Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

O f course Moose was too late.

“Three delays. Are you serious?” He threw his bag into the back of the SUV alongside Axel’s, Shep’s, and London’s and then opened the front door.

“Hey, Moose.” The voice came from a tanned and grinning Colt Kingston, who had driven down from his houseboat two hours north in some harbor near Space Force.

Apparently, Colt was part of a top-secret project but could sneak away to help a hometown boy with some reconnaissance and maybe rescue.

Or maybe there’d be no need for recon, because according to a text he’d gotten from Flynn, Tillie had made bail four hours ago and vanished. So there was that.

Apparently, she’d meant her words . . . . “This is goodbye.”

Axel climbed in the back, London and Shep taking the bucket seats in back. London seemed quiet, looking out the window. .

“Have I mentioned how much I miss Alaska?” He pulled a ball cap from the backpack at his feet and shoved it onto his head, donned sunglasses. He was already sweating.

Colt pulled away from traffic and merged into the slow-moving flow of cars leaving the Miami International Airport. Already, the sun hung on the backside of the day, casting long shadows between the shiny high-rises. Palm trees sprouted from concrete, adding a surreal, Miami Vice feel to the world.

“So, where to?” Colt asked.

“She’s in the wind,” Moose said, looking out the window. “But Flynn tracked down Rigger’s home address. It’s about an hour north of here, in Fort Lauderdale.”

“Great. I’ll get on 95.” Colt wore a pair of jeans, sneakers, and a Hawaiian-print button shirt, a cap over his dark hair, a real surfer vibe radiating off him. “Hungry?”

“Starved,” Axel said, leaning forward. “We had to practically run through Sea-Tac, and when we got to Chicago, everything was closed. If it weren’t for the snacks Shep and London bought, I’d be eating my flip-flops.”

“That’s just gross,” London said.

“We caught all the thunderstorms heading east,” Moose said. “We had to sleep in the terminal in O’Hare.”

“Fun,” Colt said. “There’s a great Cuban place on the Hollywood strip if you want to stop.”

Fact was, the last thing Moose wanted was a Cuban sandwich, but by the time they’d travelled north and cut over to the oceanside, his stomach growled, and he could admit that sustenance might make him less grumpy.

Less wanting to hurt someone.

Vengeance wasn’t his, but just a little justice? Please?

They piled out of the SUV at the Cuban food truck in a parking lot that overlooked white sandy beaches and rolling surf and swilled the smell of salt and spicy pork into the air.

Colt went over to the truck to order, and Moose sat at a nearby picnic table, folded his hands, his gaze toward the ocean.

“You look like a man trying not to combust,” Axel said, joining Moose after placing his order.

Moose said nothing.

“Flynn keeps texting, asking where we are.”

Moose looked at Axel. “Do not tell her. The last thing I want is for her to find Tillie and haul her back in for another kidnapping attempt.”

“Isn’t that why we’re here? To stop Tillie?”

He hadn’t settled on that yet. Yes, probably . Because in his heart, he knew he couldn’t let her break the law again.

And yet, what was right—to let Hazel sit in peril?

He kept staring at the ocean.

Colt came over, set a sandwich in front of him. “I got you the spicy one.” He settled in next to Moose. “Is this about the same girl I met in Copper Mountain? The one who lost her daughter?”

“Yep.” Moose unwrapped the sandwich. “Turns out that she’s not Hazel’s mom—she’s her aunt but is raising her. But this guy, Rigger—he’s her dad, and he’s got custody.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“He’s . . . bad news. This looks good.” Pulled pork, ham, and pickles. He picked it up to take a bite. “Tillie has a video of Rigger assaulting her sister. And he’s got a slew of other charges against him.”

“So this is a rescue op.”

Moose chewed his bite, put the sandwich down, and wiped his mouth. “Could be. Right now, I just want to find Tillie and . . . stop her from doing something stupid.”

Colt had also dug into his sandwich, the juice dripping onto his paper plate. “What’s the stupid part? Breaking the law, or letting something terrible happen to someone she loves?”

“Sounds like you have some history there.”

“Some.” Colt took a drink of his pop. “What I’ve discovered is that sometimes God asks us to get involved. Sometimes he asks us to wait. And all the time, he goes with us, even if we do stupid things. The key is to not go alone.”

