Chapter 30

30

QUILLON

I 'd been determined to stay up while York was missing, but a few hours later—it was three in the morning—I'd had to give up and surrender to my body's desperate need for sleep. Someone had put out a sleeping bag and an air mattress for me so I didn't have to leave the command center. As soon as my head hit the pillow, I fell asleep.

When I woke up, Coulson had arrived. Once again, I was impressed with how he ran his team. He was focused, demanding the very best from his agents while still being kind and considerate. A rare combination. He'd informed everyone I should be read in on all details, so I was in the loop whenever updates came in.

"The big question is if we put out an international alert," Coulson said to everyone in the room. "I'd like to hear your thoughts."

"It increases the chance of getting leads on his location," Dalia said. "If the public is looking for him, we may get tips that could help us find him."

"It also puts pressure on the terrorists," another agent said. "What if they feel things are getting too risky? They may end up killing him."

He shot me an apologetic look. I swallowed. "Please don't take my or anyone else's feelings into account," I said hoarsely. "Discuss the case on the merits, not based on personal sensitivities."

Coulson sent me a warm look. "Agreed, but thanks for saying that."

"Did the terrorists count on getting caught?" a female agent asked. "Or did they really think they could pull this off and get away clean?"

That was an excellent question. "If they knew they'd get caught anyway, it won't make a difference whether everyone is searching for them or not," I said. "Though it may speed up their timeline."

The discussion continued, but in the end, Coulson concluded the benefits outweighed the risks and decided to alert the press. News vans descended upon Forestville, and Auden had his deputies control the traffic. Coulson had set up an FBI call center to process possible tips, and now all we could do was hope and pray someone had seen something.

Watching journalists do standups with the community center in the background was surreal, as was the endless footage they repeated of the site of the ambush—cordoned off and still being processed by the FBI—and the press conference with Coulson. He made a brief but thorough statement, then patiently answered questions. When York's photo appeared on the screen, my throat tightened, and I had to look away.

In the meantime, the FBI worked with the leads they had, but tracking each one down took time. Their forensic investigators processed the scene of the ambush, and a few hours later, they knew what explosives had been used. Other agents analyzed footage from traffic cams to track the blue van and the route it had taken. Seattle PD worked closely with the FBI to investigate the theft of both vans in the hopes of finding more clues. Other FBI agents—with the help of local law enforcement—talked to residents of Halford and other towns on the route for any witness reports, and slowly but surely, more details emerged.

And then the public tips came in, hundreds of them. Most were useless, but agents still tracked them down, especially if the tipsters were anywhere near Seattle.

The process was slow and tedious.

My only consolation was that the terrorist needed York alive, so that should buy him—and us—some time. But what would they do once he'd shared his knowledge with them? They wouldn't let him go, would they? That seemed unlikely.

I'd rarely felt this powerless, and I hated it. I wanted to search for him, do something, do anything, but I couldn't. I had to sit back and let the pros handle it. But Jesus, the waiting sucked.

By the end of the afternoon, the FBI had solid leads but no definitive trace of York. Based on a report of several witnesses and traffic cam footage of the blue van near the port of Seattle, they suspected he'd been taken onto a boat. Both the US Coast Guard and the Canadian Coast Guard had been alerted, and the FBI was working to narrow down which ship York was or had been on.

Everything became a daze, as if I was stuck in a bad dream. People gave me food, and I ate it because I had to, not because I was hungry. I took naps in between, with Auden promising to wake me if there was any news. The concussion had hit me harder than I'd thought, and all I could do was wait.

But when twenty-four hours passed and York was still missing, my chest constricted, bordering on pain. I missed him so badly, and I was so, so worried about him. Were they treating him well? Was he getting food? Or were they torturing him for information? How long would he be able to hold out?

To my surprise, I slept. My body's need for rest was powerful enough to override my worries.

"We suspect he's in Canada," Coulson told me the next morning. "We've identified the ship he was on, and we have witnesses who confirmed a crate being loaded onto a van. We're getting close, Quillon, I promise."

The tips kept pouring in, and with every bit of information, we found another piece of the puzzle. The Canadian Security Intelligence Service—their version of the FBI—had been notified, as well as the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. At least we didn't suffer from any language barrier, and the Canadians vowed to do whatever they could to find York.

I was about to lie down for another nap when Coulson let out a shout. "We've found him!"

I jerked my head up and winced. "What?"

"We've found him," Coulson called, and the room grew quiet. "Or I should say, he found us. He escaped. He's fine."

"He's okay?" I couldn't believe my ears.

