Page 87 of Lock ’N’ Load

“I know you miss her.” Sheba let out a little whine and laid her head back on his lap. “I miss her, too.” So much that he’d taken to letting Sheba up on the sofa during his late-night TV sessions, a mortal sin in the K-9 world and one that he’d railed at Trista for committing in the hotel. The one where he’d taken her virginity and made sweet love to her. That was a night he’d never forget.

Resting his hand on Sheba’s belly, he sifted his fingers through her short coat, remembering with vivid clarity how he’d watched Trista overcome her fear of dogs. She and Sheba had even become friends.

He wanted to give her more. Hell, I want to give her everything, but not the way I am now. “Think I can do it, girl?” In response, Sheba raised her head and rested one paw on top of his hand, as if in a high five. He doubted she knew what he’d said, but he’d asked her a question and she inherently knew his moods well enough to understand whatever was bugging him and offer her moral support.

The hardest part would be making that first call to someone in the profession cops avoided at all costs. A shrink.

Dipping her head down and up repeatedly, Sheba looked as if she were nodding in encouragement.

“I can’t promise you anything.” He scratched her ears, knowing he was saying that more to himself. “Except that I’ll give it my best sh—”

The cell phone he’d set on the coffee table rang, and he picked it up, not recognizing the number. “Connors.”

“It’s Max Fenway. Trista’s gone. We think the Russians have her.”

Matt jumped to his feet. In less time than it took for his heart to beat once, he was instantly awake, as if someone had zapped him with a Taser. “What kind of fucking morons did you have protecting her?” He began pacing the living room, Sheba keeping step with him, her body tense as she sensed something was horribly wrong. “And what do you mean, you think they have her?”

“I’ve got two dead agents, and she’s not at the safe house. The door to her bedroom was kicked clean off the hinges. There’s no sign of her.”

His heart gave a heavy sigh of relief. If there was no sign of her… If she wasn’t lying dead next to the two FBI agents, then she could still be alive.

Goddamn it. Damn it all to hell. “I never should have let you guys take her.” Fuck, I should have been the one protecting her, whether she liked it or not. “How many people do you have out there looking for her?” Whatever that number was, it wouldn’t be enough.

“Look, Connors, we’ve got it covered. I’m only notifying you because I sensed something between you two. I’ve got every FBI agent in the area out looking for her and every snitch on the agency’s payroll keeping their eyes and ears open.”

“I can find her faster.” With Fenway still on the line, he charged into his office and pulled up the GPS program linked to the tracking device he’d hooked onto Trista’s charm bracelet. “Fuck!” The system was down. He’d have to find her on the ground using a handheld device.

He bolted up the stairs. Behind him, Sheba followed closely at his heels. “What’s the location of the safe house?”

“What’s the difference?” Fenway shouted back. “She’s not there.”

Putting the call on speakerphone, he set it on his bureau, then shoved his legs into a pair of cargo pants. “The difference is that I can try to track her from her last known location.”

“How?”

“She’s wearing a locator. It’s in the charm bracelet I gave her.”

“How do you know she’s wearing it?”

“Since the day I gave it to her, she’s never taken it off.” Not even in the shower, but he kept that information to himself. He grabbed a CIA shirt from his closet and pulled it over his head. “I’m not about to rely on you and your incapable team of fuckup agents to find her. Now give me the goddamn address!”

Fenway rattled off the address, which Matt committed to memory. “Don’t show up here half-cocked, or I’ll have to call your—”

Matt hung up, not giving a shit who Fenway called. He shoved his belt through his holstered weapon and two fully loaded magazine pouches. As he punched in another call, Sheba danced at his feet, tracking his every move. It was a conditioned stimulus. When he geared up, his dog knew what was coming and was as ready for action as he was.

“Nick,” he said when his friend answered. Then he gave the code phrase they’d all agreed on when they’d been in training together, the one signifying dire, life-threatening shit was going down and their unquestioned assistance was needed ASAP. “Lock ’n’ load.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

An hour later, they were still driving through the darkness, uphill on a turning, twisting tree-lined road. So many thoughts—regrets, mostly—ran through Trista’s head.

I’m going to die.

No one will find my body.

I wish I’d gotten married and had children. Now she’d never have the chance. At least her parents still had each other. When word got back to them that she was gone, they would carry on. The only one who truly needed her was her cat.

She bit back a cry. Who will take care of Poofy?