“You running him through facial recognition?” Adam asked Jay as Cody executed a two-hundred-pound body slam effectively ending the struggle for control of the knife.
“Yeah. Nothing so far.”
“And the surveillance team?”
“DHS agents,” Jay replied. “Positive hits on both. Zero probability of error.”
“Fucking Johnson,” Cody mumbled from somewhere in the background.
“At least you found the colonel’s laptop,” Jay said.
“Yeah. Hoyt’s in the wind though. Asshole took off during the fight,” Grant replied. “Want us to pursue?”
“No.” Adam frowned. “He doesn’t know enough to be a threat, and I need you in LA. We have a situation here requires a bit of digging into. Jay will send you the details.”
“Heard about your mystery girl,” Grant said. “That shit’s fucked up.”
Jesus Christ. Even though they couldn’t see him, Adam shook his head. At two o’clock in the morning Montana time, you’d think the members of the JTT had better things to do than gossip like a bunch of old biddies in a group home.
Like sleep.
Sleep would be nice.
Not something Adam did a lot of, and not his original goal for this evening, but now that his circumstances had changed, he planned to take advantage. Right after he checked on his ball-crusher.
“She probably has nothing to do with Johnson or his backers, but we should check her out anyway, just to be sure. Call me as soon as you have anything. I want to wrap this up fast.”
“Roger that,” Grant said. “We’ll hit the road tonight and touch base with A-Bloom when they open in the morning.”
If Adam thought for a second an order to get some z’s would be followed, he would have issued it. Instead, he signed off and wasted no time making his way to the bedroom.
As if she were the sun, and he needed her warmth, she drew him to her side.
When he spied the MAC hollow edge chef’s knife clutched in her fist, a smile slapped onto his face. The eight-inch blade was a workhorse in the kitchen, but not exactly safe to sleep with in the bedroom.
She didn’t fuss as he gently pried her fingers from the handle. She wasn’t a lefty. He could tell by the awkward way she held the makeshift weapon. But her grip was strong, even under the influence of a shit ton of morphine.
Too soon for her to be conscious, the effort she would have had to make to come awake blew his mind. Impressed by the strength of her will, he returned the knife to the bedside table.
He’d left it within easy reach on purpose.
A gesture meant to offer reassurance and convey she was safe.
Herfuck youback to him had been loud and clear, and he admired her courage.
If having a blade in her hand gave her comfort, he’d buy her a proper one. A Smith & Wesson folding knife. Short. Lightweight. Easy to carry in her pocket. The high-carbon stainless-steel blade accessible at the flick of her wrist.
He’d have to train her. Teach her how to defend against attack. Show her how and where to strike to incapacitate or kill. Make her repeat the motions until the moves were second nature. No point giving someone a weapon if they didn’t know how to use it.
What the fuck was he thinking?
She wouldn’t be around long enough for him to train properly.
As soon as she hit her feet, and he had the name of her captor, he’d make sure she was safe before letting her go. Someone else would have to teach her how to defend herself. Make sure she had the confidence and competence to fight for her life if she ever needed to.
He didn’t like the idea.
Didn’t like it at all.