Shep and London had taken their sandwiches and walked out onto the beach. He tried not to read into it, but they seemed to be avoiding them. Or maybe. . .Colt? No, they probably didn’t even know him.

Axel sat with his back to them on the bench, eating, and scrolling through his phone.

“Come to me.”

The words had been hanging in Moose’s head the entire trip to Miami.

He looked back at the sea. Please. Keep her safe. Bring her help if she needs it .

He finished his sandwich.

Axel turned and set down his phone. “Flynn is working with her friend Val to track down security footage from the night Matthew Lopez was killed. Val’s a former detective with the Miami police. Apparently they were able to track down the security company, but all their files are encrypted. And their current tech can’t figure out how to decode them.”

Of course .

“And she says that if we need backup, to call her.”

“So she can bring the Miami heat and arrest Tillie? Yeah, no.”

Axel held up a hand. “Antlers in, bro. I think she meant as a friend. She has no jurisdiction in Florida.”

Right . He probably shouldn’t have snapped. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, Grumpy Moose. We’re all on your side here.” Axel turned around again, gesturing with his sandwich at Shep and London throwing shells into the ocean. “What’s with those two? Are they together?”

“Shep said they have history.”

“Looks more like a future to me.”

“Maybe. Shep said they shared some trauma together. An avalanche. I do know that she was a missionary pilot in Nigeria before she came here.”

Moose looked at Colt. “You were in Nigeria, right? I remember Dodge telling the story—something about you getting kidnapped by the Boko Haram?”

Colt had balled up his sandwich wrapper, was now staring hard at London in the distance. “Yep.”

Wait. Maybe London did know Colt. So, why the cold front?

“Did you know London?”

He sighed. Again, “Yep.”

A weird silence.

Axel looked at Colt, then Moose. “There’s something about her. I don’t know. Secretive. Like she has a past.” He had folded up his sandwich wrapper.

“What, like she’s a spy?” This from Colt.

Moose considered him, the strange way he’d said that. “What aren’t you telling us?”

Colt gave a laugh. “No. I mean, there were rumors that she wasn’t just a pilot.”

“What?”

He looked at Moose. “Just some . . . I don’t know. Like I said, rumors. But they all sort of circled around the idea that she was really in some branch of the clandestine forces. Even a NOC operative.”

“Non official cover?” Axel nodded. “I knew it. A spy.”

Colt held up his hand. “Don’t go crazy. People invent stuff when they don’t know much about a person.”

If Moose was honest, he didn’t know much about London. She’d come recommended by Shep.

Who knew her how ?

He watched the two of them. Shep calm, his hands in his pockets, London crouched in front of a flock of sanderlings, feeding them bread.

She got up and brushed off her hands, her profile in the sun. Pretty, but no-nonsense and smart. Still, he didn’t see her as a spy.

Then again, he hadn’t seen Tillie as a criminal.

Still didn’t see her as a criminal.

“Let’s go,” Moose said and stood up. Axel whistled to the pair on the sand and waved them in.

The sun had sunk on the horizon, the shadows long upon the ocean as they drove north along the ocean drive, finally cutting west at A1A, then north again.

“Florida always smells like it’s moldy,” said Shep from the back seat.

“And the palm trees are constantly shedding,” said London.

Moose looked back at them. “Since when did either of you live in Florida? Shep, you’re from Montana, and London?—”

“Never lived here,” she said. “Just visited a few times.”

Axel raised an eyebrow from the back seat.

Moose shrugged. He simply preferred to take people as he met them. If London had secrets, let her.

They reached Fort Lauderdale, then turned east to Las Olas. Shadows turned the street dusky. The architecture here turned trendy, the houses white and ornate, most of them bumped up against wide canals, many with speedboats and even small motor yachts moored in their backyards.

Colt turned onto San Marco Drive and slowed as he headed down the street, past the multimillion-dollar mansions now lit up with floodlights.

Everyone went a little quiet.

“This is Rigger’s place,” said Axel and pointed to a three-story modern home that probably belonged in some fancy magazine.

“There’s no way she’s breaking in here to grab Hazel,” Shep said.

