Hard As It Gets

Chapter 13

Rixey stepped into his apartment, and three sets of eyes swung toward him. Man, this was gonna suck before it got better.

Almost a year ago, they’d barely limped back to base when it had become clear someone had been spinning the ambush in a way that had buried the knives so deep in their backs they weren’t ever coming out. From that moment, they’d existed in a state of collective outraged pissed off—one in which Rixey still lived. As if their friends’ deaths and their own injuries hadn’t been bad enough, the realization that the commander they’d respected and admired had lied to them and betrayed them for a little green had poured salt on the wounds.

Worse, when the shit had hit the fan, Mother Army hadn’t had their backs. No one had believed their version of the ambush, that it had been the result of some sort of underhanded black op gone bad on Merritt’s part. No fucking sir. Instead, their fitness reports had suddenly included marks for “needs improvement” and low ratings that hadn’t been there before. Records of fighting and disorderly conduct and other disciplinary infractions had materialized out of thin air in the personnel files of the team’s survivors, discrediting them piece by piece until blame for the ambush had stuck to them like white on rice. It had been like falling down a fucking rabbit hole. The only way to stop the free fall had been to choose between a dishonorable discharge, which had included an all-expenses-paid vacation to Leavenworth, or an other than honorable discharge, where they might live to fight another day.

They’d packed up their corroded reputations—because that shit wasn’t just tarnished—and chosen the latter. Not because they’d feared a trial but because some brass inside the Army—or possibly higher—had to have been pulling strings, making prison all but a done deal. The who and why of it was a complete mystery. And the NDA the Army had required as part of the deal had made it so they couldn’t talk to anyone outside the team without risking their freedom. But maybe, just maybe, Charlie had found a string they could pull to unravel that motherfucker once and for all.

It could be the chance he’d been yearning for all these long months to restore his name, his reputation, his honor. He just hoped the team saw it that way, too.

As Rixey approached the group, a part of himself flickered back online. He’d missed the company of these guys the way an amputee missed an appendage. Being with them again both eased the phantom ache and worsened it, because they could never really be whole again. Not with six of them cold in the ground. Seven, if you included their commander. Nick didn’t.

Beckett and Easy—Edward’s nickname after his initials, E.C.—sat on stools at the breakfast bar making small talk. Shane stood at the far end, arms crossed, his expression a stone wall.

“Thanks for coming,” Nick said, mirroring Shane’s position at the opposite end of the bar. The metaphor was a kick in the ass—them facing off instead of standing together as they had for so many years.

“What happened to Merritt’s daughter’s face?” Beckett asked, being his usual hard-ass self. He knew her first name, and Rixey had no doubt he’d phrased it that way to keep their CO front and center in everyone’s minds. Like they could ever forget. And like Beckett wasn’t convinced he wanted to help her.

Then again, hadn’t his own first reaction been the same? “Attempted abduction today. She fought the guy off. Got the goose egg on her forehead and four stitches from a stab wound to the ribs for her troubles. The scratches by her eye were an accident.”

Beckett stared at him a long moment, surprise and appreciation flickering through his gaze. Second to appealing to their bone-deep desire to redeem their honor, Becca was probably his strongest asset in getting through to these guys. They were pissed and wary—and rightly so. But the urge to help, serve, and do the right thing was also stamped into their DNA.

“Why don’t you start from the beginning,” Shane said.

Nick gave a tight nod and resisted the memories of how many other times he’d given briefings and orders to these men. This wasn’t the Army. He wasn’t their second in command. And he wasn’t the same man he’d been then. Goddamnit. “Becca came to me two days ago. Her brother was missing, and the last communication she’d received from him told her to find me. I turned her away.” That got their attention. Shane uncrossed his arms and braced himself against the counter. Easy sat up straighter on his stool. “I didn’t want anything to do with the Merritts or whatever trouble they had. But I couldn’t shake wondering why her brother Charlie, who I’d never met, would tell her to seek my help. Why he’d specifically tell her in a note that I was a member of their father’s Special Forces team.”

“How’d he know who you were?” Beck asked.