"He is, and he's in good spirits, the Canadians reported. He's in police custody in Hazelton, a tiny municipality in British Columbia."

My relief was overwhelming, and a sob escaped me. "Thank Jesus." Then it hit me. "He escaped?"

Coulson grinned widely. "According to what he told the police, he built a bomb and blew the place up."

"A bomb?" Auden asked. "How?"

"Fertilizer and fuel. We'll have to get the details from Dr. Coombe himself."

Auden slowly shook his head. "Leave it to York to MacGyver his way out. Your man is something else, Quillon."

My man. I had to swallow before I could answer him. "He sure is. And I'll tell him that every day for the rest of his life."

And then I broke down sobbing, only stopping long enough to say yes when asked if I wanted to fly in with the FBI to retrieve him. My eyes were still puffy and gritty when we landed. A car was waiting for us, and within fifteen minutes, we pulled up to a tiny police station and got out. I bounced on my feet. Coulson must've understood because he stepped aside and winked. "He's all yours for the first minute."

I walked into the room. He sat in a chair, his back toward me. "York…"

He spun around so quickly the chair toppled over, but then he was in my arms, his cheek pressed against mine. "My nerdy…" I whispered. "Thank god you're safe."

"All I could think about was you," York said softly. "How much you'd miss me and how pissed off you'd be with yourself over losing me. But it wasn't your fault." He leaned back, his brown eyes so full of love it took my breath away.

I kissed him hard. "I won't let you out of my sight again. Ever."

His lips curled up in a smile. "Is that a threat or a promise? Because I can live with that…"

"That's good, but I wasn't asking. I'm telling you, okay? It's you and me, nerdy. Forever."

"Like I said, I can live with that…"

He needed to be debriefed, of course, but I stayed by his side, holding his hand as he recounted everything that had happened. The man had built a bomb out of fertilizer and diesel fuel, then ignited it by using the sun, for fuck's sake. How many people would've thought of that?

The Canadians had arrested the terrorists. One of them had died as a result of the explosion. "Did you share any of the technology with them?" Coulson asked. "Because we don't know yet if they communicated with other members of the cell about what they learned from you."

York grinned. "Unless those people are interested in a math lesson, they won't know anything. I told Igor, the guy who interrogated me, that I was happy to explain it all but that I'd need to start at the beginning. And so I gave him a masterclass in controls engineering. I just never got to the specifics."

This man. Jesus, I was so in awe of him. Most people would've crumbled under the stress, but not York. He'd kept his head cool and had engineered his way out.

The FBI flew us back to Seattle and escorted us back home, where the press awaited. Coulson had prepared York for that, and he'd said he was willing to give a brief statement and answer some questions to satisfy them. Which meant I had to let go of his hand for a while, and I didn't like that one bit.

"Were you treated well, Dr. York?" a reporter asked.

"As well as one can expect when you're kidnapped. I had food and water and a safe place to sleep. The company could've been better, and the entertainment options were limited."

That earned him a round of laughs.

"According to the statement, you created an explosion. What can you tell us about that?" another journalist asked.

"That you should pay attention in chemistry and physics class."

More laughter.

"What was your strategy during interrogation?"

"To appear as if I was willing to share everything while at the same time not saying anything, which is not my usual style. In other words, my plan was to bore them to death by teaching math."

His dry humor was a hit with the reporters, who gobbled it all up. But then a serious question came. "Three FBI agents have died as a result of the ambush that was set to kidnap you. How does that make you feel?"

York's face grew tight. "Eternally grateful they put their lives on the line for our country and me. Make no mistake, if the technology I developed had fallen into the wrong hands, the security and safety of this country and those fighting for our freedom would have been severely compromised. They paid a high price, and we should honor their sacrifices. I will never forget what they did for me."

By the time we were back in our house, it was almost midnight, and we were exhausted. Still, we showered together, needing that quiet time between us. York tenderly touched the wound on my forehead. "I was so worried about you. I hadn't seen what happened to you."

"They knocked me out, then dragged me out of the car and threw me into a ditch. I'm fine. Just a concussion."

His shoulders sagged. "So we can't…"

I chuckled. "Have sex? Nerdy, I'd have to be dead not to have sex with you."

His casual words sank in, and with it, the deep realization of how close we'd been to death. Both of us. I leaned my forehead against York's. "It's over now, nerdy. You're safe."

"It'll take a while for that to settle."

I kissed him softly. "I know."

I dried him off carefully, and he returned the favor as if we both needed the confirmation that this was real, that we were together again. "I love you so much," I whispered.

"Show me, Quill. Let me feel your love."

It would be my pleasure.