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In fact, I now despised anything that reminded me of this house and what I was missing by living here.
Brown signified my imprisonment.
“This,” I said waving my hands at the folder after reading the first two pages. “This is where he’s at?”
“According to all the information you gave me, and thanks by the way, I’d have never thought to look at the grave site, this is where he’s residing. He’s been there for over a month, and is apparently the man who is the actual father of Anita’s baby. His name is Andre Fima. Thirty two years old. His father is the big cannoli of the Southern Russian crime family. Big wig’s kid who thinks he’s hot shit,” Agent Lawrence explained.
I nodded and read as Lawrence kept going. “He tried to get custody of the kid the old fashioned way, but he was denied because he was A. Too young, and B. Not married nor did he have a ‘stable job.’”
I snorted. “Yeah, I’m sure Russian mob bosses’ son wouldn’t look good on an adoption application. And he couldn’t come out as the kid’s father without bringing his identity in the light.”
He nodded. “You, though, he hated. He used the Sergei’s to try to adopt the kid. When that didn’t work, his next step was to steal the child, but the wounded vet saw to it that that didn’t go over so well. His final ploy was to talk to the Artem’s. That’s apparently what he was doing, according to the wire taps on his place. His next step was to get that girl to go back to her job now that the kid’s with the chief of police. Andre’s not giving up, though. Even though the chief’s place is guarded, he plans to raid it with around fifteen men later tonight.”
I smiled. “Well that’s just a shame that we know about that, now isn’t it?”***I unstrapped my vest alongside my team.
It’d been a long nine months, and I was glad to be a part of them again. It was even nicer to see that two of my favorite people were now there as well. It was like our old team again.
Miller. Foster. Bennett. Me. Luke. Downy. James. John. Michael.
That was if you didn’t count Luke. He was, after all, a Marine.
Marines were all together inferior to SEALs, and it was a damn shame that he couldn’t be like us.
We worked well together.
The raid had gone well, and all parties had been arrested without much of a fight whatsoever.
Andre Fima was arrested with the attempted murder of Kilgore’s chief of police, as well as the suspected attempted murder of me, and the actual murder of the young officer who’d been driving my car earlier in the year.
Our new team worked well together, and I’d been surprise with how easily I slipped back into my old role.
Michael looked at me from his spot across the room, and I watched him as I used to do as we unwound from the day’s events. Our lockers faced each other, the way they used to, I didn’t let him know that his stare was unnerving.
Michael’s hands were hanging on to the locker door above him, elbows up by his ear.
The man had nearly translucent blue eyes, and the sheer amount of tattoos covering his body was incredibly disorienting. I could never decide on what to look at. Literally, from about wrists up, and neck down, he was covered in tattoos. You wouldn’t know, however, if he had clothes on.
There was a new one, though.
And it made my skin tingle just looking at it.
“I would’ve gotten it removed, but in part, you did die. It’s been a hard, long seven and a half months, and I’m glad you’re back,” Michael said, as he saw what my eyes were looking at.
His last remaining free spot, underneath his left arm, on the inside sensitive skin, was a badge, and across it was a thick band of black with a thin strip of blue running in the middle of it.
It made my throat clog, but in a good way.
I still felt like a royal shit, though, for deceiving them.
I nodded and started to unvelcro my Kevlar vest.
My gun was next to be strapped to my leg, and I followed it up shortly by hooking my badge on the front of my vest.
It felt good to have it back.
I’d been lost without it these last few months, and I was glad that the chief held onto it for me.
Just as I was about to pull my vest over my head, the phone I’d stolen back from Georgia rang in my locker.
I looked at it in dread, knowing in my heart what was going to be heard when I answered the phone.
Bringing it up to my ear, I answered. “Hello?”
I heard panting in the background and Georgia’s sweet voice growling at the other end. “I’m in the throes of a contraction, and we’re still not married. You better fix this, by God, or I’ll kill you for real.”
With only one option left to do, I turned to the remaining men in the room and said, “Who wants to help me get married?”***The electric headrests slapped down against the back of my head for the fourth time. I clenched my eyes shut and pushed the headrest back into position. Then, I looked up just in time to see my mother hit the button that brought them down, again.
It was funny the first time, but after the fifth, it was just annoying me.
I was in the back of a Suburban heading straight to the hospital.
The priest would be meeting us at the chapel in less than twenty minutes. All I had to do was run up and grab Georgia, who’d refused to get married in her room.
Which also meant she’d refused pain meds.
I’d been on the phone when the nurse had said that she was too far along to go down to the chapel. Luckily, I’d lost signal right around the time Georgia had started yelling about ‘heifers’ and ‘stupid bitches.’
