Page 53 of Colt
“Can we see her again?”
I looked at my serious, cautious son—the one who rarely warmed to strangers, who held everyone at arm’s length until they proved themselves worthy.
“If you want to,” I said carefully. “She could help you with the nightmares. If you’re open to that.”
Luca was quiet for a long moment. “Okay.”
Luca didn’t give that to anyone. One word, and I felt like I could breathe for the first time in weeks.
Chapter 19
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— Colt —
Holden was already working when I got to the clubhouse. He had a map spread across the end of the bar—a real one, paper, county roads marked in a second color and three routes traced in different pens. His beer was pushed aside, untouched. Folder open beside him, pen in hand, making a note in the margin when I came in.
I poured a coffee and walked over.
“Louisville,” he said, without looking up.
“Primary?”
He traced the first route with the capped end of his pen—a two-lane state road running south of the interstate. “Keeps us off the weight stations. Adds forty-five minutes but we’re not stopping to explain a cargo escort to a DOT officer.” He moved to the second line. “Secondary if we get movement on the main corridor. Tertiary’s emergency only—bad road through Bullitt County, but it doesn’t exist on any scanner.”
I looked at the third route. He’d written in the margin next to it:dead zone, 12 min @ speed — Glitch.
“Already ran it by Glitch?”
“Yesterday. He’s setting up a repeater. Thirty-second delay on comms but we’ll have coverage.” He made another note. “Contact’s facility is here—” he tapped the spot “—first distribution site. Off highway, industrial park. Quiet.”
“How long on-site?”
“Four hours.” He said it the way he said most things—like the number was settled. “You’re assessing three buildings’ worth of security gaps and writing a preliminary scope for a client who already has opinions about what he needs. Four hours is conservative.”
He was probably right. Usually was, about things he’d spent days thinking about.
“So the boys are seeing a therapist now?” He asked it with the quiet, specific interest he gave things he’d already filed and was now following up on.
“Play therapy,” I corrected. “It’s different.”
“Right. Play therapy.” Holden took a pull of his beer. “Bea’s good at what she does. I’ve known her for years. Dutch brought her in to help Glitch way back when.”
“Betty recommended her.”
“Smart woman, Betty.” He shrugged. “Bea gets the life. Doesn’t ask questions she knows we can’t answer. That’s rare in someone outside the club.”
I could hear it when he talked about her—something beyond professional respect. I’d noticed the way he watched her at club events, the way he always seemed to know when she was in the room.
“You ever think about asking her out?” I asked.
“I have. Multiple times. She keeps saying no. Something about professional boundaries and ethics.” He took another pull of his beer. “Can’t really blame her. Dating a client’s brother would complicate things.”
“She’s not treating you, though.”
“No. But she’s treated half the club at this point.” He was quiet for a moment. “The boys are good kids, Colt. Smart. Resilient. Whatever happened to them before, they’re going to be okay.”
“You think so?”
