Page 9 of Fuse

“He told me that getting caught was part of his plan. He also insisted he did not want my help, that he had plenty of training.” She goes on in a somber murmur. “He said he knew what he was doing and was only there to get the intel he needed before he escaped and brought it to you. I believe his exact words were that it was not his first time ‘being in the shackles of terrorists.’”

“Why doesn’t that part surprise me?” Foley mutters.

“Why doesn’t any of this surprise me?” I retort.

“What the fuck was he thinking?”

“You assume he was thinking?”

During our parrying, a defined frisson of confusion crosses Angelique’s eyes. As soon as she blinks those kohl-lined greens again, the woman is back to embodying refined French poise from head to toe.

“They took him straight to the hive,” she explains, referring to the slang term for the Source’s lab facilities with their hexagon-shaped experiment rooms. “But I was on duty in another area and did not realize it until they had him on the lab table for several days.” Her veneer finally cracks a little, but not enough that she surrenders her crisp composure. “Everyone seemed to realize his connection to you, as well as his Special Operations history. The security watches were tight.”

“Tighter than what?” I challenge. “Their system already scrambles GPS, cellular, Wi-Fi, stereo analytics, and even old-fashioned tracking technology.” Of course, I’m preaching to the proverbial choir. The woman knows this because we’ve tried tracing her using all the above plus a few others. Whatever cloaking device the Consortium has makes their compound a candidate for a damn sci-fi movie.

Angie offers a small shrug. “I only know he was raising eyebrows—and that was before he started yelling.”

A gruff snort from Foley. “Why doesn’t that surprise me either?”

I don’t afford him more than one jumped eyebrow, choosing to concentrate on Angelique. The tiny tells in her behavior are finally starting to register with me. She’s toeing the dirt too much. Pumping air in and out with noticeable force. Kneading her lips together like a junkie needing a fix, only nothing else tells me she’s strung out. Her skin is flawless and her eyes are clear—if anything, a little too clear.

“So what happened next?” I finally question, only to stop and stomp forward again. “Wait. Hold the phone.” I lift a hand with my sizzling fingers curled in, as if actually holding such a device. “Before we go on, you need to tell me, right now, if that asshole has exposed the ridge in any way.” I lean in, making damn sure I have Angelique’s very full, very undivided focus. “If he’s responsible for bringing Consortium bullshit to my front door, then let me take care of clearing everyone else out and—”

“No!” It’s actually Emma’s strident wail, along with the sounds of her struggling against someone. I don’t look but hope ’Dia’s stepped in as the tether. When my woman’s fully determined, there are few who can rein her in. “Reece! Damn it!”

I push a hand of authority in her direction. “Let it, Emmalina.”

“I will not—”

“I said let it!”

My bellow stops the ground squirrels and launches a dozen birds into flight. The animals aren’t finished resettling before Angie pulls in air through flaring nostrils and folds her arms, still attempting le nonchalance with her overall demeanor. Does the woman really think she’s fooling anyone, especially after the fortieth time she casts a yearning stare toward Tyce’s memorial? And yeah, there’s nothing I want more than to let her have the solitude to grieve there too, but I’m not clearing anyone off this hill until I know it’s completely safe—and in order to know that, I have to collect every damn detail from her first.

“Nobody is in danger,” Angie asserts into the new stillness. “I swear it,” she states, swinging up her head in order to drill her direct gaze into me. Despite the skittishness in all her other behaviors, the stare is steady and smooth as green glass. She’s giving it to me straight.

So why don’t I feel better?

I answer my own question the very next second. “So…that means they still have him?”

Before Angie answers, the query visibly affects the air, as well as everyone in it. Mom, Joany, and Lydia rub their hands against opposite shoulders, shivering against nonexistent chills. Chase noticeably stiffens, and Foley’s already poised like a gunslinger, arms stiff at his sides. The wind gusts up, wanes, and then blows back the other direction, providing damn appropriate symbolism for how many places my thoughts have whipped in the last hour alone. From loss and grief and fury to shock and bewilderment and—well, fury—especially if Angie’s answer is what I’m expecting…

“Je suis désolée, Reece. He is still there.”

Shit.

Yep. Just what I supposed it’d be.

Which leads to my next recognition. Which is worse than the last.

“He’s…still there.” I enunciate every syllable with defined comprehension. That’s usually what happens when I grasp a clarifying fact…that’s leading to a staggering revelation. “But you’re here.”

Her stare flickers back to me for a second. In that flash alone, I’m able to spot so much anxious meaning, but once again, the woman flips to stoicism to cover her smooth sidestep of a reply. “Well, when the branleur began yelling about sizes of needles compensating for other things, I knew I must get out of there as fast as I could.”

In spite of this entire insane turn to the day, her quip sparks a small smile from me. “Oh, shit,” I mutter, shaking my head. “Did I use that one on the bouncer from Le Chat Rouge or the maître d’ at Arpège?”

Angie’s answering smirk is nice to see, despite it not having a prayer of reaching her eyes. “It was our driver back to the hotel,” she reprimands. “You were very drunk and started asking if his stick shift was sized in proportion to other things.”

“Ah, yes.” I chuckle. “He wasn’t very happy with me.”