Wild Man

Chapter Twenty-One Quiet Like

“Thank you,” I mouthed to the clerk at Dillard’s in Park Meadows Mall who was handing me my bag which held six pairs of boys swim trunks, this purchase made because, in two days, Brock, Joey, Rex and I were boarding a plane headed for Aruba and I’d found upon asking them to check that the boys were growing so fast none of their old swim trunks fit.

The clerk smiled at me as I turned away and I smiled back. I had my phone to my ear and a man named Raul was talking to me through it.

“It’s going to take another week,” he said.

“Um…” I started, moving through the store and already feeling Brock getting pissed even though he wasn’t there, in fact, he was nowhere near and he didn’t know that the contractor we hired to cut renovate my basement in order to build another bedroom downstairs was delaying even further.

However, since we contacted Raul the last week in February, this was the third delay taking us to the last week in March. Brock was not happy with the first delay, he was unhappier with the second and I had a feeling his unhappiness would significantly escalate with this one.

We needed this room because Olivia had caved or, at least, her attorneys had talked her into doing so mostly because, with Dade out of the picture, if she racked up a huge bill fighting a case she had no hope of winning, there was no one around to pay it. The stuff Dade gave Brock was useful but even without it, Hector had dug up so much dirt on her, Brock was sure to win. Hector had found they were often late to school and they were often hanging around after school because she was late picking them up. Furthermore, Olivia had not made loads of friends amongst the other mothers and therefore these mothers had happily chit chatted with hot guy Hector, telling tales of Olivia dropping the boys off late then not staying at the boys’ junior football and little league games or calling random Moms at the last minute during the game to ask another Mom to take the boys home and she’d pick them up later and her later meant later. Sometimes, the boys would be asleep at their friends’ houses before Olivia would show which meant she left them for hours.

And when she did all this, she was not at the soup kitchen spreading her benevolence amongst those less fortunate but shopping or getting laid by her bevy of boy toys.

Of this, Hector, too, had photographic proof.

Luckily, I did not see Hector’s proof. Unluckily, Hector had to considering he took the photos and his face upon handing over the evidence to a Brock, who was even unhappier to learn that his ex was less of a mother than he thought, shared the knowledge that Hector was of the same opinion as his bad boy brethren that bony wasn’t beautiful.

So, the papers had been drawn up, everyone signed them, a judge stamped his approval and the boys’ custody flip-flopped. Olivia had them every other weekend, Brock and I had them the rest of the time. Therefore, he wanted them settled and in what would be their permanent rooms. The first delay on the renovation meant that when they moved in with us, Rex had moved into my office upstairs that we converted to a bedroom and Joel into the guest bedroom (now his bedroom) downstairs. This was something Brock did not like because it didn’t say to Rex, “You’re home and settled”. He also didn’t like it because Rex was right next door to our room, the walls weren’t paper thin but they weren’t soundproof either and the reasons he didn’t like that were obvious. But there Rex was – a bathroom and hallway away.

Olivia was also coping with a move but hers would have been more settled if she was less, well… her. Dade had paid six months advance rent on a furnished, two-bedroom apartment for her. When he came into my bakery a few days after Olivia left, he told me he did this for Joel and Rex and I figured this was true. But I knew it was also because he was a good man and if he tried to do something pure asshole, like kick her out on her ass without any support (even if she did deserve it), he’d probably spontaneously combust or something.

He had not given her any money, however.

“She was very fond of John Atencio,” he said to me as he forked into a piece of my soured chocolate cake (to-die-for) with milk chocolate buttercream icing. Dade, I’d learned since Olivia left and he became a regular at Tessa’s Cakes, was a chocolate cake man. “I’m certain she can make her frequent trips to that store work for her.”

John Atencio was a fabulous, exclusive jewelry store and I figured Dade meant that Olivia was going to be spending some time in a pawn shop or, perhaps, learning how to sell things on on-line auctions.

Needless to say, although things had worked out for Brock and the boys, and the boys, to my surprise (and delight and, it must be said, Brock’s too), had settled in quickly and easily, relaxing in my house and making themselves at home within days (or, more like hours since I made a carrot cake for Rex and a chocolate cake for Joel and this obviously screamed

“You’re home!” to now eleven and thirteen year old boys), this did not mean our nightmare was over.

No.

Not at all.

