Page 160 of Flint’s Strike

The line beeps, and I can’t get the words out fast enough. “Who is this and who do you think is missing?”

“My name’s Marlene DuPont. You the one datin’ Eliot Flint?” Her voice doesn’t have an ounce of calm in it, but it’s got authority in spades.

“Yes, ma’am. He’s supposed to be with you. You run the knitting circle? On Pine Street?” I’m shaking now, because if Eliot’s not there, something is very wrong.

“That I do. Six years, that man has never been more than two minutes late. It’s six eighteen. Betty’s been callin’ him for almost ten minutes now and he ain’t answerin’. She’s still tryin’, but I thought if I could find you, maybe you’d be able to help.”

“Marlene, I’m going to Eliot’s apartment right now. If he shows up, you tell him to call me.” I flip on the lights and siren, check my mirrors, and hit the gas.

“Wait!” she cries before I can hang up. “Eliot’s…well…the five of us have been knittin’ together for six years now. We’re kind of like a family. I…you’ll call me when you find him?”

When.

Of course, it’ll be when. He probably got home, decided to lie down for a few minutes, and was so tired, he fell asleep.

It has to be when.

I get through the next stoplight without needing to lay on the horn, and swallow hard. “I will. And if you hear anythin’, you call back and tell them to send you directly to Captain Parker Elmore.”

“Parker. Please…find him.”

The second she hangs up, I yell at my phone to call Nate. He answers on the first ring, the soothing tones of some science documentary in the background.

“Parker?”

“Eliot never showed up to his knitting circle. I’m on my way to his apartment, but, Nate, he hasn’t missed a single night in six years. Something’s wrong.”

“Where do you want me? There? Or at the station?” Keys jingle over the line, and a door slams.

“I... The station. Call AJ. And…”

“Connor and Zephyr. I know. I’ll call Grace too. They’ll worry when you don’t show up at Isabel’s.” He’s calm. Nate is always calm in a crisis. So am I. Except when I’m worried about the man I…love.

“I’ll call you from Eliot’s.” I hang up, because I don’t think I can say another word without breaking down. And if he’s missing, I have to hold it together until we find him.

I make it to his apartment in under six minutes, take the steps two at a time, and draw my gun at the top of the stairs. The door’s closed, no obvious damage, but when I try the knob, it turns easily.

“Shit.” The lamp is on the floor, the shade dented, and a vague footprint visible in the light gray fabric. Eliot’s phone—or what’s left of it—is on the floor next to the couch. I clear the living room, then the kitchen, where the fridge door hangs open and a can of Dr. Pepper lies on the floor. Without letting my gaze drop, I crouch down to touch it. Cool, but not cold. Half an hour? Maybe a little more.

The bedroom and bathroom are just as I remember them being this morning. He never made it past the kitchen.

I’m about to call Nate when my phone rings, his name on the Caller ID. I don’t let him get a single word in. “Eliot’s gone. Someone took him from his apartment. Signs of a struggle. Had to be thirty or forty minutes ago.”

“Parker.” Nate isn’t as calm now, and that almost sends me to my knees. I brace a hand against the wall to keep myself upright as he continues. “Kurt Lynch just walked into the station looking like someone very big and very strong used him for a punching bag. He claims Senator Dines wants Eliot to burn.”

Chapter Sixty-Four

Eliot

The pain registers before anything else. Layers of it. Pressure behind my eyes. A stale, copper taste at the back of my throat, a dull ache in my shoulders.

My throat burns with each swallow, and my arms…aren’t where I expect them to be.

They’re behind me, wrists lashed together with something hard that bites into my skin. Tight enough to feel my pulse against it.

I jerk on instinct, but that only makes the thick plastic bite harder. A solid metal pipe runs from the floor to the ceiling, and my wrists are locked on the other side of it.

The angle is wrong. It pulls at my shoulders, stretching skin that doesn’t give like that anymore. The graft along my collarbone sends sparks of pain racing down my arms every time I breathe.