Page 51 of No Hope of Rescue

In a second, the smell of sausage, bacon, eggs, and fire smoke wafts from Brock’s place. There’s also something sweet—maple syrup. Brock must have pulled food from the oven.

I can’t tell if I’m hungry or not. There’s acid in my mouth.

I lift the latch and step inside, pulling off my moccasins and hanging up the vest. It’s warm inside now, and the low murmur of Brock’s and Ross’s voices carry. My stomach rumbles, and despite everything going on, I decide I’m hungry. All momentum toward breakfast is lost, however, when I round the corner into the kitchen.

Half rising from the table is a man in a metallic blue suit. I glance back at the entryway for a moment. How did I miss the jaunty cap on the peg board? Or the city-tailored, wool coat hanging underneath? There’s even a pair of bright blue leather gloves stuffed into a sleeve. Very city.

The stranger smiles with a pair of flashing white teeth. His lowcut is trim, squared off above a high, intelligent forehead and a pair of warm brown eyes.

Brock stands in the middle of the kitchen, pancake turner in his hand. Ross is staring at his empty mug of coffee.

“I had to make a dozen more pancakes,” Brock says, the tension in the room palatable. “I have to get these up in just a second.” He points to the man and then points to me.

“Dylan Trent, this is Riley Delgado, my . . . business partner. Riley, this is Dylan Trent. He’s with the FBI.”

Dylan Trent half rises, and we shake hands slowly. Though his handshake is firm, he definitely doesn’t have the hands of an outdoorsman.

Settling back into his chair, he sweeps a hand over the table. “I hope you don’t mind me crashing your breakfast.”

All I can think of is Kelly and Codie asleep next door, the burner phone in my back pocket, and the story of a fourth man.

Chapter Fifteen

Brock Weston

I’m just setting the bacon and pancakes in the oven to stay warm, and Ross is brewing a second pot of coffee for the three of us, when Riley texts.

Your mom’s wiped. Getting into bed now. Back over in 10 min. Have to peel your mom off that sofa. Start without me.

We all call that sofa the “evil couch of doom.” She needs a new one. It’s lumpy and bumpy—uncomfortable as hell—and she always falls asleep on it with a book on her chest. Not good for a fifty-three-year-old woman.

I’m impressed Ross slept on it.

The microwave beeps. There’s a carafe of maple syrup heating up.

“Why were you discharged?” Ross asks.

The question leaves my stomach bottoming out.

To fill the silence, he keeps going. “I told you why I left. I never went into it for a career. But you did. Your dad was military.”

I stare at him.

“The pictures.”

There’s too much cortisol thrumming through me. The pancake turner shakes for a second. I set it down and lean against the counter. I keep drawing a blank.

“At your mom’s.”

Of course. There’re three photos of him. One in the living room and two in the hallway. In two, he’s in uniform. A staff sergeant, E-5. A darkly handsome man, with brown hair trimmed so short you almost couldn’t tell the color. Wide smile. In another, he’s carrying Mom up from Laguna Beach in California when he was stationed out west. She’s twenty and barely pregnant with me. They’re both laughing.

It’s blurred, like a memory, but it’s my favorite photo of them.

In eleven years, he would be dead. This year, I will turn thirty-one, the age he was when he died.

This somehow weighs heavier on me as the date approaches.

He died with his troops. I didn’t.