Because Olivia was a bitch and, I was learning, when none of the games bitches could play were swinging their way, they scrambled.

Therefore Olivia was a regular at the Station and her name was on the display of Brock’s phone so often, it was a wonder it hadn’t etched itself into the glass. When she phoned or visited him at work, she did not want to talk to or about the boys. No. She needed Brock to hang shelves. She needed Brock to look over legal documents Dade was sending her. She needed Brock to look at a sink that had a drip (even though she was in a freaking apartment complex with a freaking maintenance man). She was selling her Mercedes (something Dade allowed her to have) and she needed him to help her. She was buying a new car and she needed him to go with her so she didn’t get screwed.

She told him (and Brock told me) that she was turning to him as the mother of his children to help her out in a bad situation.

And, also by Brock’s report, she’d gone saccharine sweet.

“She’s got her nose so far up my ass, babe, I swear I feel that bitch in my throat,” Brock, unfortunately, gave me a rather disgusting visual while we were lying in bed one night, his head to the pillows, his hands rubbing his face, his tone frustrated, his mood heavy in the air.

Brock was a good man too, the best, but he was a different kind of good man than Dade.

Or, perhaps, he just had more of a history with Olivia. Therefore, he said no. Then he said no again. Then he said it again. Then he stopped taking her calls when her name came on his display. Then, without even a word, he started to flip his phone shut and turn off the ringer when she called him from other phones. And luckily his colleagues had learned to spot her when she arrived at the Station. They started to give Brock the head’s up so he could disappear before she made it to his desk whereupon his badge-wielding brothers told her he was out.

He was done. He was not going to hang shelves, look over legal documents or help her buy a car.

The problem was, weeks had passed and she wasn’t giving up.

While his frustration filled the room, in bed, I’d pressed into him and whispered, “She’ll eventually give up and go away.”

Brock’s fingers had scored into his hair, his palms at his forehead and just his silver eyes tipped to me. But they told the tale. They told the tale that this was an example of her five years of her making him miserable until Dade came into her life. And now Dade was going out of her life. And Brock was facing five plus years more. And he didn’t like this either.

Since we were in bed and I was comfortable, I didn’t want to go get him a beer or a bourbon. So, to make him feel better, I settled on blowjob.

As usual, that did the trick.

“I’m not sure Brock’s going to like that,” I said to Raul.

I mean, I didn’t understand what the big deal was. It was, essentially, a wall and a door.

How hard could that be?

“Only another week,” Raul said in my ear.

“We were kinda hoping you’d be in and have it done by the time we got back from vacation,” I told him.

“I don’t see that happening,” Raul told me.

Damn.

“Maybe you should talk to Brock about this,” I suggested.

“No,” he said quickly and I pulled in an annoyed breath knowing his avoiding the Wrath of Brock was why he phoned me in the first place. He never phoned me. This was Brock’s deal. He’d made that very clear in his firm, unyielding, “I deal with things that require drywall, two by fours, hammers and men with work belts” macho man way and I gave in.

This was mostly because I had no desire to deal with more things that required drywall, two by fours, hammers and men with work belts considering I had enough to deal with with my new bakery. “If you could do the favor of passin’ it on. I’ll schedule it in, for sure, when you guys get back.”

“Actually, I think you need to speak to Brock,” I said.

“Things’re just pilin’ up. I’ll sort them when you’re gone and I’ll definitely get you on the schedule week after next.”

“Raul, you need to tell this to Brock,” I semi-repeated.

He ignored me. “That’s a promise, Tess.”

I walked out of Dillard’s and into the mall but stepped to the side out of pedestrian traffic and stopped.

Then I said, “I’ll tell Brock, Raul, but I wouldn’t waste your busy time scheduling us because, if I tell Brock you’re delaying again, he’ll phone and fire you. I know this for fact.

We needed this done weeks ago, when you promised you could get it done, and you aren’t the only contractor in Denver. If you don’t start work Monday while we’re on holiday, he’ll find someone who will. Now, I’ll be happy to tell him you’re delaying again but that’s the same as you telling me you cannot do the job. There are two options here, either we go our separate ways or you find a way to get to the house on Monday and start work. And, if you pick door number two, I would advise you actually to keep your promise. I think you get you shouldn’t rile Brock and I think you get that because you’re on the phone with me, not Brock.

You’re right. You shouldn’t rile Brock. He wants a room for his son and he’s going to get it and not in June. Yes?”

