the middle screen, there’s a sketch of the man I think might be the one who took a shot at me, alongside a mug shot of him from years earlier.
“What is all of this?” I ask.
“Everything we were able to find about you,” Wren says. “Which isn’t much.”
“High school transcripts? How the hell did you get those?”
“Took me all of ten minutes.” Wren picks up a keyboard from the side table. “But in twenty, I should have been able to find your bank accounts, credit cards, email addresses, lease agreements, and job history.”
“I don’t have any of that stuff.” I turn to Raelynn, confused. “Why was Wren searching for me?”
“Because you’re the one that asshole shot at,” Ryker snaps. “Diego Ruiz. Arrested in Rockford, Illinois ten years ago for assault with a deadly weapon. But before the case went to trial, the evidence mysteriously went missing.”
“So, he walked?” Raelynn asks. “Where is he now?”
Wren and Ryker exchange glances. “We don’t know. Diego’s been off the grid for more than a year and a half. His last known place of residence was an apartment on the south side of Chicago.”
My gut clenches, and ice fills my veins. “The DeLucas lived on the south side of Chicago.”
“Who?” West sits up straighter, and the whole team is suddenly very interested in what I have to say next. Time to come clean and hope it doesn’t backfire on me.
“I was born Nathan Paul Rossi. Son of Angelo and Stella Rossi. Grandson of Giovani Rossi, head of the Rossi crime family.”
Raelynn
I pull a can of Dr. Pepper from the fridge and pop the top. Nash talked for two hours—amid all the questions Ryker and West had for him—before Wren needed a break. Graham and Tank are picking up Thai takeout, but they won’t be back for at least another twenty minutes.
Nash wanders over the climbing wall and runs his fingers over the lowest of the handholds.
“Want to go up?” I ask when I’m only a few feet away. “I can give you a lesson.”
“You climb this thing?” Nash turns to me and shakes his head. “Of course you do.”
“Three days a week for over a year. Before I jacked up my shoulder. Only been up a handful of times since then.” Grabbing a harness, I toss it to him. “We’ve got some time. And safety gear.”
He glances over at his backpack sitting next to the couches, his shoulders suddenly hiking halfway to his ears.
I cup his cheek, urging him to look at me. “No one’s going to mess with your stuff here, Nash. Rip might scan it for bugs later, but we have a wand for that.”
His eyes widen. “Bugs?”
Shit. That was the wrong thing to say. Clasping his shoulders, I hold his gaze. “Just a precaution. Like West and Inara stayin’ at your place last night.”
As if he’s suddenly realizing the lengths I’ll go to keep him safe, Nash surges forward, his arms banding so tightly around me, I stifle a yelp. “Thank you.”
“Put me down,” I hiss. “Before someone notices.”
“No.” He backs me up against the climbing wall, kissing me until someone—Wyatt, probably—whistles loudly.
Flames lick up my cheeks, but I don’t push him away. “You’re gonna ruin my reputation around here.”
“Oh?” He closes his teeth over the shell of my ear and tugs until I shiver. “Do you care?”
“Not one bit.” Sliding my hand up to his neck, I touch my forehead to his. “I know this is a lot. Bein’ here. Trustin’…anyone after so many years. But you’re doin’ great.”
“I don’t know how I’m going to explain any of this to Duncan.”
Shit.
I’d almost forgotten about the former U.S. Marshal Nash called yesterday. “Do you know when he’s landin’ yet?” Ryker’s gonna be pissed—and there’s no way in hell he’ll agree to bring the man here.
Nash pulls out his phone and checks the screen. “No service?”
I take his arm and guide him to the door. “Signal jammers. We have to get outside.”
Anger radiates from his entire body as he stalks after me. Sunlight blinds us for a moment until we round the corner of the building.
“What the fuck, Raelynn? I can’t stay here without my phone. Duncan’s on his way, and if he can’t reach me when he lands—”
“Calm your shit. The jammers only work on outsiders’ phones. Ours…are special. Text him and give him my number. He can call me when he lands. It’ll ring through, and you’ll be able to talk to him.”
Nash stares at me for so long, I start to worry. He’s doesn’t know which way is up, so far out of his comfort zone I wouldn’t blame him for snapping like a fiddle string at any moment. But he cracks open the phone and sends the message.
“He said he’d be on the first flight. How long does it take to get here from Italy?” The man looks like a lost puppy, and the confusion in his eyes twists my heart into a knot.
“Goin’ west, you got headwinds to consider. But with the time change, you make up time. There ain’t many direct flights from here to Italy. Wren might be able to work some magic if he’s already gone through customs. Let’s go back in.”
Before we make it to the door, a motorcycle roars to life. Inara speeds past us, a large duffel bag strapped to the back of the bike. “Inside. Now.” I grab Nash’s hand and pull him with me as I take off at a run.
“What’s wrong?”
