Page 10 of Ford

Scarlett stayed on the porch long after they left, watching the dust settle on the road.

She finally walked inside to grab her gear, taking one more pass by Gunnar’s room.

The baseball was still lodged in the wall. She walked in, pried it out, and carried it out to her car with her duffel bag.

She set the baseball in the console between the seats.

So much for grace. Apparently, Axel wasn’t the only one who’d struck out.

She picked up her phone, considered her contacts for a long moment, then she pressedSendover Ford’s number.

Stupid, silly, desperate, and frankly, she didn’t know why she was calling him.

Maybe she just needed to hear his voice, help her figure this out.

Once upon a time, she had his back.

And he had hers.

No man left behind.

The call rang and rang and rang, finally dumping over into voicemail.

Apparently, that team motto no longer applied to her.

Still, she stayed on after the beep, hoping she might find words. But the air in her chest was leaving her, and she couldn’t seem to catch her breath.

She hung up. Put her hand to her chest to feel her heart hard against it.

When you’ve figured out exactly how you’ll give Gunnar a stable home environment, then we’ll review your case.

Stable.

Home.

She hadn’t a clue how to give him something she’d never had herself.

Scarlett put her car into drive and headed south, the sun falling behind her, leaving a trail of bruises against the sky.

2

Please, God, don’t let her die.

Ford leaned over the little girl—what was her name?—her pink-gray body shuddering with each forced breath. “C’mon, honey, breathe for me.”

Please.Please!

He breathed again, then began compressions.

He didn’t know how long she’d been under, really, because he didn’t know how long he’d been out after his stupid, impulsive dive through the window. He just knew that he’d hit the surf so hard it jarred her free of his grip.

He wasn’t sure he’d actually blacked out—if he had, he might have found himself at the bottom, his gear pulling him down like lead weights. But the entire sequence from the moment he launched them through the window, including the propulsion of the grenade to the slam against the water, seemed gray and mottled in his memory.

The waves had grabbed him, smashing him into the jagged cliffside, against boulders with knife-sharp edges, and he’d banged his head, cut himself. He knew that much because the world still slurried around him and blood ran down his face. His chest burned with every ragged breath, the bruises from the bullets that had hit his armor aching to the bone.

But nothing hurt as much as the little girl’s still form as he pumped her chest.

Ten—eleven—twelve—thirteen.