London leaned over him, staring out the window. “Take out that camera on the tree and the two lights on the patio in front and you get in through that upstairs window.” She pointed to the massive balcony. “Or you come in off the water, sneak in around the pool, kick out a few of the lawn lights, and go up the terrace. If she has parkour skills, she’s on the second-story patio in back, no problem.”

Moose just looked at her. “Have you lost your mind?”

She leaned back. “What? You said she was an Iron Maiden. Have you not seen that show?”

He shook his head.

“I downloaded her seasons on my phone, and while you guys were snoozing in Chicago, I watched them. Also managed to find a few interviews. She smashed a world record on the warped wall, and the most tandem pull-ups. She’s a rock star.”

“Of course she is,” Axel said and looked at Moose.

Yes . Of course she was, and the words reached in, took hold. “She is totally breaking in to get Hazel.” Silence, and he sat back. “And I guess we’re here to make sure she doesn’t get killed doing it.”

More silence.

“Moose. What are you thinking? I mean, we’re not spec ops,” said Axel.

“I am,” said Colt. He looked at Shep.

Shep’s mouth tightened. “Fine. I was a medic, attached to a Ranger unit.”

“And you were in the Coast Guard, Axe,” Moose said.

“That definitely doesn’t count,” said Colt.

“Hey!” Axel said. “Five minutes, man. I can hold my breath for five minutes.”

“Super not impressive,” Colt said. “Let me introduce you to my brother, Ranger.”

Axel shook his head.

London stayed strangely quiet. But she was studying the house. “There are two suits in the front, near the door. And one guy in the back. And they all look like thugs Rigger brought home from the gym.” She turned to Colt. “You were special ops?”

“Yes.”

“And I know you have skills,” she said to Shep, and Moose raised an eyebrow.

“One if by land. Shep and Colt, you need to figure out a way to get inside the perimeter and assist her if she decides to exfil over the fence.” She looked at Axel. “Two if by sea. You think you can get in by water?”

“I have to get wet for this op?”

“Don’t be a baby. If she goes in the canal, you’re there to help with Hazel.”

She looked at Moose. “And you. What do you think about rescuing that little beauty up there?”

He looked to where she pointed.

On the flat roof of the three-story palatial home sat a small private helicopter.

“Aside from asking how we’d get up there, I’m not stealing a helicopter, London.”

“ We’re stealing the helicopter, and I promise we’ll put it back. But the last thing we want is a high-speed chase with Hazel in the back.”

“London—”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll get the chopper. You make sure that Tillie doesn’t wind up with that.” She pointed to a boxer that ran into the yard, barking at the street.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Moose said. “Do we even know if Tillie’s here?”

“She’s here.” And then London pointed to a motorcyclist at the edge of the property.

He’d seen the person earlier, parked down the street, when they’d passed the house the first time. But they had driven off and?—

“That’s Tillie?”

“I recognize reconnaissance when I see it.”

It was too dark to be sure. “What’s she doing?”

And right then, Tillie pulled out, following a pizza delivery car.

“Three if by pizza,” London said, looking over at him and smiling. And then he got it. Tillie was going to steal a pizza and deliver it right to the front door.

Oh no, no . . . “This is crazy. We are not going to sit here and plan a . . . a kidnapping assist. This is . . . No.” Moose shook his head. “I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You’re not,” Shep said.

“This is a felony!”

Nothing.

“Guys. We’d become accessories to a kidnapping, and then what? We’d be on the lam? In a bad Ocean’s Eleven sequel, all going our separate ways until our next big gig?”

“I get the boat,” Axel said.

“This is not funny.”

“You went there, with Clooney?—”

“And they weren’t that bad, Moose,” said London.

He glared at London, then Axel, who held up his hands in surrender.

“I’m serious. We do this and Air One is over. I’m already barely keeping us afloat, and with the lawsuit?—”

“What lawsuit?” Shep said darkly.

Moose sighed. “The Benton family is suing us for negligence in the death of Grace Benton. The court is considering freezing our assets, which means we’d have to shut down anyway. I suppose it won’t matter if I’m sitting in Sing Sing.”

“They’ll send you to Coleman, here in Florida,” Colt said.

“Not if we don’t transport her across state lines. Then it’s a domestic case,” London said, and again Moose just stared at her. “I’m just saying, it wouldn’t be Coleman, because that’s a federal prison. It would probably be Raiford. At least for you guys. I’d go to Lowell.”

