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“And what’s your plan?”
Noah shoved the device into his coat pocket before zipping up his heavy parka. “I’m going to drop this on our new friend’s car and see if I can get a glimpse through any of the windows.” He tossed the bag into the back seat again and picked up the cell phone so he could text the address back to Rowe.
“What—”
“Get in the driver’s seat and keep the car running,” Noah said, cutting off Ian’s question. “Wait ten minutes. If I’m not back in ten minutes, leave. Go straight to the interstate and head to a place crowded with shoppers and cops. You park there, go into a busy store, and call Rowe.”
“What about you?”
Noah shook his head. “I’ve gotten out of far more dangerous areas. I can get back to you. Now repeat my instructions.”
“Rowe will—”
“Rowe knows what I’m capable of. Now repeat it.”
Ian glared at Noah. He didn’t like this plan. They were supposed to be sticking together. They were just supposed to be following Mick and getting an address—exactly what they did already. But being able to keep a closer eye on Mick, and by extension, possibly even Jagger, was too tempting. If the cops arrived too late to the address and missed Mick, then Rowe’s tracking device might help.
Frowning at Noah, he repeated the instructions word for word, earning him a wide grin from his companion. With a final nod, he climbed out of the truck and headed down the street, walking in the opposite direction of the house where Mick had parked before turning right. Ian watched Noah disappear around the corner, his pace brisk and his head down, appearing to the all the world like he was moving quickly to his destination due to the cold.
When the former Ranger was no longer in sight, Ian climbed over the console and adjusted the seat in case he needed to drive Rowe’s massive truck. It was much larger than his Volt, dwarfing everything that was parked on either side of the narrow street. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. 3:07. Noah had until 3:17 and then he was to leave.
His heart pounded and his palms grew sweaty at the idea of leaving without Noah. Could he really do that? Would Rowe forgive him if something happened to Noah? Would he forgive himself? Rowe had already lost Melissa. Losing Noah…
Ian violently shook his head as if he could dislodge the thought from his brain by the movement. Rowe wasn’t going to lose Noah. The man had spent years as an Army Ranger. He was skilled and highly trained. He’d survived war zones. He knew how to get in and out of dangerous situations. He could handle this with no problem.
Ian knew the real problem was whether he could handle it if he was suddenly being chased. Sure, he’d managed to fight off Jagger’s goon in that alley, but he couldn’t help wondering if he’d gotten lucky. Certainly the man hadn’t expected him to fight back. He’d simply caught the bastard off guard. Rowe’s training had helped, but Ian couldn’t convince himself that he would come out ahead if the same thing happened again.
Tightening his hands around the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white, he glanced at the clock again. 3:11. Fuck. His eyes darted out the front windshield and then to all of the mirrors, but there was no sign of Noah. There was no one on the street.
A shiver of fear sliced through him and he swallowed back a lump of disgust. Snow wouldn’t be scared right now. Neither would Lucas nor Rowe nor Hollis. They thrived on this adrenaline-laced insanity. They’d be excited to jump into the fray. Ian just longed for his kitchen at home where he experimented with new recipes. Or even the loud, frantic activity of the Rialto kitchen. Damn, he missed his restaurant. He loved the steady buzz of activity, the chaotic urgency when something went wrong and they turned to him for an answer. He loved the gentle burble of conversation and the soft clink of silverware in the main room of people enjoying their meal and the company of friends and family.
He wanted normal again. He wanted his life back…but he knew to get there and stay there permanently, he had to trudge through hell. Even if it meant sitting in a truck, waiting as the driver of a getaway car in a wretched part of town. The sickly, barren trees and brown grass did nothing to help the appearance of this old neighborhood, but he doubted summer green did much to mask the dilapidated houses, cracked sidewalks, and general hopelessness of the area.
3:15.
Crap! Ian twisted nervously in the seat, pulling at the seat belt when it felt as if it was attempting to choke him. He stared out the back window, down the street they’d come, but he had no view of the house where Mick had stopped. Also no sign of Noah. Where the hell was he?