“I do understand where you’re comin’ from, Tess, but if I could do it I would and you could go with another contractor but you couldn’t get the guaranteed quality you’ll get from me,” Raul replied and I sucked in another annoyed breath because I had hoped to save Brock from another frustration right before vacation.

And I failed.

Crap.

“Fine,” I stated. “Prepare to be fired. Take care, Raul.”

Then I disconnected and as my thumb found Brock’s contact info on my phone, I headed to Mrs. Field’s Cookies because Mrs. Field could bake a mean cookie and I knew I needed a cookie to soothe the abrasions I’d endure after talking to Brock.

I put my order in as it was ringing and Brock answered it on ring two.

“Babe.”

“Hi honey, do you have any cookies nearby?”

Silence then, “Shit. Olivia, Raul or Tess Two?”

He was guessing as to the variety of annoyances in our lives that was making me ask if he had soothing cookies nearby.

“Tess Two” referred to my new bakery which was not so much an annoyance as a huge time suckage. Martha was still getting her feet and she knew me, she understood my vision, she’d spent a lot of time in Tessa’s Cakes, she’d been there when the concept was developed but she loved me and she didn’t want to mess up. Therefore she involved me with everything that had anything to do with “Tess Two” even though I agreed with her on practically everything she’d asked for confirmation on.

And Martha didn’t shut down at five o’clock. She didn’t even shut down at seven. Martha was on a mission to get Tessa’s Cakes in LoDo off and running and therefore it wasn’t unheard of for Martha to phone whenever Martha needed to phone. This included once (and only once) Martha calling at eleven thirty at night, a time when both the boys were in bed asleep and Brock and I were busy.

This happened only once because Brock snatched up the phone, looked at the display, touched the screen and growled, “Not a good time, never a good time, unless you’re dyin’ or you killed someone. We’re in bed. When we’re in bed, no one is in this bed but me and Tess.

Ever. Now are you dyin’ or have you killed someone?” He paused then, “Right.”

Then he touched the screen, turned off the ringer, tossed it back on the nightstand and came back to me. I thought it was prudent not to request details but I knew who the caller was and when Brock came back to me, he immediately resumed our interrupted activities, activities I had been thoroughly enjoying and wanted to recommence doing so, therefore I made the decision to concentrate on said activities and explain things to Martha the next day.

So I did (though, she’d already guessed).

She never called late again and she also didn’t get mad. She’d done an about-face with Brock, learning I loved him, he loved me and made me happy, so now she thought he was the bomb (and told me so).

And she adored his sons.

“Raul,” I answered Brock.

“Fuckin’ shit,” he muttered.

“He said he has to push it back another week. I told him, essentially, he was fired though I have to admit he’s waiting for your call to confirm that,” I went on. “I’m at a mall, you’re dealing with homicides. Do you want me to call him back and confirm that so you don’t have to?”

“You call him, darlin’, that’ll deprive me the opportunity to tear him a new asshole so, no, I don’t want you to call him back.”

Hmm. I kind of felt sorry for Raul.

“Okay,” I said softly, took my cookies and set them aside as I dropped my Dillard’s bag to rummage in my purse for my wallet. “When I get home, do you want me to search for a new contractor?”

“I’ll deal with it when we get back from the island,” he surprised me by saying. “Rex is set for now. He isn’t complaining. It’s working so it can wait.”

“Okay, honey.” I was still talking softly. Then I offered, “I’m at Mrs. Field’s. If you don’t have cookies handy, do you want me to buy some for medicinal purposes later?”

“Mrs. Field’s are sweet, baby, but nothin’ beats your kind of sweet.”

That was nice, very nice but I wasn’t entirely certain if he meant cookies from my bakery or a different kind of sweet that I could give him for medicinal (and other) purposes.

I decided that I’d pop by the bakery, just in case, cover all the bases.

“Okay,” I said yet again, having paid for my cookies, I smiled at the clerk, shoved my wallet back in my purse, grabbed my stuff and took off.

“All set?” he asked.

“Yep. The boys have a bevy of swim trunk selections. I’m leaving the mall now, on my way to get them from school. When we get home, I’ll supervise packing.”

“Babe, we got two days.”

“And tomorrow we have one day. We don’t want to rush. When you rush, you forget stuff.

