In Plain Sight by Hope Anika
Chapter Twenty
You are still a selfish prick.
Those were not the words Max had hoped for.
He’d spent more time than he cared to admit imagining what might happen when he saw Thea again. Because although he’d been the one to walk away, he’d never doubted that they would meet again.
They were inevitable. Like the sun rising. Or gravity.
Even as he’d forged his own identity and existed a world away from her, he’d never stopped knowing that. Even as he’d found himself trying to drown his pain and need in another, she’d filled his dreams. The memory of her scent would wake him in the night, aching and hard and filled with self-loathing for having left her. She was right: he was a selfish prick. Because he’d never let her go.
And he never would.
Thea was part of him. Always had been, always would be. She’d seen his dark and angry soul and invited him in anyway. Her love had been warm and joyous and effervescent; without it, he’d become a shriveled husk of a man, hateful and callous and cold.
In stark contrast, she was still hauntingly beautiful, still proud and strong, and bathed in an intensity that stole his breath. She was everything he remembered—more—except for that icy reserve, which he didn’t like—not between us—even if he understood it. Another barrier he’d created; another wall he would have to tear down.
But he’d known it wouldn’t be easy. Fiona had been his first hurdle, and he was hopeful that he’d succeeded, even if it was tenuous and new, and easily broken. Only time and effort would change that. Consistency. Being family, for real, every day.
The thought of it sent something he couldn’t name surging through him. He suspected it might be happiness, but he was trying not to be too optimistic. Happiness was dangerous. Easily doused, hard to replace. And rare.
But maybe it was within reach.
Provided he could expose and nail Moss. Get Selena to testify. Put Leland Dolan in the pen (although Max preferred the ground). Figure out what the hell he was going to do about his currently FUBARed career. And what he was going to do with Selena when this was all done.
She wasn’t going into the foster care system, that was for damn sure.
The kid was only four years out from eighteen, and he’d never met a more self-possessed, intelligent, and mature fourteen-year-old. Even if she had dyed her hair green and pierced her nose.
Jesus.She looked like an entirely different person, which considering the circumstances, wasn’t a bad thing. She also looked five years older, which was. Every jerk on the midway had been checking her out.
God help him.
At least she’d accepted his apology. She’d also told him she was sorry for saying she hated him—which secretly relieved the hell out of him—and reassured him that she would listen to Rye, and she would listen to Fiona, and she would be very, very careful if he agreed to let her continue working in the wagon.
Not like he had a choice.He’d been completely outnumbered, and short of taking her with him back to Chicago, which was an idiotic idea, there wasn’t much he could do. He needed to get back to the city, and regardless of Lyssa’s order to “stay cool,” he needed to get back on the case.
There was no reason he couldn’t make it his life’s work to become Moss’s shadow and hang Leland Dolan from the highest tree. To find out who else was on big daddy Dolan’s payroll, and drag them out into the light. Force an ending to this cat and mouse bullshit, and take the reins.
For now, at least, Selena was in safe hands.
Rye hadn’t been pleased at being doubted, which had only served to remind Max why he’d called Rye in the first place. There was no doubt the man was invested; he’d ripped Max a new one in no short order, and since Max trusted Rye like he trusted no one else, he had little choice but to listen.
You need to talk to Fi, brother. You need to fix that shit. Today.
He hadn’t appreciated the push, but he was glad he’d listened.
The burner phone that sat beside him suddenly buzzed. He spared it a glance, looking away from the thick mass of traffic that snarled the freeway. The roads were clogged with early evening traffic, both lanes bumper to bumper as he headed south into Milwaukee. He’d left Green River half an hour earlier, and the light, steady rain he’d started out in had turned into a wind-driven, ugly torrent.
Bzzzz.Linus’ number flickered into view. Max picked it up and flipped it open. “Yeah?”
“Where are you?”
The kid’s voice was tight and high, and immediately Max tensed. “On the road. Why?”
“Lyssa Valentine was shot three hours ago.”
His stomach plummeted. “Is she dead?”
“Not yet. She took four rounds to the chest and died once in the ambulance; she’s in surgery now.”
“Goddamn it.”
Stay cool.
This was his fault. He should’ve put a stop to whatever the hell it was she thought she was doing; when she told him she was close, he should have shut her down. She was too young and too inexperienced and too soft to be playing with this kind of fire. He should’ve laid down the law; he should’ve forbidden her from digging any deeper—
She didn’t need your permission.
But she needed her superior’s permission, DHS’s permission, and they should have known better than to send her of all people into that rat-infested lion’s den—
“Goddamn it,” he said again.
Dread, and regret, and red hot fury erupted within him, a seething, churning mix that made sweat bead on his brow and his hands tighten around the steering wheel until it groaned.
I’m on it. I just need a little more time.
Shit, shit, shit. Shot. Four rounds. Even if she survived, she would never be the same.
“Max? You there?”
“I’m here,” he grated. “They get the shooter?”
“Far as I can tell, no. She was downtown, coming out of some Mexican joint on Lakeshore when she was hit. I’ve been monitoring comms, but nothing so far.”
Son of a bitch.
Had they been following her?
Did they know about The Schooner?
Was this about him, or was it about Lyssa’s investigation for DHS? Had she found something on Moss? Had she given herself away? Had she been tailed, or bugged, or somehow infiltrated?
Christ. No way to know; no one to ask. Unless she’d left him a message—
“Gotta go,” he said.
“Wait!” Linus cried. “Do you think that has to do with—”
“Yeah,” Max told him sharply. “I do. So keep your ass down, you hear me? And let me know anything you find out.”
“Shit. Shit.”
Max hung up, checked his mirror, and then cut across two lanes of traffic, sending the sedan skidding into the upcoming exit lane.
Horns blared behind him as he raced up the off-ramp; the rain flooded the road, so dense he could barely see through it. He ran the stop sign at the top of the ramp and turned into the Shell station that sat at the crux of the intersection, which was filled with sleeping semis and a bus full of tourists. He rocketed to a stop behind the station and dug out his Bureau phone, pulled the battery and chip from his front pocket, and inserted them into the phone. Then he checked his messages. Only one.
Lyssa.
They’re in my rearview. I’m sorry.
The urge to slam the phone against the dash and shatter it was almost irresistible. But that would accomplish nothing.
He couldn’t afford to waste time and energy being pissed off. Because if they’d been following her, they knew about the meeting at the Schooner, and if they were any good, they would have followed him, too.
All the way to Green River.
“Fuck!” he growled.
He hadn’t noticed a tail—and he’d been vigilant about watching for one—but that didn’t mean he hadn’t had one. That didn’t mean they hadn’t stayed far enough back and blended in well enough that he hadn’t seen them. The freeway was filled with vehicles; the midway was filled with people. Anyone could have been watching him the entire time, and he wouldn’t have had a clue.
It was highly likely they knew about the show.
About Fi; about Rye.
About Selena.
Terror slammed through him, black and heavy and ugly. He’d been to war; he knew fear. But he’d never felt anything like what flooded through him at the realization he might well have led the enemy right to Fi’s doorstep.
To Selena.
Fuck!
“Think,” he told himself harshly.
He needed to call Rye and warn him. And then haul ass back to Green River and pray he got there in time.
The gig was up.
He took the chip and battery back out of the phone and slid them into his pocket. Tossed the phone aside, pulled his Glock out of the glove compartment, and put it on the seat beside him.
Picked up his burner phone, dialed Rye.
And hit the gas.