“That’s Ry’s bike. He don’t lend it out on a whim. Inara needed to get somewhere fast. Either somethin’ happened with her husband or there’s shit goin’ down…”
We burst through the door and make a beeline for the command center. The rest of the team is huddled around the large table. Tension hangs so thick in the air, I can taste it.
The monitors along the wall show different views of Nash’s studio. On the center screen, Diego Ruiz opens the closet and curses.
“You have…cameras in my apartment.”
West looks up, his blue eyes devoid of all emotion. Shit. “As of last night, yes. And it’s a good thing we do. Keep the chatter to a minimum. I’m calling Adam.”
He sets his phone on the table and puts it on speaker.
“West! What’s up?”
“Listen very carefully. Pretend I’m an old friend you haven’t talked to in years. And don’t let anyone hear my side of the conversation. Got it?”
Adam pauses for a moment, then clears his throat. “The last time I heard from you was…the summer after graduation.”
“Do not react to what I’m about to say. A man just broke in to the studio. Nash is with me, but when the asshole doesn’t find him, he’ll probably come back into the shop. How many customers do you have right now?”
“Uh…maybe half a dozen.”
This is gonna go south faster than greased lightning if Adam doesn’t get his shit together. He’s not trained for this.
West glances up at Ryker, who mouths, “Eight minutes.”
“I’ve got someone on the way. Until she gets there, I need you to do exactly what I say. We’re talking about our upcoming high school reunion. Got it?”
“What the hell is she going to do about…the decorations?” He tells someone else to take over, then mutters under his breath, “This is fucking ridiculous. Tell me what’s going on.”
“Can’t. Not yet.” On screen, Diego stalks out the door. “He’s leaving the studio. I’d lay odds he’s on his way back to you. Tell him you expect Nash any minute. Give the dude a free coffee. Suggest he wait upstairs. Be friendly, don’t let on you know what he was doing, and get him out of the shop and away from your customers.”
“Fine. But you’re going to tell me—hang on a minute,” Adam says. He must cover the speaker, because his next words are muffled. “He wasn’t up there? Sorry, man. He said he was just going to the drugstore. Hang out in the stairwell. Otherwise you might miss him. Shouldn’t be more than another five minutes.”
The seconds drag out for what feels like an hour before Adam swears under his breath, the sound suddenly clear again. “I think he’s going back upstairs. Who is he and what the hell is going on?”
“Put the phone on the counter but don’t hang up,” West says. “Inara will let you know when she’s neutralized the threat. But until you hear from her or me, do not go back upstairs.”
Adam calls his name more than once, but West jabs the mute button as Ryker tosses me a comms unit. The device is so small, it all but disappears in my ear. A second one sails through the air for Nash. “Listen only,” he says sharply.
I tap his earwig once, muting the sophisticated bone-conduction mic, then hand it to him. “What’s Inara going to—”
“One minute away.” Nash flinches at Inara’s tense whisper in his ear. “Golf? Tango? Status report.”
“Right behind you,” Graham says.
“Take him alive, Indigo.” West cuts his gaze to me for a split second. “If you can.”
Nash’s fingers dig into my forearm. “If she can?”
I tap my own earwig so I can talk to him without distracting the rest of the team. “She ain’t goin’ for a walk in the park. This guy tried to kill you. Hush up.” Any other time, I’d pull him aside to explain, but she’s less than thirty seconds away from the stairs. So I take Nash’s hand and hold on tight, all the reassurance I’m able to give in this moment.
“Stairway’s clear,” Inara says quietly. “Is the target inside?”
“Negative.” Ryker slams his fist down on the table, rattling Wren’s laptop and West’s phone. “He bolted. Golf, Tango, perimeter check. Three blocks in every direction.”
“That’s it? He’s…gone?” Nash looks from Ry to West to me, all the color draining from his cheeks. “Maybe he was just a thief. You can’t be sure he’s working for the DeLucas.”
“Oh, we’re sure.” Wren points to the center monitor. “Inara just sent this picture of your front door.”
The screen flickers, the camera feed dissolving to reveal a switchblade pinning a piece of white paper to the wood, the point dead center of the single hastily scrawled word.
Nathan.
Chapter Seventeen
Nash
A large door swings open at the far corner of the warehouse, and Inara rolls Ryker’s motorcycle inside. “Your back tire caught a nail,” she calls over her shoulder. “Before I took her out. Pressure’s still good, but you’ll want to fix it ASAP.”
“Son of a bitch,” Ryker mutters. “Wyatt, you good with driving my truck home when we’re done here?”
“Don’t you mean ‘probie’?” Raelynn asks.
“Not yet.” Wyatt ambles over to the kitchen—it’s the only word for his slow, loping gait—and pours himself another cup of coffee. “I’m here in an advisory capacity only. For now.”
Raelynn gives him the side eye. “What the hell does that mean? And I’ll take a cup if you’re pourin’.”