We need to be prepared. There are four of us and the boys need supervision. And I need a whole evening to sort myself out. Not to mention, I need to concoct dinner from whatever is in the kitchen so we don’t leave stuff that will spoil.”

“Tess, we’re goin’ to Aruba, not a jungle in Paraguay. We forget stuff, we buy it. We come home, stuff spoils, we throw it out.”

Hmm. This was true. Except the “we throw it out” part. Brock, Joel and Rex would undoubtedly come home and continue to utilize the fridge as they normally did, that was, standing in its open door, staring inside like doing so could form whatever they wished to have (if it wasn’t already there) and they would ignore anything with mold on it that had gone bad. Therefore, the “we” part actually meant “you”.

Brock went on before I could remind him of this fact. “And, far’s I can tell, you can take a carry-on because all you need is a bikini.”

I continued to dodge fellow shoppers on my way to the exit as I explained, “Brock, first, I don’t wear bikinis. Second, I need more than one bathing suit for a week. That requires at least three but I’m going with four which is how many I bought when I was out shopping with Martha, Elvira and the girls last week.”

By the way, my ban on the mall was up and I made a vow to myself that, next year, post Christmas, no matter how frenzied Christmas could get, I was lifting the ban in February because I’d gone gonzo when I hit a mall for the first time in over two months and I bought practically an entirely new vacation wardrobe. Some of it was hot but all of it was awesome and none of it I needed (really) especially not after paying for four to be accommodated at a five-star hotel and while setting up a new bakery .

“Third,” I carried on talking to Brock, “although I intend to relax I also intend to shop and you can’t shop in a swimsuit. And last, evening will require me in something other than a bikini and who knows what we’ll be up to? We could be going to nice restaurants or local dive restaurants or family restaurants. I’ve never been to Aruba. Maybe we’ll go to all of those kinds of restaurants and each kind requires a different kind of vacation outfit, not just for me, for all of us. Therefore we all have to be prepared.”

To this ling-winded, multi-point explanation, Brock asked, “You don’t wear bikinis?”

I rolled my eyes and headed to the exit doors outside of which my car was parked. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t.”

“Why?”

I pushed through the doors asking, “Do I actually need to explain?”

He didn’t answer. Instead he asked his own question of, “Do you own a bikini?”

I answered his question. “No.”

“Babe, you’re at a mall,” he told me something I knew.

“Actually, I’m outside walking to my car.”

“Turn around and buy yourself a bikini,” he paused, “or four.”

“Brock.”

“Sweetness,” his voice had dipped low, “you got a great body. Fuckin’ beautiful. Since you told me about this trip, I’ve been imagining you on the beach in a bikini. I’ve also been imagining you other places in a bikini. I’ve also been imagining taking off your bikini. All this imagining has lasted four weeks. I only got two days left to wait. Don’t take that away from me.”

Mm. I liked that. All of it. So much, I started imagining too.

My imagining took all my attention so I stopped behind a car and studied the tips of my high-heeled boots.

Then something else hit me and I asked, “Do you think it’s okay to be in a bikini around the boys?”

I could actually envision Brock’s eyebrows snapping together before he said, “Uh…

yeah.” Then, “Why?”

“I don’t know,” I mumbled.

There was a moment of silence then, softly, “Baby, you just became stepmom to two boys.

That doesn’t mean you gotta go June Cleaver.” Then he ended on a muttered, “Or Christ, at least I hope you don’t.”

I thought about it.

Then I informed him, “Donna never wore a bikini.”

“Did Donna have a great fuckin’ body like you do?”

“Donna was five foot two and liked carrot cake more than Rex and chocolate cake way more than Joel. How do you think I learned how to make them?”

I listened to my man chuckle then he said, “Turn around and buy me some bikinis.”

“I already bought you three nighties.”

More silence, then low, “Fuck,” then, “Make my year, sweetness, turn around and add bikinis.”

I grinned.

He went on, “I’ll swing by, get the boys, bring ‘em into the Station. Can you pick them up here?”

His question and the casual way he asked it made warm gushiness saturate my belly.

This was an addition to my life that I liked. Since Martha started and my load was less but Brock’s hadn’t changed, Brock dropped the boys off at school (on time) and I left the bakery to get them in the afternoons. Usually, they hung out with me at the bakery after school.

Sometimes, I had to take them to baseball practice which had just started and I’d hang while they practiced. Sometimes, I called it quits early and we all hung out at home.