And then there was silence.

So maybe it had sunk in a little.

“You should have told us about the lawsuit,” Axel said, now serious.

“Yes. Yes, I should have. I’m sorry. But now you know and . . . I can’t let us do this.”

More quiet, the darkness now heavier, their expressions shadowed.

Finally, from Axel, “Okay, then what are we supposed to do?”

And then, as they sat in silence, it didn’t matter?—

Fire exploded out of a downstairs window.

It rocked the neighborhood, the SUV, the team, and they turned silent as black smoke billowed out of the lower level and sirens blared.

And all Moose could think as he barreled out of the SUV was, Oh, Tillie, what have you done?

Yeah, that hadn’t gone as planned. In fact, Tillie had planned exactly none of the chaos that now erupted at the back of Rigger’s hacienda.

Fire licked from the main floor, windows bursting, and then, from the front door, Courtney ran out screaming, and all Tillie could think as she got off her bike was . . .

Now.

She’d been sorting out how to get inside for the better part of an hour, and it had dawned on her when the pizza guy went by to simply . . .

Make it simple.

He’d parked at the end of the street, and she’d waited for him, planning to grab the red insulated bag when he returned from his delivery—no need to deprive anyone of their pizza—when the absurdity of her idea hit her.

She’d counted at least three former MMA fighters, two she knew personally, surrounding the complex—as if Rigger knew she might be coming.

Of course he knew. Probably counted on it.

Although, it also had to do with what was going down on that yacht.

Even if she got inside the gate, her skills weren’t the kind that could neutralize three grown men, no matter what the movies said. She had U-turned the bike and reached the property, her eye on the window where she’d seen Hazel, when the explosion rocked her off her bike.

She hit the ground.

And then she stopped thinking. Because Hazel was inside that house somewhere?—

Lights burst around the perimeter as if there was a surge of electricity, but she was already on the fence, then over, onto the grass.

This was easy. Columns held up a deck that hung over the pool area, and all she did was run past them to the far side, land on one column, bounce to the other, then spring up to the upper railing, catching it and pulling herself up.

Behind her, the yacht tore away from the dock, heading out of the canal into the passageway, but she was inside, second level, and on the hunt for Hazel.

Smoke billowed up into the night, obscuring her entrance, and she opened the unlocked doors and ran into the master suite.

She braced herself to find Rigger inside, but the doors hung open, so she ran past the massive king bed, under hanging lights that looked like a cascade of tiny pebbles, and then stopped and edged out into the hall.

Shouting rose from below. Whatever had exploded had caught a sofa on fire, then some kind of fancy wall covering, and smoke blurred everything.

She’d seen Hazel on the second story, east side, and now ran down the hall, slamming open doors.

A kid’s room with a television the size of her car and a wall of Legos on display. She ran through a Jack and Jill bathroom to a similar bedroom, then out and down the hall to the next room. Bathroom—Hazel would love that tub—and then to the final room.

An office. But a Murphy bed had been pulled out, and crayons lay on the surface of the bed, and then?—

Hazel’s locket. It lay broken on the floor. Tillie scooped it up. “Hazel!” She didn’t want to shout, but— aw , “Hazel. It’s Mom!”

Smoke crept up the upper floors. The entire house wasn’t burning yet, but certainly, these open-concept homes filled with smoke fast.

Hiding them.

Maybe this was God, on their side, just like Moose had said.

“Hazel—” She opened the closet—nothing. Then looked again in the bathroom.

Please let Hazel have evacuated. Tillie ran to the end of the house and looked down.

Street light brightened the entire yard, and in the distance, red lights evidenced help on the way, sirens pealing down a nearby street.

In the middle of it all, shouting, holding one of his sons, stood Rigger, his white shirt grimy, pointing at the house.

She also spotted Courtney and their other son, which meant?—

She ran back to the room. “Hazel! I know you’re here.”

And then she spotted Hazel’s pink cowboy boots, poking out from under the curtain.

She pulled it back, and Hazel stood there, her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide.

Then, “Mommy!” She launched into Tillie’s arms, her skinny arms encasing Tillie’s neck, her legs around her waist, and Tillie scooped her up, pulling her tight, breathing her in. Hazel felt so small and broken and . . . “I’m sorry, Hazelnut. I’m so sorry.”

