Page 135 of Wyatt

His mother had woken and was now untangling herself from a blanket. Sarai glanced at her. “Why don’t you two get some breakfast in the cafeteria?”

“I could use some coffee,” his mother said. She had taken her scarf from her head and now fluffed her hair with her fingers, a brown cloud around her head. She looked at Wyatt. “Where’s Coco?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she went down for coffee.”

“Oh, she does love her coffee.”

Gerri went over to stand in front of the window. The sun was sliding over the outline of Mt. Rainier to the south, the sky a mottled orange and lemon. The buildings rose, a blue silver, some of the windows glinting orange. He came to stand beside her.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out. A text, from a number he didn’t recognize. He opened it.

What—?A chill flushed through him, and he must have made a sound, something like taking a punch because his mother turned to him. “What is it?”

Coco. Beat up, blood on her chin, her hair disheveled, wearing his Blue Ox jersey and…

He turned away from his mother, widening the picture, and nearly lost his breath. A vest, with what looked like explosives.

“Wyatt?”

“I…I gotta go…um…” He looked at her, and the concern on her face stripped him. But what could he say? “I’m going to go look for Coco. Get myself a cup of coffee. What do you want?”

“Just something black, heavy on the caffeine.”

“Yeah.” He picked up his jacket, glanced at Mikka. The little boy was sitting on his bed, his knees drawn up, staring out the window. The sun had gilded his face, picking up the tiniest flecks of red in his hair, and wouldn’t you know it, in this light, with this profile, he looked just like Coco.

Strong, stubborn Coco.

He walked over and kissed the top of his son’s head. Turned back to his mom. “Hey. I’m going to call Tate and see if he can…well, he might be sending someone over here to sit with you.”

She frowned. “Wyatt—”

“I gotta go, Ma.”

Then he left, striding down the hallway, his phone to his ear.

Tate picked up on the second ring. “What?”

Wyatt hit the stairwell, started down it, working out the kinks in his bones. “Coco is in trouble. I just got a text and…”

He had to stop on the landing, brace his hand on the railing. “I think Gustov has her. I got a picture of her wearing a suicide vest.”

Silence on the other end.

“Tate!”

“What? I’m trying to process. Coco’s not at the hospital with you?”

“No—I told you.” He blew out a breath and continued down the stairs. “When I got here last night, she wasn’t here. And I assumed she was down at the internet café. And then I fell asleep—jet lag and practice—and I woke up this morning and she wasn’t here. And now, I got this text and there’s a picture. Of her. And she’s…she’s hurt and—”

He hit the door and found himself outside.

The fresh air swept into him, filled with pine and the scent of the city and even a hint of the bakery down the street. He stopped, looking around, as if he might see her. “She has a bomb vest on.”

“Send me the picture,” Tate said.

“I need you here, now!” Wyatt stalked down the sidewalk into the parking lot.

“I can’t. The senator has her rally this morning. We’re on our way to the pier right now.”