Chapter Twenty-One

Doc

"Sit down before you fall down," West says with a nod in my direction. "You too, Natasha."

He's pissed I lied to him. That we both lied to him. But to his credit, he hands us plates and then snags a breadstick for himself.

My small dining table only seats four. Inara and Raelynn join us. Ripper takes the couch and Charlie stretches out across his feet.

From his spot next to West at the kitchen counter, Ryker commands the entire room. "Wren wanted to come. But until this is over, she and Harlow aren't going anywhere but the warehouse and the condo. Wyatt and Graham are with them now."

Fuck. This is more than him being a normal, overprotective asshole. He's legitimately worried.

I drop my slice of pizza back on the plate and stare the big man down. "Tell us what you know."

"I just came here to look pretty," Ryker scoffs. "I'm out. Mostly. This is Sampson's team now. Ask him."

Ripper chuckles, reaches down, and rubs Charlie behind the ears. "You have a very warped definition of ‘out,' Ry."

"I don't know," West says. "It fits with his definition of ‘pretty.'"

My anger burns so hot, I'm ready to burn down the world. They're joking around? Now? I slam my fist down on the table, rattling the silverware.

"Fucking hell. Will someone tell me what we're going to do about the men after Natasha?"

No one speaks for a full five seconds. "You've been out a long time, Doc." West's voice is deathly calm. "But you know what we do. And how we do it. Trust me when I say this is why we're the best at what we do. We listen. We understand each other. We're a family."

"A very large, very dysfunctional one," Inara adds.

I sink against the back of the chair and reach for Natasha's hand. "Noted. But you do have a plan, right?"

West's dry laugh isn't reassuring. "Fuck, no. I heard about this shitstorm when it went down. Some of it, anyway. We need Natasha to fill in a lot of the holes before we get anything that even resembles a plan. That's why we're here."

Ripper pulls a tablet from his bag and taps the screen a few times. "Wren tracked down the guys she testified against. Montgomery Bastian, Dylan Sutton, and Ethan Doherty were released from Leavenworth a month ago. Allan Collins and Rob Bowen got out last year."

At my side, Natasha shudders. "They killed seven people—while they were running drugs all over Iraq and Afghanistan. The prosecutor asked for multiple life sentences to be served consecutively. How did they get out?"

"I can't answer that," Ripper says. "Yet. Dax suggested we let Trevor handle that thread."

"Who the hell are Dax and Trevor?" I ask. This was a mistake. If they've told anyone else, I won't even try to convince Natasha to stay. I'll run right along with her.

"Dax is our brother." Ryker sets his plate down and straightens his shoulders. "You remember the day we met, Doc?" At my nod, he continues. "When you figured out who I was, you said ‘there were two of you.' Dax was the second. Rip was the third. Though we only got him back two years ago. We thought he'd died months before we escaped."

"I had," Ripper says under his breath. Charlie whines, then puts his front paws on the man's thigh and licks his hand. "I'm okay, buddy. Down."

I never heard Ripper's story. I treated his wife after she was kidnapped. Though they weren't married at the time. But hell, I don't know most of their stories. Only their injuries.

"And Trevor?" I ask.

"CIA." West snags another breadstick. "He and Dax are out of Boston. Figured if anyone he asked was dirty, it wouldn't come back to us in Seattle."

"None of this is making me feel any better." My appetite gone, I push my plate away and turn to McCabe. "I've never asked you for a fucking thing. You gave the orders, and I showed up. But I'm asking now. Get us out of the country. Help me access my accounts in a way that can't be traced, and we'll disappear."

His stare turns cold. A vein in his temple throbs. "Not how this works, Doc. You're one of us. Natasha is too. No man—or woman—left behind."

"Bullshit." I shove the chair back and lurch to my feet. My ribs send lightning bolts of pain wrapping around my torso, but I don't care. I'm so fucking done with the man, I'm ready to snap. "If I were one of you, I wouldn't have gone four fucking months without a single goddamn call!"

West gets between me and McCabe. "Easy there, Doc. We've been lucky. Five jobs and we haven't had anything more serious than bumps and bruises. One knife wound, but I took care of that. We weren't going to bother you for a handful of stitches."

"Well, we did almost die the day Harlow was born," Ripper mutters. "That was pretty fucking serious."

"What?" I look from Raelynn to West. The pieces fall into place slowly, and when the last one clicks, the phone call he made from the helo finally makes sense. "It was Wren who was kidnapped from the hospital? While she was in labor?"

"Bait," Ryker grits out. "Fuckers wanted me and Dax. Then they discovered Rip was alive and took him too. Beat the shit out of them. By the time we got to them, Wren was ready to push. West delivered Harlow."

"And you didn't call me." The realization shouldn't hurt this much. My shoulders slump. I sidestep West so I can look Ryker in the eye. "I've treated every member of this team and half the people you all love. I've kept your secrets. Not because of the obscene sum of money you pay me every month. Because I believe in what you do. Because I can't save people anymore. Not the way I want to. But you can. I would have been there."

The big man looks beaten. "If you want to run, I'll make it happen."

"For fuck's sake," West says. "Enough of this shit." He stalks over to Natasha and braces his hands on the table. "Do you want to run? Or do you want to put an end to these assholes?"

"You—" Her voice cracks, and she swallows hard. "You can't stop them."

"That's not what I asked. Do. You. Want. To. Run?" The SEAL stares her down, waiting. No one makes a sound. I hold my breath, not sure what answer I should hope for.

The one that lets us stay together.

"No." She shakes her head. A single tear glistens on her cheek. "No," she says again. Louder this time.

"All right. That, we can work with."

The pizza sits like a lead weight in my stomach. Doc slides another cup of coffee in front of me—my fourth of the day—and sinks down with a small wince of pain.