“I was so scared, and then that man—he makes me call him Daddy.” Hazel leaned back. “I hate him. He’s so mean, and—please, he’s not my daddy, right?”

Oh, Hazel . “Let’s get out of here.” Tillie turned and headed for the door, out into the hallway.

And that’s when she heard Rigger shout. How he’d gotten to the second-story master, she couldn’t guess—except, he’d taught her some of those parkour skills, so?—

He came running down the hallway, swearing at her, and she took off toward the stairs to the third story. She put Hazel down at the steps and grabbed her hand. “Run!”

No railing, just a set of steps, and it led to more bedrooms and another jutting deck. She ran out to the deck, refusing to look behind her, and hit the railing made of glass.

Three stories down, smoke obscuring the landing.

If she were alone, she’d chance it. But even if Hazel held on, the jar of their landing would throw her off.

The pool might cushion them, but again, Hazel. And she couldn’t really see the pool anyway.

She looked up. The roof .

“C’mere, Hazel. Put your foot here.” She held out her folded hands.

“Mom—”

“Do it!”

Hazel put her foot in Tillie’s hands. “I’m scared!” She put her hands on Tillie’s shoulders.

“I know. But have faith. It’s going to be okay. I promise.”

She met Hazel’s eyes.

“‘Tillie will call on me, and I will answer her, I will be with her in trouble.’”

“God, help me!” She hoisted Hazel up, nearly catapulting her onto the roof. Hazel clung to the edge, kicking. Tillie grabbed at Hazel’s feet, pushing. “Pull yourself up!”

The tackle hit Tillie without defense, middle body, slamming her against the glass wall railing of the deck. She hit so hard she lay there gasping, everything burning, trying to clear her head.

Through the haze, she saw Rigger grab Hazel’s foot and yank her to the deck. She fell and cried out, and Tillie rounded to her feet.

Then Tillie threw herself at Rigger. Turned her right hand flat and slid her arm under his jaw. She caught his left bicep, grabbed it, and slid her left hand behind his head, pushing it forward. Then she clamped her legs around his waist, squeezed, and reared back.

He fell—probably on purpose—and she hit the deck so hard she nearly lost her breath again, but she had enough in her to shout, “Run, Hazel!”

Rigger tried to headbutt Tillie. She flexed hard, pulling her shoulders back, fighting for a blood choke, but he slammed his head back again and again and made a pocket under her arm.

Then he grabbed her hand, brought it over his head and rolled.

“You should have locked your hand on your shoulder.”

She scrambled back, kicking at him, but he got her foot, pulled her close.

“Always running away from me.”

She kicked him in the face, and it loosened his hold.

She jerked free, scrambled up. And that’s when she realized Hazel hadn’t run. She stood, screaming.

“Hazel, run! ”

Then Tillie rounded to face Rigger.

He charged her. She rolled away, then brought her hand down on his neck, a slice that rattled her to her bones.

He barely flinched. “Really?”

Then he backed up. And maybe he didn’t see Hazel behind him, or maybe he knew, but the force of it knocked her against the railing, and she cried out.

“Hazel!”

Rigger turned, and her little girl kicked at him.

“Hazel, no!”

Rigger caught her leg and pushed it over, and just like that, she went over the glass wall.

Tillie froze. What— “Hazel!”

Rigger’s fist caught her full-on as she ran to the edge. She spun and landed on the deck with the force of a fallen tree, head spinning.

Hazel was still screaming. “Mom!” And when she looked up, Hazel hung from the edge. “Mom!”

Tillie struggled up, lunged for her—“Hazel!”

And then Hazel fell.

Her scream lit up the night, heat flaring through Tillie’s body as the horror seared through her. “ Hazel! ”

She ran for the edge, but Rigger grabbed her, pulled her back, his arm around her neck, going for the hold.

But she dropped, rolled, kneed him, and then rolled again, and from her knees, threw everything she had into a palm blow to his jaw.

He reeled back. Fell.

She hit her feet. Ran to the edge of the deck. But the night and the smoke obscured her daughter’s body below. Just water now, hazing over the building, and shouts from the deck?—

And then from behind her, Rigger, coming back to life.

