Page 46 of Shadows Relived
The quiet made her uneasy.
She thought of her father: the games he played, the promises he made only when it suited him. The deals he struck behind the scenes.
And then she thought of Callen, still bleeding, still fighting.
He stirred then, eyes fluttering open, groggy but aware. “You’re awake again? You should get some rest while you can. Elvis and Gage will be here any minute.”
She gave a slow bob of her head. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Callen groaned softly as he shifted to sit up. “You okay? You got that look about you.”
“I’m not the one with a bullet hole.”
He waved off her concern. “Just a scratch,” he muttered, voice gravelly.
She rolled her eyes. “You really have a high pain threshold or just a low survival instinct? A weekend with three five-year-olds and getting shot.”
He grinned, slow and lazy. “Guess which one hurt the most.”
The headlights came first, two soft beams cutting across the cheap curtains like a whisper against the dark. Meaghan stilled, breath catching as the light moved, then paused just outside her room. Every nerve in her body screamed alert.
“They’re here,” she whispered, moving toward the window.
“Back up,” Callen said, his voice low but firm as he pushed the thin blanket aside and sat up, grimacing. “Let me check.”
Despite the stiffness in his body and the half-healed wound pulling at his side, he was already on his feet, crossing the floor with silent efficiency. He didn’t reach for a weapon, but the tension in his frame said he was ready to act if it wasn’t who they expected.
Then, his phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Callen snatched it up and glanced at the screen before answering. “Elvis.”
“Don’t shoot,” Elvis said in that laid-back drawl. “It’s just your favorite crooner and the world’s most patient ride-along.”
“He’s full of shit,” he heard Gage say in the background. “He can’t sing, and he’s far frompatient.”
Callen chuckled. “I suppose that’s you knuckleheads outside?”
“Coming up now,” Elvis confirmed. “Give us ten seconds and open the door.”
Callen hung up and looked at Meaghan, who stood frozen near the table. “It’s them,” he told her. “We’re good.”
The knock came low and steady, just two soft raps against the door. He motioned for her to open it, and as soon as she did, two figures stepped into the dim porch light. The first was a tall man with a square jaw and thick chest, dressed in jeans and a GSI T-shirt, his dark blond hair tousled from the drive. The other, leaner but just as imposing, scanned the parking lot with practiced ease.
“Well, well,” the tall one drawled. “You two look like you’ve been through Memphis in a hurricane.”
Callen returned to the bed, cracking a dry smile. “You should see the other guy.”
The tall one chuckled, bobbing his head. “I can imagine. Abbie said she patched you up good. You holding on all right?”
Callen nodded. “Nothing a fifth of whiskey and a weekend’s worth of sleep won’t cure. I didn’t expect you for about another fifteen.”
A wide grin spread across Elvis’s face. “Time means nothing when you’re looking for love, baby.”
She stared around the room at the three men, confusion pinching her brow. She hadn’t known what to expect, but it wasn’t this. Not men like the two who had entered her room, whose banter filled it like warmwhiskey and half-forgotten rock lyrics. She’d expected operatives. Cold, calculated professionals.
Not… this camaraderie.
“You must be Meaghan,” the more silent of the two men said as he stepped forward and nodded. “I’m Gage, and this blabbermouth is Elvis.”
