Page 89 of Locked and Loaded

He waited. A minute stretched into two, then three. Her fingers flew across the tablet, pulling up documents, cross-referencing names. Whatever she'd found, she was chasing it hard.

"That's enough," he said.

"Almost done."

"No. You're done." He set another plate down beside the abandoned lunch. Some kind of stew Hassan had made. It was still warm. "Eat. Then sleep."

She finally looked up, and the exhaustion in her face hit him like a physical blow. She'd been at this for over twenty-four hours. He'd heard her get up before dawn, heard the tablet power on while it was still dark outside. She hadn't stopped since.

"I'm fine," she said.

"You're not fine. You're running on empty."

"I said I'm fine." Her voice had an edge now. "I don't need you to babysit me."

"Someone has to. You won't feed yourself. You won't sleep. You're going to crash, and when you do, you'll be useless to everyone. Including Chloe."

The name landed hard. Lennox's jaw tightened.

"Don't," she said. "Don't you dare use her against me."

"I'm not using her against you. I'm telling you the truth. You can't help her if you can't function."

She pushed back from the table and stood. The movement was unsteady, and she grabbed the edge to brace herself. "You want to know the truth? You've already decided she's dead. I can see it. Every time you look at me, you're already thinking about how to break the news."

"That's not true." It was true, but it wasn’t the whole truth.

"It is. You gave up on her the second Vilardi told you about the auction. I'm the only one still fighting." Her voice cracked. "And I will not stop. Do you understand me? I will not stop until I know for sure. So if you want to give up, you can go straight to hell."

She was shaking now. Whether from anger or exhaustion or both, he couldn't tell.

"Lennox—”

"Get out."

He didn't move. "You need to eat and sleep. We can fight about this in the morning."

"There's nothing to fight about. I'm working. You're in my way." She narrowed her eyes at him. And if looks could kill…

His patience snapped. He'd tried reason. He'd tried patience. He was done trying.

He crossed the tent in three steps, bent, and hoisted her over his shoulder.

"What the hell are you doing?" She pounded on his back with her fists. "Put me down!"

"No."

He carried her out of the work tent and across the dark stretch of sand toward their sleeping tent. She fought him the whole way, cursing at him in a creative mix of languages. Her blows were weak, her fists loose. She didn't have the strength left to make it hurt.

He pulled the door open, strode into the tent, and dumped her onto the bed. She bounced once and immediately tried to scramble up, but he was faster. He caught her wrists and pinned them against the mattress.

"Let me go," she hissed.

"Not until you listen."

"I don't want to listen. I want to work."

"You want to find Chloe. I get it." He kept his voice low, controlled. "But killing yourself won't bring her back. It won't help anyone."