Page 75 of The Gift
“What about his notes?” she asked. “He was always scribbling in a spiral notebook.”
“No notebooks were found, either,” O’Reilly replied.
“That’s how they knew about Erica,” Coop said.
“Which means our problem is a lot bigger than one thug with a gun.”
Coop glanced over at her. She’d gone pale but wasn’t falling apart.
O’Reilly’s voice came again, quieter. “Not to pile on, but the captain’s pissed. He’s already been on the phone with the FBI. They’re sending a team in the morning.”
That meant paperwork, protocols, and too many hands reaching for control. Erica would become another case to handle rather than a woman to protect. And he could get boxed out entirely.
“When the feds show up, they’ll have opinions,” O’Reilly said. “About you. About me. About…” He didn’t finish, and the pause was jarring.
Coop took her hand again. This time, she held on like a lifeline.
“You good?” O’Reilly asked, less Ranger and more friend.
“No. But we’re functional.”
“We’ll figure it out. We always do.”
“Yeah,” he said, not as convinced as his partner, then ended the call.
Except for the hum of the engine, nothing penetrated the quiet. She continued to grip his hand, staring out the windshield like she could make the chaos disappear.
Coop drove on autopilot, his mind racing. It was ten minutes to his place, seven to the station. He could put her to bed and lock the place down, but he loathed leaving her. If he didn’t, he’d lose his one shot at Kedrov before the FBI took over. It infuriated him that these were his only choices.
Her voice broke through, offering him another. “You said he’s the key. Let me see what else he can give me.”
He looked at her then, really looked. When they first met, he thought she was flighty, fragile, but she held herself together by sheer force of will. He’d been walking that same line all night. But with her suggestion, it started to crumble.
“No.”
“Vince—”
“You’ve done enough.”
“He said Kedrov wanted to meet me.” She leaned toward him with rising urgency. “He knows who I am, Vince. I’m not safe unless you get to him.”
She was right. And time was slipping through his fingers. He weighed the risk, the cost, the necessity.
“You’re sure about this?” he asked.
“No,” she admitted, turning toward the window again. “But I can’t live my life looking over my shoulder for Kedrov.” She paused then looked at him. “I’m not running again. Not when my life is finally going in the right direction.”
His, too, which was why it killed him to take this risk.
He didn’t answer immediately. If she was doing this, he needed her to understand there were limits.
“You get one shot,” he said firmly. “You get what you can, then you’re done. You do not push past your limit. You hear me?”
From the corner of his eye, he saw her head turn his way. “I hear you,” she repeated.
“And you don’t do anything I don’t agree to,” he added, voice razor-sharp. “If I say stop, you stop.”
“Okay.”
