Red swallowed a bite of broccoli and said, “Um–”
He said, voice heavy, “I know what you’re gonna say.”
“No you don’t,” she said, automatically.
He sighed. “You wanna talk to me about the bake sale. And the meeting after it.”
She set her plate aside and turned to face him fully.
He dragged the tines of his plastic fork through the potatoes, turning them over and over, a deep groove pressed between his brows.
“Okay,” she said, feeling bolder than last night. Maybe bolder than ever. “Let’s talk about it.”
His jaw clenched, tendon in his throat leaping.
“I know you’re worried about being in public. We’ve already talked about this. Iknow.”
He took a deep breath, held it, let it out slow. “I just…” He set his plate beside hers and linked his hands together between his knees, clenched them so tight his knuckles turned white.
Her stomach sank. “We don’t have to.” She rested her hand on his shoulder, and he leaned into the touch. “We can just keep waiting for the truck.”
He waited a beat. Long enough that she thought he would nod, and say that was best, that he was sorry, but their lives were always going to be this way. That’s just how it was.
But instead, he said, “I want you to have the things you want.”
“Rooster–”
He turned toward her, eyes wide, worried. He was trying. He was showing her his fear, and trying to work through it. “We’ll do it. Just…just be careful. And smart. Okay?”
She dropped her head down onto his shoulder and smiled. “Okay.”
~*~
Spence peeked one last time through the window, then pulled the blinds and came to join them at the table.
There were seven of them total. Jake dealt mostly with Ramirez, because she was his second in command and he’d entrusted her to handle the daily inquiries of the others. Spence he knew, to an extent, but the others – Jones, Flannagan, Esposito, and Farrell – were just faces and files. Tonight, those faces didn’t seem to belong to men who thought too highly of his leadership.
“I don’t get it,” one of them – Jake thought it was Flannagan – said. “We know where they are. You’ve made contact. Their vehicle is locked up downstairs, so they have no way to flee. Why haven’t we made our move yet?”
“Yeah,” several of the others chorused.
“Palmer’s not even our objective,” Esposito said. “He’s completely expendable. We can take him out, apprehend Russell, and be back on schedule.”
“I gotta say, boss,” Spence said, shrugging apologetically. “I don’t disagree with them.”
Jake looked to Ramirez, and she arched a single brow. Asking, waiting to see what he’d do, but not pushing in either direction. At another time, he might have found that helpful. Right now, he could have stood someone in his corner.
He kept his tone calm, authoritative. “Russell is much more dangerous than any of you are anticipating. Palmer is a Marine; he’s heavily-armed, twitchy, and just looking for an excuse to shoot someone. But that’s nothing we haven’t all dealt with before in active combat. No, Miss Russell is a whole different breed of dangerous, and I won’t make a move until I’m sure we can do so successfully, and without putting ourselves at serious risk.”
“She weighs a hundred pounds,” Jones scoffed. “What’s she gonna do? Sneeze on us and give us colds?”
The others chuckled.
And that was when Jake realized that his team, except for Ramirez, had no idea what they were up against.
He surveyed them all, let them get twitchy and frustrated. Then he opened up the file he needed on his laptop, spun it to face them on the other side of the table, and clicked Play.
He’d watched the video himself at least a dozen times, squinting tired eyes, pitching forward in his chair until his nose almost brushed the screen. Hunting for any clue that would tell him how Russell had pulled off the impossible: a gas line, a bit of plastic explosive, even an oil-soaked rag. He’d been over it again and again, and so far, he hadn’t been able to explain the bright fire that blazed to life in her palms.
