I stared at the screen. It was Farid's signature phrase. The one he'd whispered to me while executing our first extractionas Hoyle's assets, when we'd pulled a kidnapped aid worker from a compound outside Kandahar. The phrase was his way of confirming an asset was clean, untainted by compromise.
Nobody else knew that phrase. Nobody else would think to use it.
My hands started shaking.
"It's him." I barely pushed out the following words. "It's Farid."
Matthew froze, the cleaning rod halfway through his gun's barrel. "That's impossible."
"The coordinates." I forced myself to focus on the numbers instead of the rushing sound in my ears. "Pier 47. Industrial district." I looked up at Matthew's steady brown eyes. "He's alive, and he wants to meet us."
Michael stopped pacing.
Matthew spoke gently but firmly. "Dorian, we know what Hoyle's organization is capable of. This could be—"
"A trap." I stood too quickly, sending the metal chair screeching across the concrete. "I know that. I know it could be them using his signature to draw us out. But what if it's not?"
I grabbed the phone again. "The timestamp says twenty minutes ago. Pier 47 isn't isolated. It's a relatively busy segment of the port. If someone wanted to kill us, they'd choose somewhere with a better tactical advantage."
Matthew reassembled his weapon with efficient clicks. "How certain are you about the phrase?"
"Completely. Nobody else would know it. Nobody else would think to use it."
Michael rubbed his chin. "Even if it's legitimate, it's still dangerous. Hoyle's people could be using him like they used you to draw out Matthew."
"Then we go prepared." I reached for my jacket and winced. "But we go."
Marcus closed his laptop with a soft snap. "This is exactly the kind of emotional manipulation they'd use against you. Disguise themselves as someone you care about, arrange a reunion, and eliminate you when your guard is down."
"Maybe." I slowly pulled the jacket on. "But I can't live with not knowing. Not when there's even a chance he's alive. Losing him would mean losing my brother."
Matthew stood slowly, checking his shoulder holster. I watched him bite his lip. "I'm driving."
Michael advanced on us. "Matthew—"
"He goes, I go. If it were one of my brothers, I'd already be out the door." Matthew's tone left no room for negotiation.
Michael and Marcus exchanged the kind of look that passed between brothers who'd learned to read each other's tactical thinking. Marcus sighed and reached for his gear bag.
"Backup," he said simply. "We maintain overwatch from a distance. Radio check every ten minutes."
"Agreed." Matthew moved toward the door, keys already in his hand. "Let's leave now, before they have time to change positions and tail us."
I paused at the threshold, looking back at the cramped concrete box that had sheltered us for about three hours and witnessed our intimacy. It smelled like disinfectant and instant coffee, but it had kept us alive long enough to reach another critical moment.
Matthew's hand settled against the small of my back, warm and steady. "Whatever happens out there—"
"I know. Whatever happens, we face it together."
Matthew had us take the Metro bus for one circuit, switching to his truck when we returned. Two different transportation methods made it harder to track end-to-end.
His truck rumbled through Seattle's maze of streets, headlights carving tunnels through the fog that had rolled infrom Elliott Bay. I pressed my forehead against the passenger window.
My hands wouldn't stay still. They drummed against my thighs and picked at the bandage edges beneath my shirt. Matthew noticed but didn't comment. He kept his eyes on the road while I unraveled in the seat beside him.
What if it's a trap?
The thought circled through my skull like a vulture eyeing prey. Hoyle's people were sophisticated enough to extract Farid's signature phrase through interrogation. They could have broken him months ago and constructed this perfect lure.
