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Chapter 7
It had been six hourssince his first call.
Two hours since his last.
He’d sent a text every hour on the hour.
Needless to say, the silence was pissing him off.
Staring at the phone and the little cursor in the message box, Travis debated on what he wanted to say before finally deciding it was time to take off the kid gloves.
Travis: I know you’re sick, Miles. Either you call me by the time I have my first cup of coffee in the morning or I’ll just come looking for you.
Nice and point blank, the way he preferred to handle things.
Milesreallydidn’t like it when Travis showed up anywhere near Miles’s place of employment.
Travis no longer worked for the federal government—hadn’t for years, not since he’d refused a direct order to leave some kids behind on an op. They’d beenkids. How could he leave a couple of kids behind in that hellhole?
Miles had tried to go to bat for him, but even Miles had people had to answer to his superiors. And when push came to shove, Travis had said he hadn’t regretted his actions, because those kids were alive, and safe.
So he was what they consideredfreelance, working with a handful of other freelance assets to ferret out useful information ... and do the occasional rescue. He’d saved more people doing ithisway and he didn’t have to answer to Uncle Sam, either.
Still, it wouldn’t be a good idea to be seen anywhere near the bureau ... not that he didn’t know how to blend in. But it was never a good idea to get cocky.
Travis wasn’t a fan of the bureau, never had been, even during his brief, and unconventional employment, working under Miles to obtain information focused on human trafficking rings that fed into the US.
If he was linked to the bureau in any way, his career was over. Travis wasn’t entirely sure he cared, but it could put his family at risk, andthat, he did care about.
But he also cared about that stubborn ass, Miles.
He’d had an uneasy feeling in his gut about how Miles had looked when he’d seen the grouchy bastard a year ago.
But he’d let Miles distract him and the next time he’d seen his handler, Miles had looked ... well, not okay, but almost normal. For him.
At the hospital last week, though, Miles had most definitelynotlooked okay.
He hasn’t told you, has he?
Knowing sleep wasn’t likely to happen but rest was necessary, he took his phone and a bottle of water dosed with a healthy serving of a nutritional supplement that was meant to help with wound healing, he made his way out to the deck and sat down.
Normally, the sound of the waves soothed him.
He had his own place in Oregon, a small house on the coast that he’d bought for its isolation and because he could let the sound of the ocean in on the rare occasion that he spent any downtime there. But he didn’t go often. It turned out that being alone in his head was one thing Travis didn’t like.
Right now, the endless rhythm of the water did nothing to ease the knots of tension tightening his muscles.