She turned around. “You killed your daughter.”

He laughed. “She’s not my daughter. She was never my daughter. I don’t know who your sister slept with, but she came to me knocked up.” Blood gushed from his nose, and he put a hand to it, then shook it away and smiled at her. “Tried to make me think the girl was mine. I’m not that stupid.”

Then he swore at her, a litany of vile words that knotted Tillie up and brought her back to a day when her only thought had been murder.

See, this was why she was unredeemable. Because on the inside, she didn’t have faith. She just had herself.

Remember your training.

The words shook through her.

Stay calm.

She ducked, rounded away, and his punch missed her.

Stay on your feet.

He dove for her, but she sent up a knee and pulled him down, and pain flared as it connected with his chin.

He pushed her, but she scrambled back.

Watch the body language.

He backed up, jarred, a bull, his neck thickening, his breaths hard. “I knew I’d find you. You can’t escape me.” He stepped back, and she glanced behind her. He was going to rush her, send her over too. “You belong to me.”

And right then she got it. This wasn’t just about Pearl or Hazel . . . maybe even her father. It was about her. And Rigger wanting control of it all. Her heart. Her thoughts. Her soul .

“No, I don’t. I don’t belong to you.”

Know your escape routes.

“You do, Steelrose. You know you’ll never escape me.” He leaned toward her, his voice low.

She could go over the edge, but without seeing the bottom, she’d hurt herself landing.

She could go up, to the roof?—

Weapon . She needed a weapon. A side table sat beside a lounge chair, and she edged toward it, picking it up. “ You’re the one who won’t escape me, Rigger. The police know about Matthew. They know you killed him.”

He slammed the lounger away, then grabbed the table legs and jerked.

She let it go. He fell off-balance, stepped back, and she leaped for the edge of the roof.

She pulled herself up, fighting, kicking, nearly there?—

Rigger grabbed her leg. “You—” And there went the words again. She kicked at him, he ducked and then jerked.

She slammed onto the deck, the force of it jarring every bone, and this time, taking her breath with it.

Rigger stood over her, blood dripping off his chin, his lip split, and reached for her.

She lay helpless, still gasping like a fish, and could do nothing but close her eyes.

Clearly, this was the end. And she was more hurt than she thought, because all she had was a voice deep inside. “‘She will call on me, and I will answer her. I will be with her in trouble. . . .’”

Her escape route.

Please—God! Please, rescue me ? —!

Scuffling and a smack, and then voices around her, and she opened her eyes to see police—probably police, because they wore tactical vests and gear, boots and helmets—and one of them had Rigger on the ground, his hand in a submission hold.

A man knelt beside her. “You okay?”

She blinked at him, tried to push herself up, her breath finally back, then rolled and ran to the edge of the railing. “Hazel!”

She rounded, and the man stood in front of her. “I gotta?—”

“She’s okay.”

He wore a helmet, a glass visor, and full tactical gear but . . . those eyes.

Those blue eyes.

And the dark skim of whiskers, and the way he suddenly, markedly swallowed, and . . .

“Tillie.”

She stepped back, her hand on the glass wall. Breathed hard. Shook her head. No . . . What?

He pushed up his visor, then pulled off his helmet. Short dark hair, wide shoulders?—

“Dad?” Her voice emerged broken, a whisper. “ Dad? ”

He barely nodded before she was in his arms, hers tight around his neck, so tight she might be cutting off his breath. His embrace pressed her into his hard-plated vest, but she didn’t care.

And then she wept.

He might have wept too, because his body shook as he held her. Someone cuffed Rigger and hauled him away through the smoke and fire and?—

Wait . She pushed away, breathing hard, her face a mess. “Hazel.”

“The little girl? Someone caught her.”

She blinked at him. “What?”

“Someone caught her. I saw it as we came over the wall—he was just there. A guy, a big guy. I don’t know how he knew, but . . . he was there and he just grabbed her. She’s okay, Tillie.”

She’s okay .

She’s okay.

And with his words, big guy all she could think was. . .Moose?

Somehow, she was nodding, and he put his arm around her. “Let’s get a corpsman up here?—”

“No more corpsmen, boss. Just the EMTs,” said one of the men, and then her dad laughed.

