Page 72 of Violent Skies
“Are you hurt?” Riggs hollers.
“No!” I lie, brushing him.
“Bird!” he snarls. “Are you hurt?” The panic in his voice causes me to pause in my limped step.
“I’m fine. Get in position,” I snap at him, our eyes connecting just for a moment before I jog weakly after Jesse and Murphy. We load the cars and Jesse helps me into the passenger side of his before Rafe knocks the other agent unconscious with a sickening blow of his pistol.
“Let’s go,” Murphy calls through his window as Rafe spins their car around in line with Riggs. The three vehicles tear away from the scene, leaving nothing but carnage behind and everything we need to secure safety in the trunks of our cars.
“We’re not out of this yet, keep tight,” Riggs comes over the radio. “Split onto the nine and meet back at the garage.”
The second I hear the sound of engines I rush through the garage doors, three cars. First hump cleared. The doors open and five people climb out. Everyone accounted for. But Birdie is limping—I rush to her side, hooking my arm beneath her to carry the weight, but Murphy comes behind her, hands me his laptop, and scoops her up into his arms and against his chest without a word.
I turn to Riggs, who’s holding two black duffel bags, as Rafe and Jesse grab the final four. All the bags, all the cars, all the bodies. I exhale finally. It feels like I’ve been holding on since they left. I had to plug the tablet in because it was dying so fast from me flipping back and forth between the GPS and Murphy’s surveillance through the highway CCTV.
My nerves are shot. I’m exhausted and I need to focus.
“What happened to Birdie?” I ask Riggs as he throws a glance over his shoulder on his way to the Mustang where he throws his bags. He takes two from Jesse, and Rafe throws those through the back window before leaving the two of us to talk.
“The truck took the brunt of the damage but not all of it. You can look at it and then we need to take these bags to Liloa,” Riggs says, his eyes as distant as his thoughts.
“We?” I ask.
He lowers his voice. “It was part of the deal. Liloa wants to speak to you,” he says, and it’s pretty clear that it’s a piece of information that he left out on purpose.
“Okay,” I nod, the fear creeping back in. “Let me check on Birdie?”
“Do it quickly. I don’t want these bags here for a second longer than they need to be,” he allows and I jog into the garage.
Murphy sets her down on the recliner and I hand his laptop back over before kneeling down in front of her. “How’s your head?” I ask, checking her eyes first, but she nods gently.
“It’s fine, a little dizzy but I got rattled around pretty badly so.” She answers honestly which is refreshing, it makes my job easier.
“And the leg?” I point.
“It’s my ankle. I jammed it on the pedal during impact. It’ll be fine by morning,” she says but I pull off her boot anyway to expose a very swollen and bruised ankle.
“Ice.” I look at Rafe. “Feed her, put her to bed.”
“Such a mom.” Birdie smiles at me and I raise up, bumping my finger beneath her chin.
“Isn’t that why you missed me?” I wink, giving each of the boys a once over.
“We’re good,” Rafe answers and I keep my eyes trained on him for a moment longer. “Promise.”
“You ready?” Riggs asks from behind me and I look over my shoulder at him.
He looks exhausted, like he hasn’t slept in weeks, but that’s a lie because I’ve been sleeping next to him. It’s exhaustion of a different form: from emotional warfare, the pull and push of keeping his family safe, and letting them do what they do best. It’s ripping him apart.
“Yeah,” I offer, moving toward him. He opens my door for me, not saying a word as I slide into the passenger seat, or even as he turns over the engine and pulls from the garage. He doesn’t speak until we’re back on the highway, rushing back into the city.
“Don’t say anything to Liloa. Answer his questions but don’t give him anything,” he instructs. “He wants to manipulate your story. Be honest but—”
“Secretive?” I offer.
“Yeah.” His answer is softer, almost apologetic.
“I can handle it,” I say.