“Not sure. Maybe Merritt talked shop with them at some point? Or something in his personal effects?” Nick shrugged, and the small movement revealed how much tension had settled into his shoulders. The air was heavy with it. “What was even more interesting was why, once he found me, Charlie thought I’d be able to help with whatever trouble he’s in.” He still couldn’t shake the feeling there was something there. “So I kept an eye on Becca to see if there was really anything going on. Last night, I chased an intruder out of her house. He’d been digging around in her office, by the looks of things. That’s when she told me Charlie’s house had been tossed a few days before.”

Easy clasped his big hands in front of him. “Sounds like some bad juju, but I’m not seeing a connection.” Around the bar, heads nodded.

Rixey glanced between the men and hoped his next information was the same money shot for them as it’d been for him. “After the break-in, Becca mentioned that she and Charlie fought before he went missing. He’s a hacker, and he told her he’d found something that proved their father wasn’t who she thought he was.” Rixey paused, giving that a beat to sink in. “Since he said that, he’s gone missing, someone’s broken into and searched both their houses, and someone tried to grab her today. Whoever this is came back and took a second swing at Becca’s place sometime last night. Turned the place upside down. Somebody’s clearly looking for something from the Merritts and not finding it. Yet.”

“Jesus,” Shane bit out.

“Merritt wasn’t who any of us thought he was,” Easy said. His tight monotone belied the white-hot anger flashing behind the man’s dark eyes. Rixey wasn’t the only one still existing in that state of outraged pissed off, apparently. But that’s what happened when someone tried to strip a man of his honor.

Nick met each of their gazes, looking for the smallest evidence that he was getting their buy-in on this. So far, that was about as clear as mud. “Exactly. So, the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question is, what did Merritt’s son find that led him to the same conclusion?”

“Any idea how good a hacker he is?” Beckett asked in a low, calculating voice.

“Good enough that companies pay him to test their cybersecurity measures by attempting to hack in. Beyond that, dunno.”

Shane heaved a deep breath. “There’s a lot of circumstantial bullshit here, Nick. It’s like if times maybe divided by could be to the hundredth power. If Charlie found something that related to Merritt’s black op, and if someone found the info had leaked, and if they nabbed Charlie and were actively investigating what he found and how he’d found it, then maybe there’s a connection to what happened to us.”

“Easiest way to know if all that’s true is to find Charlie. He sounds like the key to all this.” Beckett shrugged. “That’s a job for the police or a PI.”

“Yeah. Why not let Baltimore’s finest handle this sitch?” Easy asked, looking between them.

Rixey’s cell buzzed in his pocket. “Hold on,” he said, pulling it out and hoping it was Miguel. Bingo. “Miguel?”

“Yep. I’m at the back door.”

Rixey gave him the code and disconnected. “Gimme a minute. I have someone who can answer that question better than me.” He crossed to the apartment door and opened it. Miguel’s footsteps echoed in the stairwell as he made his way up. “Thanks for coming out so late,” Nick said when the older man hit the landing, a leather case in hand.

“Sorry I got hung up.”

“Don’t worry about it. Come on in. Got some people I want you to meet.”

“Hold up, Nick. Something you need to see before we’re in mixed company,” Miguel said, hanging back in the hall. Rixey let the door fall shut as his friend popped open his case. “After you left, I made some calls from Becca’s office while I waited for the locksmith. I found this partly buried under a pile of papers and files that had toppled over on the desk.” He handed Nick a brown paper bag.

Frowning, Nick opened it and peered in. He pulled out the first item, a black-handled military knife with a nasty curved blade in a plastic bag. The second plastic bag was lighter, smaller. Nick lifted it out. “What the everliving fuck? Is this a finger?” His hackles raised so high they were barely attached to his body.

“Yeah. Pinkie, judging by the size. Nail’s been torn off. Cut was nowhere near clean. When I saw it . . .” Miguel shook his head. “Times like that I wish I’d never given up the cigs.”

“This was on Becca’s desk?”

The older man nodded, concern etching into the lines on his face. “Knife had it pinned to the surface. Think maybe the papers fell over later, because this was meant to be seen.”

Rixey stared at the severed finger. Jesus. Didn’t take two guesses to surmise who it likely belonged to. And if he was right, it answered the question of whether Charlie had been kidnapped or gone on the run. Ice ran down his spine. How the hell was he going to tell Becca? “Was there a note or a ransom demand?”

“Nothing.” Miguel snapped his case closed.

