Page 103 of Breaking His Exile

Evander found his voice. “Creed came to Valor Ridge because of me. Not Rainey. Not the RICO case. Me. He tracked me. He used Sable as bait to get me into the open.” He set the coffee on the rail. His hand was steady. He was glad for that. “Boone would never have been on that ridge if I’d stayed away.”

Greta looked at him. Her pale green eyes held his without flinching, without softening.

“I’m not going to argue with you about whether you attract danger,” she said. “Maybe you do. Maybe danger’s got a thing for tall, quiet men with good trigger discipline. I don’t know.” She capped the thermos. Set it down. “But Boone chose to go with you,” Greta said. “Rainey asked you to take him. Walker chose to welcome you back to that ranch after eight years of watching you orbit it like some kind of melancholy satellite. I have spent the better part of a decade choosing to remain your friend despite your best efforts to make it impossible.” She folded her arms. The morning light caught the compass tattoo on her inner forearm – find your way – and for a second Evander couldn’t look away from it. “You dismiss every one of those choices the second it conflicts with your belief that everyone is safer without you. You don’t get to do that. Not if you want to call it accountability instead of control.”

The cabin sat quiet around them. The fire popped in the stove. Somewhere behind the lean-to, Sable shifted her weight and blew softly through her nostrils.

“You made that catastrophic call in Afghanistan because you believed your assessment outranked everyone telling you to stop.” Greta’s voice had gone quieter. Not gentler. Just precise, the way a blade is precise. “You’ve spent eight years repeating the exact same mistake from the opposite direction. Deciding what risks everyone else may take. Calling that control guilt. Acting like the only lesson was that you have to make better decisions alone, when the actual lesson was that you have to stop making every decision alone.”

Evander stared at the porch boards. She was right.

The satellite phone rang again.

She glanced toward it. “You going to pick that up?”

The phone sat on the table where he’d left it, the small black unit with its stubby antenna blinking a green light. Greta picked it up and frowned at the display. “I think that’s Rainey’s number.”

“What?”

“Johanna gave her a new phone to replace the one she lost.” She pulled out her own phone and scrolled until she found Rainey’s contact info. She compared the two numbers. “Yeah, that’s Rainey’s.”

He grabbed it from her hand and hit the answer button. “Rainey?”

“Not quite, Mr. Cole.”

Evander went still. Every cell in his body turned to ice. “Who is this?”

“Malachai Granger,” the voice said. “I believe you met my father.”

Rux’s son. The club president. The man who had delighted in hurting Rainey until she’d finally worked up the nerve to say no more.

“I have something of yours,” Mal said. “I’m going to make this simple. You come to the turnout on County Road 14. The one where the power lines cross. Alone. Unarmed. You have three hours. If you’re not there by then, I put a bullet in Rainey Beckett’s head and dump her where the marshals will find her eventually. Probably.”

The cabin around him had ceased to exist. Greta disappeared. There was only the phone against his ear and the voice on the other end and the cold, spreading certainty that every calculation he’d made since leaving Valor Ridge had been wrong.

“I want to hear her voice,” Evander said. “Make sure she’s alive.”

A shift on the line. Muffled sounds. Then –

“Evander.”

Rainey. Her voice cracked on the second syllable. She was scared. She was trying not to sound scared. She was failing.

“I’m here,” he said. Stupid. Useless. The only thing he could think to say.

“Don’t come–”

The line went dead. Then Mal’s voice returned, smooth and unhurried. “Three hours, Mr. Cole. Turnout on 14. Just you. Anything else, and she dies before you reach the property line.” A beat. “I’d hurry if I were you. Hobbs gets impatient.”

The call ended.

Greta’s hand closed over his wrist. Judging by her face, she’d heard enough of the call to know what was happening.

“If you go alone,” she said, “you’re making Rainey’s choice for her. Walker’s choice. Boone’s choice. Everyone’s choice. Again.” Her fingers tightened. “The same mistake. Different direction.”

He looked at her. Her face was set. Her eyes held his without yielding an inch.

The phone rang.