Page 86 of Fuse

His reply contains a dial-back on the stealthy and a boost on the fury. He and Fershan closed in on my level of freaked—but not surprised—upon realizing their teammate had insta-volunteered for mission duty with Emmalina and Angie and then pushed themselves into overdrive so Foley and I could have as many high-tech gadgets as possible once we rolled. Watching their frenzy was racking but reassuring. Nothing conveys stress faster or more wildly than a tech team scramble, but the fact that it was a scramble had been the right encouragement at the right moment. I’m not the only one who’s ready to put everything on the line to bring the three of them home.

“Roger that,” I mutter back over the comm. “Not a creature is stirring, not even a lizard.”

“Under normal circumstances, that might even be a good thing.”

Brief snort. “Should I be the first to point out the obvious here?”

Fersh is our resident optimist, not usually the one growling.

“Fuck.” It tumbles out of Foley with so much grit, I glance over and expect him to be foaming at the mouth.

“You guys have to go in.” The decree belongs to Lydia, her scythe of a tone clarifying that the dictate isn’t open for discussion. Fine by me. There’s no time for a debate right now. Not a goddamned second to waste in pursuing our singular goal.

Finding Emma.

Then kissing the oxygen out of every cell in her body.

Christ in heaven. Why did I fall in love with a woman who even thinks it’s okay to do shit like this, anyway? Who, after the first time I told her my secret identity was Bolt, tackled me, kissed me, and then called me the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen? Who hasn’t once whined that my “extracurricular fun” is training ninja murder techniques with Foley or reading a hundred pages of blood sample analyses?

Who, after just one year of becoming the completion of my life and the center of my soul, has been assaulted, uprooted, kidnapped, deceived, horrified, scrutinized, and paparazzied—on top of being bombarded with sights, concepts, and an alternate reality that no woman should ever be forced to believe, let alone accept as her life?

All right, so maybe it’s hardly a wonder that she’s sneaked off with Angelique and Wade. Further, that she thoroughly believes it’s possible to save me from Faline armed with a simple Glock and a few motivational mantras.

Impetuous, impervious Tinkerbell.

Stupid, intrepid Bunny.

Noble, unshakable woman.

The sole person I can’t live without.

“Damn it,” I rasp after we’ve parked the Rover down the block and start toward the mansion, sticking to the shadows of the miniature rainforests that double as front lawns around here. Goddamnit, Emmalina, if you’ve gone and gotten yourself into a shitstorm of trouble…or worse…

I refuse to think about the worse.

But I do.

And because of it, endure a flood of neurotoxins called panic, which suddenly stops me in place.

Thank fuck for Foley. “Yo.” Who gets it already and doubles back with a look of tight concern. “You all right, AC/DC?”

And succeeds in shaking me back to the moment with his latest contribution to the team’s nicknames pond. Raw bewilderment will do that to a guy, and I concede to a slam of the stuff while contemplating the reference to a band I never imagined as Foley’s jam. With every fiber of my heart, I plead to heaven that after Em and Angie got here, they found nothing and dropped Angie’s phone on their way to an impromptu stroll on the beach. That they stopped somewhere for drinks and lost track of the time. That Roman Engrid just wants to use this place for giant cod bite parties.

Now that my brain’s filled with scenarios only bleach will erase, I refocus on Foley. “I’m fine. I’m fine.” I nod toward the house. “I just need to know she is too.”

Foley returns the nod as we crouch behind a giant elephant ear plant, eyeballing the mansion more fully from our vantage point. “She’s got a sharp head on her shoulders, Richards.”

“Not saying she doesn’t,” I retort.

“Then what’s with the bee in your lovely bonnet?”

I toss a stiff side-eye. Copy his huff, only with a lot more emphasis on the irritation, while fighting mental images of Emma inside the house, tied up and gagged and—

Enough.

“She just doesn’t know everything Faline is capable of.”

“The fuck she doesn’t.” Foley’s comeback is immediate. At the same time, he frees his SIG from his body holster, steadying his grip with one hand around his carrying wrist. “She just loves your sorry ass more than she hates and fears that bitch.” A fast glance, just to prove he’s as serious as a sommelier calling out cheese pairings. “You really don’t get that yet, do you?”