“What’s the fucking message, then?” Just general threatening menace? Together with the level of destruction at her house, it all seemed aimed at terrorizing. If Charlie had found information related to Merritt’s extracurriculars, maybe it all meant his captors were frustrated they couldn’t get the intel out of him? Or maybe this was meant as a diversion from their efforts to capture Becca, too? Damn, and was it coincidence that the blade was military grade?

“Good question. And I’ve got more intel, too.”

Rixey blew out a long breath. “Come on in. I invited a few of my Army buddies over in case we needed more boots on the ground on this, which seems pretty frickin’ obvious now. They should hear whatever you have to say.”

Miguel nodded and followed him in. “Oh, here’s the new keys to your girl’s house.” Rixey mentally refuted the words your girl as he pocketed the ring of three keys.

As soon as he learned what other shit was raining down on them, he’d have to let Becca know what’d happened. But how the hell was he going to tell her the fuckers who destroyed her house and tried to kidnap her had—assuming all three incidents were connected—also dismembered her brother? Especially when he couldn’t say what the calling card was supposed to mean. Was Charlie dead? The attempted abduction could play either way—either they’d killed Charlie and needed Becca for . . . something, or Charlie wouldn’t talk and they wanted leverage. Both soured Rixey’s gut.

His teammates all turned to see who Rixey was bringing into the fold. He and Miguel stepped up to the bar. “This is Miguel Olivero. Ex-BPD. Now a private investigator. He’s a good friend and trustworthy.” The guys nodded to the older man. “Miguel was helping me at Becca’s today when we found it’d been tossed. After I left to get her, he found this stabbed into her desk.” He settled the bagged knife and finger onto the counter in front of him.

Sitting closest, Beckett lifted the smaller bag to examine it.

“Well, fuck me running,” Shane said. “Her brother’s?”

“Presumed,” Nick said. “He’s the only one that makes sense, anyway. I’ll have to see if Becca can ID it.” Man, he’d do anything to keep her from having to see this, from having to bear the weight of it. “Apparently, this isn’t all Miguel learned today.” He turned to his friend and nodded.

Miguel braced his hands on the counter. “You guys don’t know me from Jack, but I used to be a Baltimore City cop. Still got friends on the force. Sticks in my craw to say it, but something’s way off with how this case is being handled. No reports have been filed, despite three separate incidents and dispatches. Did crime scene techs come to Becca’s after the first break-in?” Nick nodded. “Well, no evidence in the system, either. My contact couldn’t even find who the lead investigators were for any of it. On a hunch, I had a dispatcher friend run Becca’s phone numbers against the nine-one-one logs.”

The arrow on Nick’s oh-shit-ometer pushed hard into the red.

“There’s no record of her ever calling nine-one-one from either her house or cell phone numbers.”

“Sonofabitch,” Rixey bit out, the blood heating in his veins. “I know she called nine-one-one after the first break-in, because police and ambulance responded to the call.”

“I’m not questioning you or her.”

Miguel let the statement hang there, his meaning clear. Miguel Olivero, decorated veteran of the BPD, thought the police were dirty on this. Rixey had to agree. He looked from Beckett to Easy to Shane. “This is why we can’t hand Charlie’s disappearance over to the authorities. This stinks of a cover-up.” And damn if that smell wasn’t too fucking familiar.

Miguel nodded, his whole face frowning, an unusual look for the usually gregarious man. “You said someone tried to grab Becca from a staff break room at the hospital?” Rixey nodded. “That means uniforms, credentials, knowing schedules. Operation like that requires planning, resources, know-how, and brass balls.” Murmurs of agreement rose up around the bar. “Add that to all these missing records, and this is big time.”

Shane tugged his fingers through the top of his hair. “So, you’re talking about running a kidnapping investigation and hostage rescue operation? Completely off the books.”

Rixey braced, his stomach muscles going tight. “Yeah.”

“We don’t even know whose yard we’d be pissing in,” Shane said. Despite the negativity of the words, there was a note of consideration in the man’s voice. “But I guess that’s where we’d start.”

Nick’s gaze flashed to Shane’s, hope surging that he was on board. From the expressions on everyone’s faces, he wasn’t the only one looking at the numbers and seeing that one plus one plus one seemed to add up to five, too. Didn’t matter if that shit didn’t make any sense. It just meant they didn’t have all the factors relevant to the equation. Yet. “Does that mean you’re in?”

