So they had already heard about Montilla’s capture? Bitchin’. “Yeah, I probably am. I should have just killed that son of a bitch for what he did to me, but when I had him in his wife’s former safe house, I didn’t pull the trigger. I just turned him over like a good little citizen. I thought that would make you happy. But you’re clearly annoyed I didn’t follow orders.”
“Do you ever turn on the fucking news?” Logan challenged, looking ready to wring his neck.
Joaquin, who wasn’t much of a talker, rolled his eyes with a grunt and grabbed the remote, flipping the channel to cable news.
The top-of-the-hour headline horrified him.
Five Cops Dead, Two Injured in St. Louis Police Department Escape.
Shock poured over him like a bucket of ice. “Son of a bitch.”
“Montilla’s thugs rolled in there, shot up the place, then took off with their boss—killing two more cops as they left just for the fun of it.”
And every one of their deaths was on his head. One-Mile felt utterly sick as he sagged against the wall. “Oh, fuck.”
“Yeah.” Hunter swiped the bottle from his hand and slammed it on the coffee table. “So you better start giving us reasons not to kill you ourselves. Explain what the fuck you were thinking and why you didn’t clue us in.”
“And toss in a good rationale for we shouldn’t fire your insubordinate ass, too,” Logan chimed in.
Honestly, he couldn’t think of a single one.
Joaquin grabbed his arm and shoved the cuff of his long-sleeved athletic shirt past his elbow, examining the underside of his forearm. Then he turned to the others. “No new tracks.”
They thought he was still taking the drugs Montilla and his goons had addicted him to? And that it had led to his lapse in judgment?
One-Mile jerked free and exposed his other forearm. “Of course there are no fucking new tracks. But here. Examine this arm, too, so you can be really sure. But if you’d just asked me, I would have told you that once I went through detox in the hospital, I haven’t had any other cravings. I wasn’t high in St. Louis. I just fucked up.”
“You got too involved.” Joaquin turned an accusing glare on the Edgington brothers. “I told you he wasn’t ready for an assignment.”
“Bullshit,” One-Mile defended. “You asked me to relocate Valeria and her family safely. I did that.”
“Sure, then you totally ignored orders and went rogue. So don’t fucking yell. You’re lucky we’re talking to you at all. You’re a talented son of a bitch, but not irreplaceable. I wanted to kill you for this stupid-ass stunt.” Joaquin pinned him with cold hazel eyes. His low voice was like a blade down One-Mile’s spine. “I got voted down.”
“Too bad,” One-Mile quipped. That would have made everything so much easier… “Is Valeria still safe?”
Logan nodded. “No thanks to you. We’ve warned her. Thankfully, Jack Cole recommended a bodyguard in the area, who’s with her now. She’ll call if she needs us.”
Thank God for that.
“Sit,” Hunter demanded. “We’re going to talk.”
One-Mile flopped onto the sofa, grabbed his bottle, and took a long pull.
The elder Edgington grabbed the booze from his grip and sent him a narrow-eyed glare. “What the fuck? Jack Daniel’s straight up at four in the afternoon? Did you trade booze for drugs as a way of dealing with the trauma from your last mission to Mexico?”
No, it was how he was coping with Brea’s loss, but he didn’t owe them that explanation. And he’d be goddamned if he let them slap a PTSD label on him, too. That was getting better…somewhat. But he refused to have that conversation now.
“Fuck you. It’s been a long day, and I’m kicking back. Are you here for a mental health check, Mommy?”
“What. The fuck. Happened?” Hunter snarled.
Since they weren’t going to go away, he started at the beginning, telling the others that he’d gotten Valeria, her son, and her sister out of St. Louis without a hitch. And that with too much time on his hands in Orlando, he’d started to think—about ways to pay back Montilla…and how to catch their mole.
“At least I’ve figured out who’s betrayed us.” One-Mile explained the email chain.
Logan leaned in. “You’re sure?”
“Unless everyone else somehow got the memo…”
They all shook their heads.
“First I’m hearing of it.” And Hunter didn’t sound pleased.
“Then I’m positive. Trees is your asshole.”
His trio of bosses looked at one another. “Why would he do that?”
None of them had an answer.
“Money?” One-Mile suggested. “Drugs? Blackmail?”
Logan stood, then looked at his brothers. “That other problem we talked about this morning?”
What did they mean?
Joaquin raised a dark brow. “You have an idea how to deal with it?”
“Yeah. Let me look into something.” Logan headed for the door.
Hunter and Joaquin exchanged a glance before the quiet bastard shook his head. “That frightens me.”
“Same. We’re coming with you. And you—” Hunter scowled, then pointed a sharp finger in his direction—“don’t do another fucking thing. You don’t even fart without talking to us, am I clear?”
“Crystal.”
“If you have contacts, start working them—quietly,” Logan insisted from across the house. “Try to find out where Montilla is going and what he plans to do next. Try like your life depends on it.”
But it wasn’t his life that worried him; it was Brea’s. It seemed likely Montilla or his goons would pay him a visit at some point. One-Mile couldn’t give that son of a bitch any reason to look her way.
And as the trio left, he shoved the bottle aside, retrieved his laptop, and started calling everyone he knew.
This time, when he found Montilla, he wouldn’t bother with any slap-and-tickle torture before an orderly arrest; he would just kill the bastard, possible repercussions be damned. At least Brea would be safe.
Nothing else mattered.
Monday, November 3
Brea walked out of the doctor’s office at the clinic in Lafayette, feeling numb and stunned. Her life would never be the same.
Cutter rose to his feet in the empty waiting room and stared. But his grim face told her he expected her next words.
“I’m pregnant.” Her whisper turned to a sob.
With a soft curse, he pulled her into his arms, stroking a big, comforting hand down her back. “Bre-bee…”
She sank against him and clung for comfort.
Except his two tours in Afghanistan, Cutter had been there for her since the day she was born. She had pictures of him, a gangly eight-year-old boy, holding her as an infant. She’d grown up next door to him. Though he had relocated to nearby Lafayette after returning from the Middle East, she saw him all the time. They spoke most every day. He had been her staple, her rock…and sometimes, her shield from the real world.
He couldn’t shield her from this reality, but she’d never been more thankful for him than she was now.