I liked this. All of it. Meeting, even fleetingly, the other Moms and Dads I’d see during school runs, getting to know the boys’ friends and their parents, having chats with the boys about how their day went. I never thought I’d have that, asking two beings I loved if they had their homework done, listening to them chatter in the car while I drove, hearing their voices drifting up the stairs while they fought in front of the television about what they were going to watch, going to the grocery store and buying food enough for a family, not just myself or not just myself and a partner.

I loved being with Brock, he made me feel safe, he made me feel beautiful, he made me feel loved. I loved all he’d given me, more than I could say.

But the best thing he’d given me was a family.

And since he gave me a family, I could give him bikinis.

Therefore, I turned back toward the mall, answering, “Sure.”

“Text me when you’re on your way.”

“All right, honey.”

“Later, babe.”

“Later, Brock, love you.”

“Me too, darlin’.”

I sighed happily.

He disconnected.

I put my phone in my purse.

Then I saw the middle of a man in front of me, I started to scoot by him and say, “Excuse me,” but I didn’t get the “Excuse me” part out.

This was because the middle of that man scooted the direction I scooted.

My head came up and I caught his eye.

“Sorry,” I said on a small smile and scooted the other way.

He again scooted the way I scooted.

Uh-oh.

“Uh…” I started.

“Mr. Heller wants to see you.”

Damn!

I looked beyond him to the doors to the mall. I was four car lengths and a thoroughfare away. I was in high-heeled boots. He was big and brawny. Maybe this meant he’d be slow if I made a run for it.

There was a black sedan that was crawling along our lane and I heard a car also coming from behind.

I sighed in relief that we had company and scooted again, turning to the side to slide by, saying, “I don’t want to talk to Mr. Heller.”

“I’m afraid that isn’t an option,” he told me.

Great.

Damian.

God, I hated him. There I was thinking of bikinis and family and Brock loving me and boom! Damian rears his ugly head and sends a goon after me and all my happy thoughts evaporate.

I scooted faster, the black sedan stopped and the backdoor opened.

Damian was in the backseat.

Fuck!

The big brawny guy cut me off from scooting and the car was cutting me off in the other direction so I had to stop therefore I juggled my bags to dig in my purse to grab my phone and call 911 so I could report Damian was harassing me.

“Tess, get in the car,” Damian ordered. “It’s urgent.”

I didn’t answer. Vance told me not to engage him and I wasn’t going to. I was going to phone 911. I tried to push through big brawny guy but big brawny guy just put a firm hand on my arm to stop this.

I tried to twist away at the same time activating my phone.

“Tess, there isn’t a lot of time.” I heard Damian say. “Please, for your own good, get in the car.”

Surprisingly, big brawny guy wasn’t taking my phone away. I dialed 911 (which, at this rate, could be added to my favorites) and put it to my ear.

“Tess, please, ” Damian entreated, sounding like it was, indeed, urgent (the jerk) but I kept my eyes on the pavement, the big brawny guy weirdly gently started to pull me to the car and the 911 operator said in my ear, “Nine-one-one, what’s your emer –”

Then it happened.

Gunshots.

Right there.

Gunshots right there.

So loud. Unbelievably loud. Making my ears ring.

I stood frozen as the big brawny man’s hand left my arm and it left my arm because he’d fallen to the ground, blood oozing from his chest.

In a fog of horror, I tipped my head down and stared at big, brawny man who was wheezing with blood oozing from his chest.

Oh my God!

Stupidly, in shock, I turned to look left and saw an older man I’d never seen in my life advancing, smoking gun drawn.

“Tess! ” Damian shouted, jumping out of the car before I could do anything, say, like flee.

“Get in my fucking car! ”

Then he had a hand on me and he yanked me to the car as more gunshots were fired.

Damian grunted in pain as I felt his body jerk but he still shoved me into his car, coming in after me, slamming the door.

“Drive! ” he yelled, the older man was still firing at the car, bullets thudding into the metal even as Damian’s driver put his foot down and it shot forward, straight at the old, crazy, shooting man then a bullet penetrated the windshield and the car veered crazily right and slammed into some parked cars, tossing both Damian and I to the side, skidding along them for awhile and then coming to a stop when the driver slumped to the right.

And it came to a stop in a way that my door was wedged against cars. No escape except over Damian.