Shane stared at him a long moment. “This whole thing is nuttier than a squirrel turd, but my gut’s telling me that yours just might be right. And if that’s true”—he glanced to Miguel like he didn’t want to say too much in front of an outsider—“we might find some other useful info, too. So, yes, I’m in.”

Rixey nodded, when inside he was fist pumping all over the place.

Easy scrubbed his hands roughly over his bald head, then looked up. “If there’s a chance here to clear our names, you can be damn sure I’m in.” He was obviously less concerned with what Miguel heard.

“Beckett?” Rixey asked.

The man’s cold blue eyes glared at him. “I sure as hell ain’t letting you three get yourselves killed or arrested without me, and Easy’s right. This could be our best shot at setting things right. I’m not missing out on that. So, let’s do this.”

Relief melted the tension out of Rixey’s neck. “Okay, good. And thank you for hearing us out.” Heads nodded around the bar. “First, goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway as a reminder: Becca’s on a need-to-know on the backstory of all this, right?” Knowing glances flashed back at him. No way any of them could forget about the goddamned NDA. “Okay, so, Shane’s correct. The first step would be finding out who we’re up against. We can start by searching both their houses for clues and canvassing Charlie’s last known whereabouts for witnesses.”

“What did the perp at the hospital look like?” Miguel asked. “Any identifying features?”

Rixey tried to resurrect the man’s image in his mind’s eye, but the clearest details were of his hand over Becca’s mouth and his knife in her side. “Tall, African American, early twenties, lots of tats and brands on his arms.”

“Get a good look at any of the ink?”

Rixey shook his head. “No, but Becca might’ve.”

“Well if the guy was any kind of organized crime—mafia, jailhouse, or local gang—there are some online databases of tattoo identifications. These won’t help if he’s a lone wolf, but if he’s running with any of these outfits, there’s a chance. I might be able to get her a look-see at some mug shots, too, and I got a friend who’s a genius sketch artist,” Miguel added.

Nick nodded. “Good. Plus whatever computer magic Marz can work when he gets here tomorrow.” Derek DiMarzio was a god among men on all things computers. Maybe he could even trace Charlie’s digital trail.

Beck’s gaze whipped up. “You invited Marz?”

Aw, shit, here we go. “Fuckin’ A, I invited him,” Nick replied, his tone making it clear he thought this a no-brainer.

A storm rolled in over Beck’s features. He swung off the stool and rounded the bar toward Rixey. “Christ, Nick, the guys’s got a—”

“He’s part of the team, Murda. Simple as.”

Fact that the man had lost the bottom half of his leg to a grenade made no friggin’ difference to Rixey. Marz deserved to be part of this gagglefuck of a reunion if he wanted to be. And he did. Of all of them, he’d been the most readily receptive to the meeting and the mission. The man’s amputation was no different than Rixey’s back being shot to hell or the loss of acuity in Beck’s right eye. It wasn’t just about Marz’s amputation, though, and Rixey knew it. It was more the fact that he’d lost the leg saving Beck’s life that day.

Limp aside, Beckett was up in Rixey’s face in about two point six seconds. It was like an eighteen-wheeler barreling down on him. “You really think you, of all people, should be talking about our team?”

The unresolved agitation from the day’s events banked in Rixey’s gut caught fire, heating his blood and sending him another half step closer to a man common sense generally told you not to antagonize. Huge, grim-faced, and lethal beyond measure, Murda was the kind of guy instinct had you crossing the street to avoid. But Nick had his own killer arsenal to draw from, fueled by a sea of rage that roiled just below the surface. “I fought for it. I bled for it. Damn straight I can talk about this team.”

Just when Nick was sure Murda wasn’t gonna back down, he did. Shaking his head, he turned and scoffed on a laugh. “Right. You just didn’t care about it enough to keep us together.”

A flash fire ripped through Nick’s veins. He’d agonized every goddamned day of the past ten months over what had happened to these men. “What the fuck did you just say?”

“You heard me, Rixey. You acted all gung ho brotherhood when things were good, but five minutes after we were stateside”—Beckett shoved him—“it was out of sight, out of mind.”

It was the contact that did it. Something inside Nick’s brain snapped and sent a roar of aggression flooding through him, deadening his hearing and dulling every sense that wasn’t focused on defending his honor against the accusation.

Rixey charged.

