Page 133 of Nyx

I didn’t tell Juliet about the tire issue. She didn't seem too concerned about it being flat, just another hint that she has had a lot of things not go her way in life, but I don't know if that's the right way to go about things.

I feel like her attending the fundraiser tomorrow is reckless, but I also know that I can't put her in a bubble to keep her safe.

I don't want to control her on any level. If anything, I want her to be free to do whatever she wants without worrying about her safety, but that's not the world we live in. It certainly isn't possible when Whitmore is out there making himself known in some of the creepiest ways.

I know Kincaid is right about getting sleep, but sitting on the sofa and trying to relax feels like I'm letting her down.

I know the guys outside won't let anything happen to us. I wasn't lying to her that we were safe, but experience tells me that a million things can happen that have the ability to reach us.

I remind myself that this isn't the Middle East. I highly doubt that Whitmore has the types of weapons that could pulverize a target from half a mile away. I also doubt he's going to try anything less than a hands-on attack on Juliet. He's waited too long, been too patient to let someone else get that final revenge.

I doubt self-preservation is a concern for him. I bet he's made up his mind and is willing to die for his mission so long as he can take Juliet out first, and that's my biggest concern. He's not going to give up until he gets what he wants or someone stops him.

I text Max, checking in to see if there's been any news, but he texts back, letting me know there’s been no movement he can track or any credit card use. Digitally, he's gone dark, and I know it has to be just one more thing the man has planned.

I know he'll slip up. He'll do something or get caught on a traffic camera, but it's the waiting and not knowing that eats at me.

We knew where he was, tracking him in his hometown, and this problem could've been solved a while back.

We're not even at a point where we can file stalking charges against the man because he's been too clean about his contacts.

I run my hands over my head, frustrated with the entire situation, and fight the urge to get up and pace back and forth between the front window and the back door of the apartment.

Tomorrow is going to be stressful, and there's no way to really prepare for it. I doubt Whitmore is going to show up and just start letting bullets fly, but I doubt the day goes by without him making some kind of contact.

My worry is that he's going to stay in the shadows, poking and prodding, messing with her mind until the one moment he feels like he can strike.

It's not going to be this huge display of power. He's too sneaky and calculated for something like that, but whatever he's planning won't end well for Juliet.

We just have to be fully prepared, ready for any situation.

I lean back on the sofa, letting my eyes drift closed and pulling in deep breaths.

There's no denying the exhaustion in my bones. I've been going nearly nonstop with very little rest for days, and although it's something I've done in the past and can manage, you can't talk your way out of no sleep. There comes a point when your body shuts down, and I don't need that to happen when she needs me the most.

My breaths grow more regular, my pulse slows in my ears, and my body relaxes as I track the release of energy in every muscle group.

The trembling starts almost immediately, a sheen of sweat forming on my upper lip and the back of my neck.

The nightmare is different, taking me back to Tennessee rather than my childhood home.

The less familiar area makes my skin itch, but I keep my eyes forward, walking through the compound. Women rush past me, screaming at the sight of my rifle pointed and ready for action. They've been hurt so badly by so many people that they can no longer distinguish the good guys from the bad guys.

I'm working alone, tasked with making it to an outbuilding.

I step around a wall of cars created to block the entrance to a row of smaller shacks. These are less taken care of than the ones I passed upon entry, and I have no doubt this is where they kept the women. Their accommodations are not as important because that's how the men who run these types of places feel about the opposite sex. They're tools, possessions, things to use and discard rather than precious commodities who should be worshipped and protected.

I turn, the barrel of my rifle pointed ahead. A woman steps out of one of the small shacks, a black eye and split lip being the first thing I notice.

"You need to leave," I tell her. "Out the front."

"I can't," she sobs. "They'll kill me."

"None of them will live to see another day," I vow. "Where is she?"

The woman shakes her head, the movement making her more than a little unsteady on her feet.

"Where is she?" I demand again, with a slightly harsher tone.