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Travis moves forward, now also in view. “Carter, please wait.”
Carter jerks his head in a denial before running off, leaving Travis standing there looking defeated. I waver on my feet for a moment before deciding to step in. “You okay?”
Travis’s shoulders jump before he whips around, his hand hovering behind him where I know he keeps a gun stashed. He relaxes when he sees me, huffing a dry laugh. “I am far from okay, Jake. Are you okay?”
“No,” I admit, figuring the middle of the night is as good a time as any to confess it. “I suppose I’m not.”
Travis walks over to the counter, placing his elbows on either side of an open file and putting his face in his hands. “I didn’t get him.”
I don’t have to ask who him is. Mica. The fucker slipped through our fingers yet again. “Did you get a lead?”
“Yeah. I think it’s a good one. I’ll write up a report now and send it in.”
“Do we have time for that? What if the lead falls through?”
Travis straightens up and pulls a phone out of his pocket, waving it toward me. “I’ve got the phone they were using for check-ins and the code they were using to communicate. As long as we can keep Mica from getting suspicious that the fuckers there got killed, we should have at least a few days to find him. He’s somewhere in Tenancingo.”
“Fucking Tenancingo,” I grumble. I’ve been there one time, when we got Mica set up at that post just nights before the operation ended. It’s a shithole. I have no idea why Mica would even want to stay there now that his men and slaves have been cleared out. Then again, nothing about Mica ever made much sense. That’s sort of what happens when someone is a fucking psychopath.
“You and Keats are going to handle it again?” I ask, referring to the guy who went on his last mission while I stayed back to help at the house. There are too many survivors for more than one of us operatives to be gone at a time right now. “Or do you need a new partner?”
“Keats wants to finish Mica off with me. He’s invested now.”
“Good. Do you-” I pause, letting my gaze go toward the hall where Carter just ran. His words ring in my ears. What about me? “Do you need me to take your place? So you can stay with him?”
Travis’s face twists with at least half a dozen emotions before he shakes his head. “No. No, Mica is my responsibility. I have to take him out myself.”
I know arguing with him about Mica being both of our responsibilities won’t work. He always had a harder time than me letting go of the things that happened in the compound. I understood that there was only so much we could control, but with him in charge and making the rules, it was harder for him to agree with that. That’s Dr. Singh’s problem to work through with him though. Or maybe Carter. If nearly ten years of us talking about it didn’t get him to believe me, he isn’t going to believe me now either.
“Do you want to go talk to Carter?” I ask instead.
“No. We’re not - that’s not - we’re done. He and I.” He clears his throat, but his voice sounds just as tight when he speaks again. “Before I left was our last time.”
I smirk, not even bothering to fight it. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll believe that when I see it.”
He doesn’t argue.
My smirk widens.
“Go to sleep, man. We’ll all meet in the morning and strategize.”
It’s interesting, seeing Travis back in the house. I didn’t really consider how quickly he left after we all arrived here. He never had time to settle in. Never had time to find a place among the survivors and other operatives. While we all endured tense days of cohabitating and awkward meals and spontaneous panic attacks and breakdowns, he was gone. It doesn’t help that Carter spends the day hiding in his room, making Travis’s already fucked up head even worse.
Carter at least shows up for dinner, but that doesn’t mean it goes well. Travis looks like he’s carved out of stone as he sits watching everyone talk and eat. Every time he accidentally makes eye contact with one of the survivors, both he and the survivor flinch. Nolan, who has been doing well lately and coming into his own, almost calls Maison sir. It’s a slip-up he hasn’t had in days, Travis’s presence clearly throwing him off.
When we all tease Ace about his terrible cooking, Ace throws a roll at Carter. The boy laughs loudly. Freely. I see my friend’s head snap toward the sound, his eyes locking onto Carter like he’s seeing him for the first time. Has Travis ever heard Carter laugh like that? My chest aches for him. For both of them.
Travis doesn’t eat. He doesn’t touch his beer. For the whole meal, he just stares at Carter, enraptured by him. I notice that as happy Travis seems to be watching Carter light up with the others around the table, Maison looks annoyed.
When Carter excuses himself, avoiding looking at Travis, Maison sits forward like he’s about to say something. Travis can’t see it coming, his eyes still locked on the hall where Carter disappeared. I kick Travis under the table, trying to lighten the mood before Maison can start something. “Hey, idiot. Show’s over.”
Travis glares at me. “Asshole.”
“I’d rather be an asshole than a creep,” Maison bites out.
Shit. That plan clearly failed.
Before I can interrupt, Travis is turning his glare on Maison, the look ten times angrier and not having a trace of the friendliness that it did when it was on me. “What the fuck is your problem?”