But I didn’t even get that chance and I didn’t because it all happened quickly. In the beat of a heart, the flash of an eye.

Damian pulled a gun out of his jacket just as the door was pulled open and old, crazy, shooting man leaned in, aimed at Damian and shot him right in the face.

Right.

In.

The.

Face!

I screamed in sheer terror as Damian collapsed on me then rolled to the floor.

Then I stopped screaming and looked at the old, crazy shooting man who had the gun aimed at me and my heart and lungs stopped. My heart and lungs stopped but my blood was coursing through my veins, I felt hot everywhere, my scalp was tingling, my palms went instantly wet, my knees were quaking and I stared right at him and his gun.

“Tessa O’Hara,” he said and I didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t even fucking blink.

Nothing entered my mind, not his knowing my name, not blood, murder and mayhem in the parking lot at Park Meadows Mall, nothing except him and his gun. “Brock Lucas’s Tessa O’Hara,” he whispered and that was when I knew him. I knew him. He was the man that called forever ago, the night someone had shot at Brock.

I still didn’t speak, I just kept staring.

“You wanna keep breathing, you’ll come quiet like.”

I wanted to keep breathing.

So in the car with two dead men, I left my phone, my purse, my Mrs. Field’s cookies and the Dillard’s bag with my boys’ swim trunks and I went quiet like.

* * * * *

Brock

“Need a second in Cap’s office,” Brock Lucas heard, his eyes went from the computer he was shutting down before going to get his boys to the man standing beside his desk.

Or, that was to say, the men standing by his desk.

Hank Nightingale, Eddie Chavez and Jimmy Marker, the first two men he’d known awhile since they worked vice. Their relationship had been strained due to Brock’s second to last job going bad and both of them having a strong negative opinion about the plays Brock had made during that job. Now, considering Hank was Lee Nightingale’s brother and Lee was Chavez’s best friend and Brock was working with Hector and Vance, two of Lee’s boys, not to mention he’d moved from the DEA to the DPD and paths were crossing, they’d come to an uneasy détente. As the days turned to weeks then months, this détente improved as they got to know each other’s histories, personalities and work ethics. He couldn’t say they were best buds but he respected them.

Jimmy Marker was a veteran cop, highly decorated, intensely dedicated to the job and close to retirement. There wasn’t a cop in the Department who didn’t respect him, including Brock.

It was Jimmy who had spoken.

“What’s up?” Brock asked.

“In Cap’s office,” Jimmy returned.

That was when he knew it. He felt it. He saw it in their guarded eyes, their alert stances.

Something was wrong. Something big was wrong. And that something big was very big and it was also very wrong.

Fuck.

He said not another word, folded out of his chair and moved to the Captain’s office, Jimmy, Eddie and Hank following him.

The minute it came into view Brock saw the Captain had eyes to the window of his office.

Waiting.

Fuck.

He walked in, the men walked in with him and the door closed instantly.

“Have a seat, Lucas,” the Captain ordered, his eyes not having left him.

Brock didn’t move nor take his eyes off Cap.

“Tell me,” he ordered.

Cap held his eyes.

Then he stated, “You know Josiah Burkett was released on parole four months ago.”

Bile crawled up Brock’s throat.

Josiah Burkett was Bree’s cousin who raped her. Brock had paid attention to Josiah Burkett and he knew exactly when that motherfucking monster was released. Brock also knew Burkett had kept steady with his meetings with his parole officer, the halfway house that asshole was in and hadn’t moved out of yet and that he managed to land himself a job working the line of an automotive parts factory off 6th Avenue.

What he did not know was why Cap was leading with Burkett.

This was not starting good.

“Yeah,” he replied.

The Captain held his eyes.

“Jesus, Cap, just –” Brock growled and Cap interrupted him.

Speaking quickly, he said, “A call came into 911 twenty minutes ago. The caller didn’t get the chance to explain what was happening. Shots were heard over the phone. Not a minute later, multiple calls came from Park Meadows Mall…”

Hearing the location, a location Tess was at twenty minutes ago and he knew this because he was on the fucking phone with her twenty fucking minutes ago, every cell in Brock Lucas’s body stopped moving.

The Captain kept speaking, “… reporting an elderly man had opened fire on a black sedan.

When units hit the scene, the shooter was gone, there was a man down, still alive outside the car and two men dead in the car. Damian Heller was one of those men.”