They clashed in a wall of muscle and a battle of wills. Nick took an uppercut to the gut that rearranged more than a few of his organs, and he dished out a jab to the throat that had Beckett choking and rasping for breath. Rixey’s conscience dripped acidic shame into his chest cavity over the fact that he had withdrawn from the team once they’d all returned stateside, but his sense of loyalty and honor infused his spine with steel because, while he might’ve been fucked in the head—he’d own that every day of the week and twice on Sunday—he’d never once given up on any of them or surrendered to the bullshit that had so unjustly stripped them of everything they’d once been. Out of sight, out of mind? Jesus, there were times he would’ve gotten on his knees for five minutes of reprieve from the guilt and the loss.

Another hit landed against the kidney on his bad side and he flew back against the steel doors of the fridge, his head glancing off the metal and his lower back screaming at the jarring impacts.

Beckett came at him swinging, brute strength his biggest asset. But Rixey had speed and agility, and a carefully timed dodge earned Murda’s knuckles a hi-how-are-ya with the immovable freezer door.

Raised voices sounded and tugging hands touched as if from a distance, but he and Beck were caught up in an exorcism of demons that had to play out to its brutal end.

“Stop it! Oh, my God, stop!” Becca.

Her voice hauled his conscious brain out of the fog of war and he rebounded into himself. Struggling to focus, he blinked and scanned the kitchen, looking for her. His gaze finally latched onto hers at the precise moment Beckett’s elbow connected with his face.

BECCA FLINCHED AND gasped at the force of the impact. Nick’s head whipped to the side, sending his whole body careening into the edge of the breakfast bar. The groan that ripped out of him when his side hit the granite had her struggling out of Shane’s grip and lunging toward Nick.

She wrapped her arms around his back and shoulders, hunched over the bar. “Jesus, Nick, are you okay?” Beckett hovered just behind them, his face twisted with anger. She nailed him with a glare and said, “Whatever the hell this was is over. Back off. Now.”

“Fuuck,” Nick groaned under his breath as he forced himself upright. Bleary eyes cut to Beckett’s retreating form and made a circuit around the room before turning to her. He grimaced, and the muscles down his left side spasmed, judging by the way he held himself.

Fierce protectiveness squeezed her heart and bloomed into outright fury. But taking care of Nick was all that mattered right now.

“Come sit down,” she said, tugging an empty stool closer and guiding him onto it. His face. God, his right cheekbone was split wide, blood streaming from the cut and the skin already puffing up the whole way to his eye. “You got a first-aid kit?”

“Under the sink in my bathroom,” he said, his words sounding like they’d been dipped in sandpaper.

“Would someone see if you can find it? His room is the last door at the end of the hall.”

“Sure, kid.” The older man—Nick’s PI friend?—double-timed it out of there.

Shane grabbed the roll of paper towels, wet a few, and laid out a stack of damps and dries on the bar next to her.

“Thanks,” she said, angry as hell at the lot of them but appreciating the gesture.

Nick pushed her hands away from his face. “I’m fine,” he said in a voice that told her he still wasn’t drawing full, deep breaths.

“You’re about a million miles from fine.” She purposely echoed words from earlier in the day. His pale green eyes cut to hers and she arched an eyebrow. “Honesty, remember?” When her point registered in his gaze, she let it go. “Take your shirt off.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to examine you. Your breathing’s shallow and you’re protecting your side.”

His face went a shade paler as he removed the cotton over his head, and she didn’t miss for a moment that he performed most of the action with his right hand, his left still shielding whatever was hurting him.

“Turn,” she said, gesturing for him to swing his knees around so his left side was in front of her. “Can you hold your arm out of the way, please?”

The puppy whined and paced at Becca’s feet.

“Go lay down, baby. Go on,” she said. The dog curled up a short distance away, her eyes locked on them. Becca’s gaze scanned over Nick’s ribs and lats, down to where a mass of scars disappeared under his waistband. Her hands gently followed. “Tell me where it hurts.” Man, you could’ve heard a pin drop as quiet as the room had gotten. And, good. ’Cause if one of them uttered a single smart-ass comment, she was likely to lose her shit. Sparing about four seconds, she took a moment to glare at his so-called teammates, all collected around the far end of the bar watching her. Shane and Edward’s expressions were somber and serious, and Beckett’s head was hanging on his shoulders. “Somebody get some ice for Beckett’s knuckles.”

