“What’s impersonal about having your lead witness working for you?”
“Ember is a Sabre agent. She’s part of this investigation.”
“She’s a walking liability!” Kyle snarls with genuine contempt. “Just look at the mess left behind in Felixstowe.”
“Watch your tone.”
“Or what?”
“Go cool off!” Warner erupts, his temper finally shattering. “Now.”
Pressure burns into the side of my splitting head. When I glance to the right, I find Blaine staring at me instead of thearguing men. He too lingers at the edge of the room, a silent sentry primed to intervene but remaining stoic.
Since Carlos’s death, Blaine’s the only one who hasn’t treated me like I’m made of glass. If anything, he seems quieter. Observant. Like he’s seeing me in a new light, and he’s processing what he saw, strategising how to use it to his advantage.
With a furiously spat curse word, Kyle departs the room, leaving Oscar to chase after him. He has the decency to look embarrassed. Honestly, it’s unnecessary. Kyle has every right to be mad. He’s right—I left a hell of a mess behind.
“Fantastic.” Axel drops his purple head into his hands, yanking his hair in aggravation. “Our entire secondary team is in timeout.”
“They’ll come back.” Warner dips his chin in consternation.
“They aren’t cut out for this job. Let them go.”
“Nobody is cut out for this shit.”
“You’re telling me!” Axel rebuffs. “We’re falling apart!”
“What the hell do you want me to do? Give up?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then get on side and help.” Warner shifts his weight onto his good leg. “I can’t focus on finding Gael if I’m fighting fires on the home front.”
“Alright, alright.” Releasing his hair, Axel appears to gather himself. “What evidence do we have from the port?”
As Warner settles into a seat to pour over the evidence log from Felixstowe, I find myself tuning out. My jaw aches from the force of gritting my teeth, and my bleary vision is worsening with the stabbing needles making my fingers twitch.
Not now. Not now.
I can feel my racing heart behind my eyes, each muscle in my body throbbing. The symptoms have been intensifying for days, growing fiercer by the hour. Nights spent camped out in Tom’sICU room anxiously watching a machine breathe for him haven’t helped.
“B-Bathroom,” I announce.
Multiple gazes snap to me.
“Em?” Warner starts to rise from his seat. “You good?”
“Yes. Carry on without me.”
“You look pale.”
“I’m f-fine. Back soon.”
Waving him off, I find the sense to nod reassuringly then leave the room. Our team is stretched to a breaking point right now. Warner said it himself—he can’t simultaneously fight fires and find Gracie. I need to deal with this alone.
To my relief, Hyland and the others aren’t in sight. A heavy exhale pours from my lungs upon finding nothing but an empty corridor that resembles a ship adrift in tumultuous waters. Even my feet feel too heavy to lift as my legs and arms shudder involuntarily.
I stumble to the second floor bathroom to avoid being tracked. The guys won’t check here first. My knees soon give out, and I land in the middle of the bathroom, jolting the still-healing bruises and scrapes that cover my body.