Brock didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t even fucking blink.

“I’m sorry, son, but Tessa O’Hara’s phone and purse were found in the back of that sedan.”

Brock closed his eyes.

The Captain kept going. “Witnesses report she went with the elderly man who was holding her at gunpoint.”

Brock opened his eyes.

The Captain finished, saying quietly, “The descriptions of the shooter match Josiah Burkett.”

Instantly, he turned on his boot heading for the door.

Nightingale and Chavez were already there, prepared, and if he had any room for anything else in his brain, anything other than his sweet Tess in the hands of a whacked, sick lunatic that he had set on this path to revenge making it him who made his Tess unsafe, he would have cottoned onto why those two were chosen. Not a lot of men could lock Brock down but those two could.

“Lucas, you need to stay calm and listen to me,” Cap ordered urgently.

Brock stopped in front of Nightingale and Chavez.

“Outta my fuckin’ way,” he growled, his eyes moving direct to both of theirs.

They didn’t move a muscle. If anything was on his mind other than the putrid garbage that was filling it, he would have seen understanding in their eyes, concern.

But nothing was on his mind but his Tess in the sick, twisted hands of Josiah fucking Burkett.

“Lucas,” Cap called. “Son, calm down and listen to me. You don’t, we’ll lock you down.

And you don’t need that, you don’t want that, I know you don’t. Not now, be smart, turn around and listen to me.”

Brock looked over his shoulder. “Get them outta my way.”

“We’ll find her,” Cap promised.

“When?” Brock asked, turning, “After he beats the shit outta her? After he plays his sick fuckin’ games with her? Jesus fuckin’ Christ! ” he said the last on a roar. “She’s been through this before.”

“I know, son, listen to –”

Brock turned his back on the Cap and lifted a finger in Nightingale’s face, “I want your brother on this, fuckin’ now. ”

“He is, Slim, I already called him,” Hank said quietly. “All his boys are on the hunt.”

“Delgado,” Brock snarled, his eyes moving to Chavez, “he needs to mobilize.”

“That call’s been made too,” Eddie told him. “He’s got his team in play.”

Brock glared at them, that bile still eating away at his throat. Visions of Bree in her hospital bed filling his head, visions that morphed into Tess, jaw wired, teeth missing, eyes swollen shut, dark bruises at her neck.

Fuck.

Fuck!

He turned back to the Cap. “My boys need to be picked up from school. I need to make some calls.”

“You do it from in here,” Cap replied.

Brock shook his head. “I gotta be out there. I know where he hides. I know where he creeps.”

“You give that info to Jimmy, Hank and Eddie, they’ll follow it up.”

“She’s my woman, Cap,” Brock reminded him.

“We’ll find her,” Cap promised again.

That bile in his throat was swelling, threatening to choke him. “My job to keep her safe,”

he spoke around the bile, this making his voice thick.

“We’ll find her, son,” Cap promised yet again and his eyes went intense. “Goes against the grain, man like you, I know it. Goes against the grain. But the smartest thing you can do right now is sit your ass down, brief Jimmy, Hank and Eddie so they can work this then call someone to take care ‘a your boys. When we get her, you need to have your shit together

‘cause she’s gonna need you. So, you gotta keep your shit together, Brock, do the smart thing, help us help her.”

After the Captain stopped speaking, Brock “Slim” Lucas didn’t delay.

He walked to the chairs in front of Cap’s desk, sat his ass down in one and looked to Jimmy Marker who was seating himself beside him. Then he ran down everything he remembered about Josiah Burkett which was everything he knew about Josiah Burkett. He didn’t forget anything. Not anything.

Eddie Chavez left first to disburse the first wave of intel.

Hank Nightingale left second.

Jimmy Marker waited until the end.

Then Brock called his mother to go pick up his boys.

And after that, standing at the window in the Captain’s office, eyes staring unseeing outside, that bile still choking him, his brain torturing him, his instincts screaming for him to move, his palms itching, his teeth clenched, it took everything he had to lock himself down and not do, again, what he’d done years ago, something that was wild and stupid and fucked up then and something that he could have no way of knowing would put his Tess in jeopardy now and, for the first time in fucking years, he prayed.

My wild man, he heard her sweet words whisper in his head. My snake charmer.

Brock Lucas closed his eyes and prayed harder.