Page 65 of Help Me Remember

“Motherfucker,” I muttered, grabbing Eric and dragging him with me.

“Was more of a father fucker myself,” Eric said wryly as I pushed him toward the kettle. “What?”

“Boil some water,” I hissed at him.

“I feel like I’m going to regret listening to you,” Eric said slowly as he turned to fill the kettle, and I walked toward the back door. “Really, really going to regret this.”

I said nothing, keeping to the wall as I watched the door. I wasn’t surprised when I saw the handle move silently. My brow did quirk, however, when I heard the soft click of the metal and then watched the lock disengage. The handle turned slowly, and the door pushed inward quietly. The splash of running water blocked out any noise as a strange man entered the kitchen.

“So what,” Eric began and turned, his eyes wide. “What the fuck?”

“On the ground,” the man began, reaching for his hip.

I never gave him the chance and launched myself forward. In the periphery of my senses, I saw Eric dart out of the kitchen as I lashed my foot out, hitting the door. The thick wood slammed into the man, sending him crashing into the wall with a grunt. I followed immediately, driving my fist into his side.

With him stunned, I twisted, driving my other fist into his stomach and forcing him to double over. I shoved one leg between his, twisted it and, using my arm, hurled him to the ground, where he landed with a hard crash. Before he could do more than let out a gasp, I straddled him, grabbing both sides of his head.

His dazed gaze rose to my face, and his eyes widened in shock. “Wait!”

Anything he thought he would add was cut off immediately as I drove his head down into the tile with a hard thud. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, and with a brief jerk of his limbs, he went completely still.

“Eric?” I called softly.

“Here,” he said, peering around the corner of the doorway. His eyes landed on the man beneath me. “Is he—”

“Just unconscious,” I told him with a small smile. “Didn’t want to kill someone without knowing if they were trying to kill us first.”

“Dylan.”

“What?”

“Check his pockets, please.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

Grunting, I searched until I found a bifold and pulled it out. My heart skipped a beat as I looked over the ID and read it. “Agent Newscom…FBI.”

“Dylan?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you just assault a federal officer?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Fuck.”

We didn’t have time to consider what the FBI was doing in Port Dale or why they were coming into my childhood home and stash house. What mattered most was there were two more of them sitting on the other side of the road, and when they didn’t hear back from their friend soon, they were going to act accordingly. For all I knew there were even more waiting, but that was a risk we would have to take.

“We need a new place,” I told him.

“Where?” he asked, and I could hear the first note of panic entering his voice.

“Doesn’t matter. It doesn’t have to be isolated or even a building you know well. Just somewhere that isn’t directly connected to me and would give us a chance to breathe and come up with that plan you wanted so badly.”

“Well, there’s a park nearby,” he told me. “We never went there because you hated seeing the people because they always reminded you of being at home. You always said if you were going to be reminded of home, you might as well stay home.”

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