And it was like a promise kept, pouring into her soul, bringing life and light and more than she ever imagined.

And just like that, she was free.

Free of Rigger. Free of running. Free of fear.

Free to believe.

Her father seemed about a thousand times larger than she remembered him. Or maybe that was simply her heart exploding her vision. “I don’t get it. What are you doing here?”

“We’ve been watching Richer and his gym, waiting for a shipment. A couple days ago we got word that he’d brought home a little girl. We thought he’d expanded into human trafficking and were trying to decide when to move. Today he received a shipment of nearly four hundred thousand packets of individually packaged fentanyl disguised as protein powder.”

“You came to arrest him?”

“Yes. The smoke was from flash bombs. Courtney knew and was on her way out with the kids, but ops never go quite as planned. One of the flash bombs caught fire.”

Right .

“We went after the yacht, secured the dealers aboard, and then came back for Richer. I couldn’t believe it when I saw him brawling with a woman. It took a couple more seconds to figure out . . . I mean . . . what are you doing here? Of all places . . .” He shook his head.

“The girl he brought home—that’s Hazel. She’s your granddaughter.”

He blinked at her. Swallowed. “My . . . my granddaughter?”

“Yeah. Actually, she’s Pearl’s daughter.”

He frowned. “Is Pearl okay?”

Oh, Dad . “She’s . . . gone. Cancer. Three years ago. I was with her.”

He drew in a breath, nodded, but his mouth tightened and he looked away, his jaw pulling. When he turned back to her his eyes were wet. “I tried to find you.”

“I know. Or at least, I figured that’s why you came to Florida.”

“I was discharged, and I found out that you’d become a marine.” He shook his head. “Seriously?”

“Semper Fi.”

“Your whereabouts were top secret, but your foster mom knew you’d gone to Florida, so I went looking, first in Tampa, then Miami, but I couldn’t find you, so I fell back into what I did.”

“Did you know that Rigger was trying to find me?”

He shook his head.

“My friends think he was trying to use me against you. Revenge for killing his brother.”

Her father’s eyes narrowed.

An EMT had come up the stairs. “Listen, I need to find Hazel.” She held up her hand to the EMT. “I’ve had worse.” Then she pushed past them, through the room and down the stairs, still intact, and through the front door.

Outside, smoke still cluttered the air. So many people—firemen spraying water on the house, and two ambulances and cops and . . .

And not a sighting of Moose. Moose wasn’t here.

Instead, she just wished it with all her heart.

“Mom!”

The voice cut through the clutter. She turned and spotted Hazel, pushing through the crowd, a blanket falling off her shoulders as she ran to Tillie.

Tillie fell to her knees, opened her arms, and Hazel ran in, nearly bowling her over, and again, she wept.

“Hazel—I thought . . . ” She buried her face in her daughter’s shoulder.

“Mom, you’re squeezing too hard.”

“Sorry, Nut.” She let go. Looked her up and down. “Are you okay? Did you get hurt?”

“He caught me, Mom.”

She nodded, looking around. “A fireman?”

“No. Superman.”

She looked back at Hazel, the nickname rooting her.

Moose.

“Right place, right time.”

She looked up, and there he stood, as if he’d emerged from the smoke and haze exactly like Superman to stand there, magnificent and strong, smiling down at her, so much in his beautiful gray-green eyes that . . .

“I didn’t mean it.” She pushed to her feet. “I didn’t mean it—I mean, I wanted to mean it—my brain said I should mean it, but . . . I didn’t mean it.”

He stepped up to her, cupped her face with his hand. “That’s okay. I didn’t really believe you anyway.” He frowned, then, “You’re hurt.”

She kissed him—hard, her arms around his neck, pulling him against her, kissing him because he was her hero but also her friend, and the man who kept his promises. Moose .

He put his arms around her, held her, kissed her back—not as urgently, but that was good and safe and right in front of all these people and her daughter.

Her daughter. In her heart, for sure, and maybe, after all this was sorted, legally too.

And maybe she’d never know who Hazel’s father was, but really, it didn’t matter.

Especially when Moose lifted his head and met her eyes. “I love you, Tillie. And I don’t care what you say or what you do or how angry you get at me, I’m not leaving you.”

“Promise?”

He laughed. “Nope. You’ll just have to trust me.”