The big guy’s head whipped up, and he studied her as Shane made for the fridge.

Softening her touch, Becca palpitated the edge of the scar tissue. Nick sucked in a breath through his nose, and his muscles flinched and clenched.

“What happened here?”

“Gunshot wounds times two, one penetrating, one not. Fractured pelvis and perforated bowel that healed. Lingering nerve damage,” he said as if by rote. And she guessed it was. “It’ll be okay.”

She nodded, swallowing down the heartache and stream of comments that might embarrass him in front of his guys. You don’t look okay. You can’t even take a deep breath. I’m so sorry you got hurt. And, geez, not just hurt. That litany of injuries would’ve required multiple surgeries, a lot of pain, and a difficult rehabilitation. “Just gonna clean up your face.” At the sink, she scrubbed her hands thoroughly.

Shane found a plastic bag, filled it with ice, and tossed it to Beckett, who caught it in the hand that hadn’t had a head-on collision with a steel box.

The older man returned with a white metal kit in hand. “Found it,” he said.

Drying her hands, she gestured to the bar. Miguel set it down and opened it for her. “Thanks,” she said. “Are you Miguel?” Average height, he was a bit full in the middle, with graying dark hair and warm-toned skin.

“Yeah. I’m sure sorry about this whole situation, Becca,” he said, a kindness about him that drew her in.

If Nick trusted the man, so did she. “Me, too. But I appreciate that you helped Nick today.”

Unexpectedly, Shane stepped up and laid out everything she’d need—gauze, alcohol wipes, and a few packages of Steri-Strips. He opened a package of gloves for her and held it out. “Thanks,” she said, donning the gloves and appreciating that his actions allowed her to keep her hands sterile. Way he was looking between the supplies and Nick’s blood, it was like he wanted to help.

As she got to work, the weight of everyone’s observation pressed in on her, but she couldn’t think of them right now, or how badly she wanted to take a few heads off—Beckett’s, because he’d hurt Nick, and the others’, because they hadn’t done anything to intervene. Which was just as bad in her book.

In front of Nick again, she held his handsome, tired face with one hand while she cleaned it with the other. His gaze lit on her face, and she knew he was watching her work, but she kept her eyes on the task at hand.

She hadn’t really expected to say the words when they started coming out, but once they began, she felt their rightness down deep. “Nick asked you guys here as a favor to me. He apparently did so knowing some sort of tension existed between you. Had I known this would be the cost to him, I would’ve insisted he tell you not to come.” She opened the alcohol wipes and slipped them from their sleeves. “Gonna sting.” Her gaze flickered to his eyes, which bored into hers with blazing intensity.

He didn’t react to the application of the alcohol.

Once it was clean and dry, Becca gently pulled the split skin together and applied the butterflies. Seething, she shook her head. “I don’t know what the problem is between all of you. That’s your business. But my brother’s safety? That’s my business. So if you guys can’t keep your shit together, then feel free to go. Because we need more of this like we need more holes in our heads.” She pressed two strips over the ends of the three holding the wound closed. “There.” Ripping off her gloves, she stepped away.

Nick grasped her arm, the thank you clear in his expression.

She nodded and crossed to the sink to wash her hands again. On a long sigh, she turned in search of the trash can. “Hey, Nick, where’s the . . .”

As she approached the breakfast bar, something in the middle of the granite captured her attention. With all the excitement of the fight, she’d been entirely focused on Nick. But now . . . She stepped closer.

“Becca.”

Time slowed to a crawl, and her gaze became laser-focused. She reached out, her hand passing over a bagged black knife to a second bag. Cold prickles broke out over her skin.

Nick whipped off the stool. “Becca, don’t.”

But her fingers were already on the plastic, grasping it, lifting it. Her stomach rolled viciously.

A severed pinkie finger sat within. At one point, it had been broken at the middle knuckle and had healed badly, creating a hooked shape to the digit. Becca knew exactly when that had happened. They’d been building a tree house in the backyard with their dad. Scott had been hammering and had missed, finding nine-year-old Charlie’s pinkie instead of the head of the nail. Afterward, Charlie kept taking the splint off, and the joint had healed crooked.

The fingernail was missing. The edge of the amputation was jagged.

Oh, God, they’re torturing him, maiming him.

