Page 90 of Lock ’N’ Load

Lukashin pushed up the sleeve of her T-shirt, and she cringed as the needle moved closer. I’m going to die. The needle was sharp as it pierced her skin, and as he slowly depressed the plunger, her last thought was of Matt.

I love you.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

A few blocks from the address Fenway had given him, Matt glanced down at the handheld locator on the seat. Nothing yet. Dammit.

As soon as he rounded the corner, the number of vehicles with blue flashing strobes nearly blinded him. The sidewalk in front of the safe house was jammed with Crown Vics, Chargers, Impalas, and every other make and model in the U.S. government’s fleet. A few curious neighbors stood on their front porches, watching the bevy of police activity.

The house was a two-story 1970s tract house that looked like every other house on the block. It should have been perfect for a safe house. Lotta good that had done Trista. He wondered how the fuck they’d found her. “Goddamn FBI,” he muttered through clenched teeth as he double-parked next to a black Charger.

He hooked the locator onto his belt, then grabbed Sheba’s leash and the last garment he’d seen Trista wearing: the green T-shirt he’d bought her the day he’d purchased the charm bracelet.

His friends hadn’t arrived yet, but he didn’t doubt for a second that they’d be there for him.

After he leashed Sheba, she bounded from the Explorer. Even his dog knew serious shit was about to go down. “Let’s go, girl.”

Fenway met him at the front door. Over the agent’s shoulders, he glimpsed a half dozen crime scene agents wearing gloves, brushing for prints and photographing the interior.

“Connors,” Fenway said.

It took every ounce of his restraint not to deck the fucker, but that would waste precious time. Later, he promised himself. After they got Trista back. “Find anything useful?”

“Negative.” Fenway shook his head. “My guys are processing the scene. No one goes in until they’re done.”

“Fuck that.” Without waiting for a response, he shoved the agent aside. As soon as he walked into the house, he smelled it. The coppery scent of blood and the awful stench of death. In the living room adjacent to the hallway lay the bodies of two dead FBI agents. He was saddened by their deaths and angry that they hadn’t been skilled enough to stop Trista from being taken.

“Connors, dammit!” Fenway shouted, but Matt ignored him.

He grabbed Trista’s T-shirt from where he’d tucked it into his belt and let Sheba sniff it. Immediately, the dog headed for the stairs. Keeping her on the leash, he followed. Sheba beelined for the second door on the left side of the hallway. He didn’t have half the nasal receptors a dog had, but even he would have known this was the room Trista had occupied for the past two weeks. Her scent was everywhere. Flowers, vanilla and spice, and that shampoo at his house that she’d come to like. The FBI agents must have purchased some for her.

He ripped the receiver off his belt, desperately hoping to get a blip, but there was none. It had been a long shot at best. Now he’d have to drive in all directions, praying like hell that he’d get a hit.

Sheba whined, dragging him to the far corner of the room behind the bed. Cowering on the floor, every white hair on his furry body on end, was Poofy.

“Shit.” The last thing he needed was a cat in a K-9 vehicle, but he couldn’t leave the poor thing there to fend for itself. Besides, if Trista ever found out he’d abandoned her precious feline, his ass would be toast.

If. If she was even still alive. Don’t even think it.

Sheba strained at the leash, trying to touch noses with the frightened cat, but Poofy wasn’t having any of it and pressed himself farther into the corner.

“Easy, buddy.” Pulling on his dog’s leash to keep the two animals separated, Matt leaned down and scooped up the cat, tucking him under his arm.

Seconds later, he and Sheba were running down the walk to his Explorer. He deposited Poofy on the floor in front of the passenger seat, then quickly shut the door before the cat could escape.

“Matt!”

He turned to see six men in uniform coming toward him. Somehow, Nick, Jaime, Dayne, Eric, Kade, and Markus had gotten out of their nightly assignments to come to his aid. He didn’t want to know how they’d managed it without getting their asses chewed.

“What can we do?” Nick gripped his shoulder.

“Name it,” Kade added. “We’ve got the dogs, and we’re ready to roll.”

He quickly gave the details of what had gone down, who they were dealing with, and what his plan was to find Trista.

“Let’s go kick some Russian ass.” Dayne clenched his fist in the air.

“Damn straight.” Eric fist-bumped Dayne’s fist. “If those fuckers hurt our little pixie, we’ll pound their faces into the ground.”