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T. Tehya.
Noah turned and stared at a silent Rick. He was watching Rory, watching Noah.
“You’re supposed to be dead,” Rick said faintly. “I watched them bury you.”
A man ran a risk when returning to his hometown, pretending to be someone he wasn’t, and claiming the wife he had left.
“I still am. Dead.” He bared his teeth at Rick. “You’re in. But God help you if you’re a part of this.”
Rory shuddered as Noah turned back to him.
“Noah, she called him ‘baby.’ ”
Noah sharpened his focus on Rory. “Who?”
Rory frowned. “When the door closed. Sienna. Brown eyes jerked her inside. She said ‘baby.’ ”
“You misheard,” Rick objected behind them. “You had to have misheard, Rory.” But the objection was faint and filled with bitter pain.
When Noah turned back to the sheriff, he was staring at Rory in horror, in knowledge.
Rick shook his head as though clearing a fog and stared back at Noah, his tobacco-brown eyes filled with anguish. “He misheard.”
Rory hadn’t misheard. There was a leak in the Alpine sheriff’s force. That leak was Sienna, not Rick as they had first assumed.
“Nik, what do we have?”
“Ambulance pulling in.”
Noah jerked around, pinning him with his gaze as Nik grimaced. “We got nothing yet, man. The team’s pulling in. Trav is tracking and T is working comm. That’s all we have.”
“Who the hell are you?” Rick grabbed Noah’s arm.
Slowly, more to control the impulse to rip the sheriff’s throat out than for any other reason, Noah turned back to him. Then he smiled.
He could feel the blood pumping through his veins, his muscles hardening, tightening. His vision edged with red, with blood, and the monster was free.
“I’m the BCM’s worst fucking nightmare,” he said softly. “I’m a dead man walking, and I’ll take every damned one of them to hell with me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Rory had been transported to the hospital under duress. He hadn’t wanted to go. He had begged Noah not to make him go. The team was assembled, quietly, in the apartment after that. No one had seen them enter, no one knew they were there.
Rick stood at the back door, staring through the narrow window, tense, prepared, as he listened to the team assemble the gea
r the other Elite Ops agents had brought in. Trackers. Communications. Weapons.
Noah was listening to Travis Caine’s report from his attempts to track the van that had transported the FBI agent Chuck Leon, when his cell phone rang.
Silence filled the apartment when Noah pulled it free of its holder, and mouthed, Sabella’s cell.
He attached the electronic GPS tracker into his phone, then flipped it open.
“Blake.”
“I’m sorry,” Sabella whispered.
She was crying. Noah could hear the huskiness in her voice, the tears.
