Page 13 of Saving Their Forever

My phone buzzes, and the clipped, British voice announces, “Text from…Ford. Text from…Ford.”

“Voice Assist, read text message.”

“Message reads: ‘Got a situation with the Boston Medical Research Fund. Vasquez and Tank have been working a case for the past three days, and shit just went sideways. Can you be available for a call in ten minutes?’”

I pull off my glasses and pinch the bridge of my nose. I knew I should have asked Ronan to work with the two junior associates on this one. But it should have been a simple job.

“You can use Wren’s office,” Ry says. “All the rooms are soundproofed. After that, we can go check out the seventh floor.”

“Thanks.” I turn and slide my fingers into Evianna’s hair. “I don’t know how long I’ll be. Do you want to go back to the hotel?”

“God, no,” she says. “I have my tablet. I can work from here. We’re still having dinner together tonight?”

“Yeah, but I’ll order in.” Ry stands, his large frame casting a dark shadow over the couch. “Until we figure out who was following Wren today, I’m not taking any chances.”

* * *

Ripper

Charlie stops to sniff a tree and lifts his leg.

“Again? That’s the fifth time in an hour.”

He stares up at me, his tongue hanging half out of his mouth, happier than he’s been in a while. We’ve walked at least four miles every day this week. I’m exhausted.

I stayed up half the night sifting through traffic camera footage, and even with Wren’s help, we don’t have anything more than a handful of grainy photos of the guy who followed her from the salon the other day.

No hits from any of the databases we can access. Connor hooked us up with one of his FBI contacts, but all we got from Brent was a very unhelpful, “Looks like the dude doesn’t want to be found.”

After another five blocks, Charlie stops short, his good ear standing straight up, and his body rigid. A low sound rumbles in his throat. Not quite a growl, but not his normal, inquisitive yip either.

I scan the street. It’s the middle of the day. Just after the lunch hour. A group of business men exit one of the nicer restaurants in the area and cross in front of me. A mother pushes a stroller past me. Shoppers, tourists, commuters…

Tightening my grip on Charlie’s leash, I follow his gaze to the corner. “Recon,” I say quietly. He knows that word. I worked with him for months after Cara was kidnapped. He starts sniffing the air, and I give him a little more lead.

We turn onto the next block. It’s quieter here. The sun doesn’t penetrate the tall buildings, and the temperature drops a good ten degrees. A door slams, and I jump. “Fuck. Get a grip. It’s the middle of the day.”

Except, we still don’t know if someone is after Wren, Ry, or all of us. Charlie barks, then strains against my hold. He’s caught the scent of something he doesn’t like.

We cover the length of the block in under a minute, but Charlie skids to a halt before we turn the corner. I almost crash into—and over—him.

“How much longer do we need to wait?”

Pashto. That’s Pashto. I dart around my dog and burst out onto the sun-drenched sidewalk, searching for the man speaking a language I haven’t heard since I left Afghanistan. But though a long line of cars backs up for several blocks, there are surprisingly few people on the street. A guy in a three-piece suit talks on his phone. It’s not him. His accent is distinctly Irish. Two women in neon running gear chat about their latest dates. And a teenager bounces a basketball as he heads for the park on the corner.

I know what I heard. Charlie and I backtrack the way we came, then go over the same four city blocks three more times, but he doesn’t alert over anything or anyone. I don’t see anyone who looks suspicious. Who looks like they’ve been watching me.

Jackson Richards is dead. Killed in the Hindu Kush eight years ago. Officially, he was a victim of Hell Mountain and the sadistic fuck who ran it until Ry and Dax each put a bullet in his brain.

Wren has programs running twenty-four-seven that scan the internet—and the dark web—for any mention of my name. Of all our names.

She’s the best. Better than me, and I’m a fucking genius with a computer. If she says no one knows I’m alive, no one knows I’m alive. At least no one online.

Charlie nudges my hand, and I stare down at him. He’s worried. I’m close to losing my shit, and he’s doing his damnedest to stop me. Closing his teeth over the sleeve of my jacket, he gives it a gentle tug. When I don’t move, he whines, then tugs harder.

“Okay, okay.” I drop down to one knee with a grunt and wrap an arm around his sleek body. “You’re right. We need to go get Cara. Right now. Then we’ll go home. Home is safe. No one can hurt us there.”

I hope to God I’m right.

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