Page 66 of Tate
“Safe!”
The crowd erupted, and as Gunnar was rushed by his teammates, Ford turned.
He swept Scarlett up against him, swinging her around, holding her tight.
Her entire body turned to fire.
He set her back down, grinning, and for a second he looked like he might kiss her, something forming in his eyes.
Then he turned away and ran toward Gunnar, getting down on his level to high-five him, then pulled him into a hug.
Gunnar beamed like she’d never seen before.
Please, Ford, don’t leave.
7
When Ruby Jane had announced a little over a month ago at their mother’s sixtieth birthday party that she wasn’t a travel agent but worked as a CIA analyst, honestly, Tate didn’t believe her.
After all, she was his kid sister. The twin of his Navy SEAL brother, sure, so that meant she definitely possessed some serious get-’er-done genes and no doubt the smarts to untangle diabolical international plots.
But for the CIA?
Really?
Except, she had tracked down information on the Bryant League when he’d asked. But he’d also done a Google search and unearthed similar information. The Bryant League, an offshoot of a group called the World Can’t Wait, or WCW, was affiliated with the Revolutionary Communist Party, an isolationist group that wasn’t afraid to use domestic terrorism to take down the government elites and give the “land” back to the people. Aka, socialistic reform.
Which really meant they wanted to be in power, call the shots, and dominate the people.
And people like Reba Jackson stood up to them.
So, yeah, she had his vote. And he had her back.
And the sooner he tracked down the two yahoos who probably had really planted the bomb at the San Antonio arena, not to mention fired the Marshall family barn, shot Glo, and somehow gotten inside their security perimeter at the Anderson event, the sooner everyone could simply calm down.
He would crawl out of the senator’s clutches and go back to his sweet and easy gig running security for the Belles.
If they’d take him back.
Regardless, he wouldn’t have to endure for one more minute watching Glo be charmed into another man’s arms.
He’d called ahead to Ruby Jane when he landed in DC, but his call went to voicemail again, so he pocketed the phone, picked up an Uber, and directed the driver to RJ’s address. She lived outside the Capitol Hill area, in the northern corridor in a one-bedroom condo. He’d seen it a couple times on their FaceTime calls but had a moment of pause when he pulled up to the brick building.
Clearly, Sis made bank at whatever job she’d landed here in DC.
He got out and buzzed her apartment number. No name was listed, so he braced himself to be the pizza guy, wrong apartment, but when he recognized the voice he said, “It’s Tate.”
A pause, then a buzz, and he entered, walked up a flight, and knocked on 203.
She must have checked the peephole, because it took a moment for the bolts to slide back, and there she was.
Dressed in black heels, an untucked white oxford rolled to her elbows, and black dress pants, her dark hair down and mussed, she stared at Tate with a look of nonrecognition.
Or maybe simply surprise. Then, oddly, she looked past him into the hall, grabbed his jacket lapel and pulled him inside.
Slammed the door and bolted it.
“What the?—”