Telling my story the second time was easier. And not, since West, Inara, and Ryker asked me dozens of questions. The name of every Ranger I ever served with. All the places we were sent. Any time Chris and I were separated from the rest of the squad. Everything I could remember about the general courts-martial proceedings. The location of the safe house in Washington D.C.

"Even the smallest detail could be important," West says.

I drop my head into my hands. "You're asking me to relive the most traumatic month of my life. I'm doing the best I can!"

"I found something," Ripper says from the couch in Doc's living room. He's been hunched over his laptop for the past hour, occasionally talking to someone through his Bluetooth earbud.

West stops his pacing. "What is it?"

"This." With a few clicks to his keyboard, he sends an image to the various tablets littered around the room. Every member of Hidden Agenda brought one, and Inara's sits on the table in front of me.

"Oh, God. That's…me."

On screen, a drunk college kid lunges for me, his hands going straight for my breasts. One of his friends shouts, "Come party with us, Nat. You know you want to!"

I grab the groper's wrist, give it a hard turn, and have him on his ass in under two seconds. "Get the fuck out of here," I snap and slam the door in their faces.

"That was posted to SnazzClip a month ago," Ripper says, "with the caption, 'Remember when Sammy got his ass kicked?' The hashtags are BlakelyIsland, Nat, HotChick, and WouldTapThat." The man's ruddy cheeks turn several shades darker. "They…uh…put a still shot up too."

Now I'm the one who's embarrassed. It was the middle of the damn night, and I'm only wearing a pair of skimpy shorts and a tank top. Without a bra.

"Fucking social media," West says under his breath.

"I'm running a search for anything geo-tagged from Blakely Island in the past four years." Ripper's fingers fly over the keyboard. "But your house number is clearly visible in the video."

"How would Bastian even find it, though?" This is the problem with staying off the grid for so long. My tech skills were passable eight years ago. But the world has changed so much since then. "I highly doubt he's spending time on SnazzClip watching drunk college kids get their asses handed to them."

"The United States government has one of the most advanced facial recognition algorithms in the world," Ryker says. He pushes off the wall by the back door and rubs his hand over his very bald, very scarred head. "It's obvious Bastian had friends on the outside. Powerful friends if they're able to get him out of consecutive life sentences in Leavenworth without raising too many eyebrows. Those kinds of friends wouldn't have any problem accessing facial rec."

"Or hiring a hacker to do it for them," Ripper adds. He pushes up the long sleeves of his Henley, exposing thick scars around his wrists and a tattoo on his forearm.

Special Forces.

Like Ryker.

Like Logan.

"We fight for those who can't fight for themselves, Pip."

He was so proud the first time he came home wearing that green beret. I'd only been in the army for two years at that point, but I'd wanted to follow in his footsteps. I'd even asked my CO if women could go through Special Forces Assessment and Selection. But he'd none-too-gently told me a woman would never be accepted and kicked me out of his office.

"Natasha?" Doc rubs small circles over my lower back. "Ryker asked if you'd ever seen those guys before—or after that video was taken."

I grind the heels of my hands against my eyes. "I have no idea." God, I'm so fucking tired. Tired of running. Tired of being afraid. Tired of protecting myself from everyone. "I never paid attention to the renters Clancy sent to the resort."

At my side, Doc stiffens.

"Until you." I cup his cheek, skating my thumb under his eye. "I paid attention to you, fly boy."

"Fly boy?" he asks. His smile makes me think everything could be okay—if we live through the next four days. Or however long it takes Bastian and his crew to find me.

"Yes. Unless you'd prefer I start calling you the Jolly Green Giant."

"I did not need that visual," Ryker says. "Fucking PJs." He pulls out his phone, and his lips twitch into what might almost be a smile.

Inara stares at the man, then jabs West in the arm. "There's something wrong with Ry's face."

The SEAL chuckles. "Nah. I'd say Wren just sent him a picture of the baby."

He rubs his palm over his head again, but there's much less stress in the movement now. "Sampson, let me know when and where you need me. Until then, I'll be working from home. Harlow just rolled over for the first time."

Before he reaches the door, he turns back and pins Doc with his stare. His eyes are a strange mix of hazel, green, and blue. Almost mesmerizing in a terrifying sort of way. "Pack up what you need for at least three or four days. Raelynn will take the two of you to Graham's old place in Capitol Hill."

"What for?" Doc stands—with some difficulty—and I wrap my arm around his waist to steady him.

"To keep you safe, asshole. Wren's C. Jacks trick isn't going to stop them for much longer. When they figure out he's a figment of my wife's imagination, they'll dig deeper. And you're sure as shit not going to be here if they manage to turn up your name."

"Well, shee-it," Raelynn says and slaps her thigh so hard, I jump. "C. Jacks. I just got it. Cracker Jacks."

"What's so funny?" I ask, looking around the room. Everyone's laughing now. Including Ryker.

"Wren doesn't really swear," he says. "Cracker Jacks is her version of ‘shit.' Sometimes ‘fuck.' I've got a whole dictionary of them. Up here." He taps his temple. "'Sure as shipping lanes' is our newest one."

I wish I could meet this woman. Hell, I wish I could meet anyone and know that it wouldn't put them in danger.

"Doc, please." I stand in front of him, my hands on his hips. "Do it. I'd feel a lot better if we were staying somewhere that wasn't tied to you in any way."

He sighs, then leans down to press a kiss to my forehead. "Fine. But Graham's old place better have a working coffee maker."

West just stares at him. "Doc, don't take this the wrong way, but your coffee is shit. The safe house not only has a better machine, but beans that won't tear a hole in your stomach lining after two cups. Tomorrow morning, I expect you to call and say, ‘You're welcome.'"