Page 67 of Better to See You
“No, they passed away years ago. Her mom had cancer, and her dad died of a stroke a few years later.”
Alex’s hair falls free. I should stop touching her. But the deck is dark. Jack turned off all the outside lights and drew down the shades, lest any photographer have a telephoto lens. It’s just the two of us outside on the deck.
The muscles along her neck and shoulders are tight. I knead the tight cords with my thumbs, eliciting a moan. She raises up, off the balcony, and I close the distance between us, holding her close against me. The curves of her ass tease my groin. One arm wraps around her, below her soft breasts. The other holds her hips. Her back to my front. Close enough her heartbeat reverberates through me. I brush my lips across her temple.
“If someone comes out, they’ll see us,” she says, but she doesn’t pull away. I don’t lift my arms. If anything, I hold her tighter.
The moonlight reflects over the ocean. A dark form passes on the beach near where the ocean laps on the sand. Golden lights flicker in homes all along the curve of the coastline. There’s a peacefulness to this paradise. A peace that has stood in direct contrast to current events. A dichotomy that is impossible to ignore. And this woman in my arms offers a comfort from the disjointed scenery.
Her hands cover mine, the back of her head against my shoulder, resting in the crook of my neck.
“When we’re done with this case, I still want to date you.”
“Is that what we’re doing?” I don’t miss the humor in her tone.
I could tell her I hope so. Or I think so. Or something soft and unassuming. But I have no desire to give her an out. “Yes.” It’s all I say and leave it at that.
Heavy footfalls approach from behind us. The swoosh of the automatic sliding door has her pushing away. I let my arms fall to my side.
One of the FBI agents addresses us. “A phone call came in. We have an address. It’s about an hour away. Teams are loading up now.”
I drive Jack’s Range Rover closely behind Agent Ryland’s sedan. Jack sits in the passenger seat beside me. He’s still, but easy to read. He’s both exhausted and desperate. There’s a thin veil of control binding him together. Alex sits in the back seat. From time to time, she texts on her phone. Her left knee rises and falls, tapping much the way it did on our first helicopter ride to San Diego. Her hair is bound up once again in a complicated twist.
Temecula is about an hour outside of San Diego. The FBI agent riding in the back seat with Alex gets updates along the way. A team of agents have arrived and are scouting the area. The address the caller provided is off Temecula Parkway on Anza Road. Google Maps shows the address provided is an abandoned storage facility.
The agents call in to say the fence around the facility has been damaged. The area is overgrown, but there are fresh tracks along the dusty dirt and gravel path.
Five minutes after the update call, we park behind a couple of other vehicles about half a mile from the address. The FBI has contacted the local police department. Two police cars are parked across the road with blue and red lights flashing.
Agent Ryland gets out and approaches them. A minute later, the flashing lights are turned off. The call came in from a man who chose to remain anonymous. If we find Sophia, they provided him a number to call to claim his reward money.
Whether or not any charges are levied against him remains to be seen. That piece of the operation isn’t a piece I particularly care about. My only concern is locating Sophia and getting my friend’s daughter home safely.
“The SWAT team is going to approach from the back. There’s always a risk this is a setup. You all stay here.”
Agent Ryland’s command is firm, and he charges off with the two police officers following him.
“You’ve got better skills than any of those agents.” I glance back to my friend. The corner of his lip lifts. He’s going through hell, and he’s trying to make me feel better.
“This is their show. They’ve got a wealth of information they haven’t shared with us. Perfectly happy to hang back and keep you safe.”
“You think these bastards might come after me?”
“You never know. We’ve got a wild card.”
In any mission, there are unknown variables. Risks. In this situation, a man called in a tip. He didn’t provide information for payment, but he did ensure he had a way of claiming his reward. We sit in the car beneath a cloudy night sky, waiting.
Agent Ryland didn’t leave us with a way of monitoring the SWAT team progress. I have my phone on the dash, ready and waiting for a call. Jack lays his head down on the dash. His hands come up below his face. He looks like he might be praying. I happen to know Jack isn’t a particularly religious man, but there’s not a person on the planet who won’t pray to a higher power when faced with no other options.
“I can’t sit here. I’m going to go.” Jack’s hand rests on the door handle.
“You go, and you run the risk of alerting them. You go, and you run the risk of the FBI mistaking us for one of them. It sucks. But wait. It’s the smartest play. Let the experts do their job.”
I catch Alex’s eyes from the back seat. She blinks her agreement. Sitting and waiting is torturous. It’s hard to fucking do. But, in this scenario, it’s the best play.
Forty-five minutes pass in silence. It’s not the time for small talk. I have the window down so I can hear any footsteps. Every few minutes, I get out and circle the vehicle. A couple of cars whiz by. Each time, my hand falls on my gun at my waist.
The phone lights up with a shrill ring.