In a blinding flash, Becca’s blood pressure bottomed out and a tingly sweat covered her skin. She dropped the bag and clamped her lips together, hoping to hold back the surging vomit long enough to—

The trash can appeared in front of her. Becca stomped on the pedal to raise the lid, bent over, threw up everything she’d eaten for the past ten days. Or, at least, that’s what it felt like. Long after her stomach had expelled its contents, she continued to heave until tears streamed down her face and she gasped for breath. Someone held her hair. A hand rubbed her back.

She gagged and shuddered as the dry heaves eased, her muscles no more than wrung-out dishrags, her head and body aches roaring back with a vengeance. Wet paper towels appeared in her peripheral vision, and she used them to wipe her mouth and cool her brow and cheeks.

Joining her abject terror over Charlie were new emotions—embarrassment and humiliation. I just threw up in front of Nick, in front of four war-hardened ex-Green Berets. Shit, shit, shit.

Becca forced herself into a standing position, one that revealed that, of all people, hard-ass Beckett had been holding her hair while Nick had been rubbing her back. Equilibrium eluding her, she sagged against the row of cabinets behind her and pressed her hands to her mouth. “Sorry,” she whispered.

“Nothing to apologize for, Becca,” Miguel said. Low murmurs of agreement echoed the sentiment.

With bleary eyes, she watched Beckett pull the trash can away and knot the bag.

“So,” Miguel said in a careful voice, “does your reaction mean you recognize it as your brother’s?”

She nodded and accepted a glass of water from Shane. “Thanks,” she said, and took a few small sips. “I’d know that crooked knuckle anywhere.” Her brain was an absolute whirlwind of when, where, who, and what, but one question rooted itself deep. She dragged her gaze away from the baggy, refusing to let herself imagine for a single second how much pain Charlie must’ve experienced, and glared at Nick. “How long have you had this?” she asked, voice raspy, throat sore.

His expression was an ashen mask of Oh, shit. “Bec—”

She thrust out her finger toward the bar. “How long have you known about this? Oh, my God, did you find this at my house before you came to the hospital? Is that why you were so upset when you called me?” A knot of emotion lodged in her raw throat. That was hours ago. For hours he’d let her kiss him and joke about the puppy’s name and nap on the couch and talk tattoos with Jeremy while he’d sat on the information that someone had chopped off Charlie’s freaking finger? Rising hysteria made her jittery, and then a boomerang of delayed reaction clotheslined her, making her light-headed.

“No. I didn’t know until a few minutes ago. I swear.” Sincerity rang through his words as Nick slipped the glass from her hand, grasped her arms, and forced her to turn toward him. “Miguel found it after I left to come get you.”

Miguel nodded. “It’s the truth, Becca. I’m sorry I didn’t get over here sooner to fill you in. I wasn’t comfortable fleshing out the details over the phone, not with everything . . .”

“Meaning what?” she asked.

Nick’s hands slid up and cupped the sides of her neck. “We think the police are dirty. None of the reports you filed exist, and neither do the records of your nine-one-one calls.”

The room went a little spinny around her. “What? How is that possible?”

“We don’t know. But everyone’s on board to find out,” Nick said, gesturing to the assembled group.

She nodded, the baggy drawing her gaze against her will. “Does this mean Charlie’s dead?” she said, her voice breathy and high. At the very least, it definitely meant he’d been kidnapped, not just run away.

“Not necessarily.” Nick gently squeezed her muscles. “But we don’t know. There was no note, no instruction, no ransom demand. Miguel found it on your desk with the knife. That’s all we know for sure. Don’t assume the worst.” His big hand cupped her cheek and he leaned in. “If it helps at all, where Charlie’s investigation or our plans are concerned, I promise I won’t keep anything from you.”

“Thank you. And I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions.” She blew out a shaky breath. “I far prefer to handle things head-on rather than not know and get blindsided.” She waved her hand toward the counter. “Puking aside, I’m not fragile. I’m not going to break. I deal with blood and guts and crisis and tragedy every day of my life. I can handle this.”

“I don’t doubt that for a minute, Becca.” Eyes blazing with emotion she didn’t dare guess at, Nick seemed to be looking into her very soul, judging her strength, evaluating her mettle.

She held his gaze for a long moment, letting him look his fill. “Good. Then, what’s the plan?”