Page 60 of Z For Butterfly Man
That was insensitive of me. I guess I really don’t know what it means to fall in love. I definitely don’t know what it means for a man as crude and tough as my boss to be in love. “I’m so sorry, sir. We’ll find her.”
He rests his hands on his hips. “Yeah. Yeah, I will. Take the antibiotics and get some rest. I’ll connect with Marcus to go over Ashford’s hidden assets and properties. He must be hiding her somewhere he owns. I’ll wake you in a few hours.”
I leave the table. “There’s no time to waste. You need every resource at your disposal. Just tell me where I’m needed.”
“You need to sleep it off, Brandon, or you won’t be any good to anyone.”
“But I’m okay, sir. I can—”
“Your dedication to go the extra mile to save a client that doesn’t even like you is admirable,” he cocks a brow at me, “but also questionable. What’s going on?”
“Other than a psycho murderer holding a principal captive?”
“She’s not your principal anymore.”
“The woman was kidnapped the second we left. If this was my mother or sister, I’d want someone to go the extra mile to save her. Besides, I’m a professional, sir. I’d never let my personal feelings interfere with the job. Mrs. Abel may never have liked me, but she trusted me with her safety, me of all the details inthe team, and I failed her. Once when the detective snuck into her bedroom on my watch, and today when I couldn’t stop him before he escaped. I need a chance to redeem myself.”
He squeezes my good shoulder. “And you will. For that to happen, you need to fucking rest. Go get some sleep, Brandon. That’s an order.”
“Yes, sir,” I sigh. “Wake me in a couple of hours, please?”
“You got it.”
I pass by the window bay where Mrs. Abel used to write and watch me as I worked outside, like I was a child she needed to shelter from the cold. Then I walk by her room, where Tristan and I tended to her when she almost died hitting her head in that nasty fall in the woods.
Another harsh memory flashes in my mind. The moment I pulled her out of the bathtub, barely breathing.
In the few weeks she was under our protection, Birdie Abel has been through a lot; she’s been assaulted, betrayed and has almost lost her life multiple times. Imagine how the rest of her life has been, when she had no one looking out for her, living with monsters who preyed on her.
Imagine the things she had to do to survive.
I feel for her. Her pain is so relatable it hurts. Everyone fights some kind of war. I know I’ve had my share, and yet hers seems the worst.
When sleep takes me, I dream of capturing her stalker. I dream of her being safe at last, in a place warm and sunny. I see her face with a smile that touches her eyes. Then I see a black hoodie and a godawful mask with a butterfly. I bolt upright, covered in sweat. Pain sharpens down my shoulder blade.
My gaze darts right and left. It’s dark. Too dark. How long have I slept? What time is it? Why didn’t Tristan wake me?
I splash some water on my face and put my gun in the back of my pants. The pain in my shoulder is a dull, yet persistent, throbnow, manageable if I don’t think about it. I leave my room and search for Tristan in the cabin. “Mr. Morra? Sir?”
No answer. He must be in the bunker.
The steps creak under my weight. It’s dark and quiet. “Mr. Morra? Are you here?”
Nothing.
The light at the bottom of the stairs flickers on its sensor as I reach the last step. The bunker stretches out ahead of me, low-ceilinged and smelling of concrete and dried salt air that seeps through the walls from the cove.
It’s different from how I left it, though. Cot still in the corner, made tight as a military bunk. Shelves lined with water, canned goods, a medical kit. Signal jammer sits in its cradle on the metal desk, its green charge light blinking in the dark. But that’s it. No satellite phone, no monitors—only one laptop with the screen open—and no guns.
Most importantly, no Tristan.
Where did he go? Where did all our gear and weapons go?
I can’t call him; there’s no reception within a 1.3-mile radius. The laptop displays the perimeter CCTV feed. Six screens, each cycling through the cabin’s interior and exterior cameras. I check the area outside. The tree line to the north. The gravel path leading down from the road. The back of the cabin where it faces the cove. I lean in closer to the screens. The woods are still. The path is empty. The beach is—
Click.
The mechanical sound of a door seal releasing pressure, followed by the whisper of hinges. I spin around, hand already on my weapon.
