Page 71 of Blind Trust
A shimmer of emotion filled Lyla’s eyes again, and Nic’s heart hurt for her and the guilt she loaded onto herself. He swung his attention to Jack. “There has to be something we can do while we wait for Walsh. I agree with Lyla. We can’t afford to lose time if it means more people are going to be killed. Someone came after Lyla and—”
“And that’s exactly why I’m asking you to stand down.” Jack’s gaze landed hard on Nic. He exhaled and rubbed the side of his temple. “Look, I want the person who killed Genevieve and attacked the two of you to pay severely for what he did, but for now we sit on this until Walsh gives us the all clear to continue our investigation.”
Something in Jack’s tone didn’t sit well with Nic. Their team leader looked...rattled. Why? It took Nic back to his earlier reservations that maybe Jack knew more about what they’d uncovered—maybe knew it before they did.
“No.” Lyla put her hands on her hips. “Make me understand, Jack. We just got valuable information, timely information that we can’t sit on. R.D. took great risks to speak to me, and I’m not going to let any more leads die. I owe that to Genevieve.”
Jack raised his hands. “It’s above my pay grade.”
“Walsh, then?” Lyla pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes before she marched to her desk and grabbed her cell phone from her purse. Spinning on her heel, she faced them. “Excuse me, but I have a phone call to make.”
The three of them watched Lyla stalk into Walsh’s office and slam the door shut behind her.
Kekoa’s chair squeaked as he got up. “Um, I’m just gonna hide back in my lair, away from the shrapnel about to hit da roof. You guys call me when it’s safe.”
Nic heaved a sigh and looked at Jack. “How’s this going to turn out, man?”
Jack gave Nic a sympathetic look. “Walsh is in a secure meeting. Won’t answer her call. And even if he could, she’s not going to change his mind.”
There was an undercurrent of meaning, and Nic locked eyes with him. “This directive have something to do with the meetings you’ve been attending?”
Jack gave a nod.
Nic looked to where Lyla was pacing in Walsh’s office, her cell phone pressed to her ear. Her agitation was growing, and he knew she was a ticking time bomb. “When’s he supposed to be back?”
“A couple of hours.” Jack’s shoulders stiffened when the door to Walsh’s office opened. “Why?”
“Mind if I get her out of the office for a bit?”
“Brother, if you can defuse that situation before Walsh gets back, I’ll buy you a steak dinner.”
“He’s not answering,” Lyla fumed. “And. I. Could. Spit. Nails.”
Nic smiled at Lyla’s colloquialism. “Come on, Lyla, let’s find a place to spit those nails.”
24
Whatever frustration, anger, and annoyance were pulsing through Lyla fifteen minutes ago had been replaced with confusion, then curiosity, and now amusement.
Lyla stood in a commercial warehouse with walls covered in graffiti and stickers. Music played loudly over the speakers in an attempt, she believed, to cover the violent banging happening behind the corrugated metal wall separating the Make Rage, Not War front desk from the destructive but therapeutic rooms, where—according to one sign—“relief is just a sledgehammer away.”
“I can’t believe you brought me to a rage room.” Lyla zipped up the white coverall over her clothes. “I’ve always wanted to go to one. Did you know that?”
“I’ve heard you mention it a time or two.”
Lyla let that sink in, realizing Nicolás did listen to her. He wasn’t showy like she was in her emotional expression, but in his own way, these little gestures—like when he gave her the candle—proved he cared. And that sent her heart racing.
Or was that caused by the way Nicolás was filling out the hideous, bulky white coveralls they were required to wear over their own clothing? Unlike hers, his fit his form without any extra material ballooning in all the wrong places. “How come you don’t look like you’re about to clean up a chemical spill?”
Nicolás looked down at himself. “We look the same.”
“No, I look like an Oompa Loompa when they try to save MikeTeavee, and you look like one of those muscly guys the mob brings in to clean up a crime scene.”
The rage room employee, Rob, turned at that exact moment, his eyes widening a fraction as he walked over with two chest protectors. “The outfit is meant to keep you safe.” The handlebar mustache that gave him biker vibes bristled. “There are steel toe caps lined up by size, and there’s a welding helmet that you must wear at all times—even if it messes up your hair.”
Lyla narrowed her eyes on Rob before tucking her hair up into a bun. She grabbed a pair of ugly steel toe protectors and a helmet. “You know, people don’t come here because they’re having a good day.”
Rob eyed the wounds on her face. “I can see that.”
