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August 22
Weeks passed, and shit went from bad to worse.
Zy knew he’d been an ass, so a few days ago he’d decided to swallow his pride and apologize to Tessa. He owed her that since she probably thought he blamed her for ending them. He had for ten minutes—long enough to behave like a douche and call Madison. More than anything, he’d been frustrated that Tessa had signed her contract without talking to him. He’d been on the verge of spitting out an impulsive idea that they move in together. It had made perfect sense in the moment. She could quit and stay home with Hallie. He made enough to support them both. They could be a family.
Dream on, buddy.
After her experience with Cash, what were the odds she wanted to depend on any man, much less commit to one she’d never even kissed?
In fairness, to be with her, he could have quit himself. He would have found another job eventually, though not in his field. He’d had choices, but he hadn’t been thinking that day about anything except his fucking heart breaking.
After that, he’d avoided her because looking at her hurt and it was easier than saying he was sorry. But after six weeks of silence, he couldn’t take it anymore.
A few mornings ago, he’d waited for Tessa at her desk, an apology perched on the tip of his tongue. She’d blown him off. Totally. Oh, she’d smiled politely. Her manners were too good to berate him in the office, but she’d also skittishly avoided meeting his stare and standoffishly substituted nods for replies. Clearly, he’d hurt her. And why should she forgive him?
One-Mile rubbernecking as he passed hadn’t helped his mood, either. If the sniper was interested in Tessa, he’d have to walk through hell—and over Zy’s dead body—to touch her. Didn’t the bastard already have his hands full? Less than a week ago, he’d gotten Cutter out of a hostage situation—then apparently slept with the guy’s girlfriend just because he could. The blood between them had gone from bad after their failed Mexico mission in March to so bad the throw down coming would end with someone in a body bag.
Things only went downhill from there.
Forty-eight hours ago, Trees and One-Mile had gone to Mexico again for undisclosed reasons, but Zy guessed it had something to do with figuring out what had gone wrong the last time they’d set foot in that godforsaken desert. And son of a bitch if Trees and One-Mile hadn’t been surrounded by Emilo Montilla’s thugs in a parking lot outside a restaurant. Trees had managed to think fast and drive away—thank fuck—only to mysteriously wake up twelve hours later outside a police station. Apparently, his food had been drugged. After twenty-four hours at the hospital in New Orleans, he was returning tonight to Lafayette.
One-Mile hadn’t been so lucky. He’d been beaten, subdued, and taken. And who the fuck knew what the sniper was enduring—or if he was still alive. They couldn’t even undertake a rescue mission because they had no intel about which of the drug lord’s hidden compounds he was being kept in.
The bosses were on edge, as was the rest of the team.
So when Zy got a text late Friday afternoon to present himself before quitting time, he made his way down the hall.
“You wanted to see me?” He poked his head into Joaquin Muñoz’s office, formerly known as the copier room.
Since the trio of new bosses had taken over, he’d had a hard time thinking of this space as a serious office, but now that he stepped into the room with the blinds drawn, the formidable desk in the center, and the big, silent operative sitting behind it, Zy wasn’t laughing.
“Close the door and sit down,” Joaquin said, gesturing him to the corner, as if the guy had shoved the guest chair there because he knew a boss should have one, but he’d rather not bother.
Still, he eased onto the hard plastic with a nod. “What do you need? Got anything new on Walker?”
Joaquin planted his meaty arms on his desk and leaned in. Zy had the impression this was about as personable as the guy got.
“Nothing yet. But I need to talk to you. About Trees.”
Zy froze. “Is he okay?”
Nothing better have happened to him. Forest Scott was the closest thing he had to a brother. His biological sibling had stopped speaking to him a decade ago. His parents had turned their backs when he’d flatly refused to accept the golden ticket to the Ivy League education his father had bought him and he’d joined the army instead.
“Fine.”
Okay… “So what’s up?”
“Does your buddy have any problems?”
Zy shifted in his chair. He couldn’t escape the feeling this had morphed from a chat to an interrogation. “Problems?”
“With money?”
Except what he spent on prepping, Trees had pretty much saved every dime he’d ever made. He was loaded—and then some. “No.”
