Page 73 of Light

“I’m guessing you don’t need me to clarify the category either,” I murmur.

“Right hand yellow!”

More appropriate analogy, since Emma’s fingers glow the same color as she tightens her hold against mine. “Yeah,” she rasps. “You’re right; I’m pretty sure we’re on the same track for this. But first”—she stretches her free hand up, framing the corresponding side of my face with the sun-bright warmth of her touch—“tell me how you are. Tell me…what’s happening.”

She’s castigating herself for the small pause. I already feel the tension of her self-recrimination. More than that, I read it in the tightness around her eyes and mouth. With my attention directed there already, I take her lips softly beneath my own, hoping she feels every part of my reassurance. It’s okay that she can’t say any more than that. It’s also okay that she doesn’t want to hear about every detail of what I’ve seen over the last twelve hours. The equipment I’ve helped destroy. The cells I’ve searched, retrieving anything that seemed like a personal keepsake from the refugees, all of whom are now comfortably checked into rooms throughout the tower below us. But most importantly, the items I’ve bagged that may contain the tiniest traces of human DNA. They’re the first small step toward identifying everyone who’s survived the Consortium’s clutches.

But more exigently…identifying everyone who didn’t.

“Well, her highness of the mad mole-hell scientists hasn’t made any appearances yet,” I offer as soon as we pull back a little—but just a little. For the last twelve hours, my world has been about nothing but fluorescent lighting and dark caverns. Now that I’m holding a sunbeam, I’m not about to fucking let her go. “And that’s one for the gratitude column.”

Though her eyes remain serious, Emma allows a small laugh loose. “The mad mole-hell scientists, hmmm? Do I get to guess who coined that one?”

“As long as you guess Sawyer.” I smirk. She chuckles again. “But at least it made things a little more bearable.”

Yeah, I’ve gone deliberately teenage nonchalance with the remark, calling on my inner sixteen-year-old asshole to help me skate through the moment. Okay, so “things” are now designated as a visit to my former holding cell and torture chamber instead of who I’ll ask to prom, but my brain’s melded the circumstances close enough that I can lift a cocky shrug and mean it.

“We got through every part of it too, baby.” I declare the words while nestling my face into her neck and then yanking her tight once more. “Every last cabinet and closet, corner and crevice.” I breathe her in again. So warm. So bright. My life. “Davidson and the city’s structural engineers swept our six and took notes about where to park their charges. As of five a.m. tomorrow morning, the entire Source will follow the fate of Faline’s portal-on-demand.”

Emma lets out a long exhale, blending it into a sublime sigh. “And the bad guys go boom.”

She husks it with such a perfect blend of Sarah Connor and Jessica Rabbit, I’m nothing but a huge ball of boom-boom-shakalaka myself for a good thirty seconds. “Well, at least their butt-crack bat cave does.”

There’s no sweet bunny giggle at that one, but I’m not expecting one. Her tiny tremor, coming a few seconds later, is more what my instinct has prepared for. “You think Fa-Fa knows what’s going on?” As well as those words, complete with our snide nickname for our bitch nemesis.

“If she doesn’t, she’s sure as hell about to.”

Another angle from me toward sardonicism, answered by another predictable shiver from her whole body. I battle the urge to fantasize about other times I’ve made her quiver from head to toe like this and am only partially successful. Which, of course, is the universe’s full justification for tossing me into the cad-with-a-side-of-crap bin. Like Bruce Banner, sometimes my monster roars out at the stupidest times.

“Which means she could show up on the damn doorstep at any time.”

And sometimes, the beast is beaten into submission with some simple words from a beautiful woman. But unlike Banner, I’m not tamed with a message of calm and comfort. I’m rendered silent at thinking what’s now our inevitability. A house call from Mistress Garand—and not in the name of peddling cosmetics or cookies. But while it’s silence, it’s not a helpless one—bolstered by facts that return to me not a second too soon.

“When she does, we’ll be ready.” The vow gets the backing of my steady baritone because I’m sure of every syllable. “Foley’s been on the horn all day long,” I explain. “As we speak, some of his most reliable badass buddies are on their way to bolster the Team Bolt forces for the next week.”

Her eyes widen and her lips lift. “The same guys who backed you two up at Teterboro?”

Teterboro. Her recall of the incident at first has me tensing. No, not an “incident.” It was much more. The first time I’d ever been truly and thoroughly terrified of losing her because we were separated by much more than a minor bump in the relationship. Faline had kidnapped her and Lydia from the back door of the RRO fundraiser in Manhattan—and thanks to Foley, Mitch, Kane, and the rest of their friends, who’d all dropped everything to help us, that night had concluded in all the right ways but one. I hadn’t killed Fa-Fa Garand when presented with the chance. But Emma was returned to my arms instead of being turned into hamburger by a jet turbine, and that was—and still is—all that matters.

Which is why I didn’t hesitate to agree when Foley offered to call as much of the “old gang” back around. I know Emma sees as much in the resolve on my face as I answer her question. “One of them is returning,” I offer. “Ethan Archer. Do you remember him?”

She nods with confidence, though her gaze grows misty with memories. “Yeah,” she says slowly. “The languages specialist. Spec Ops out of JBLM in Seattle but splits his time between there and down here. His wife is a stylist for several movie and TV stars. And he picks up minor acting gigs too…right?”

I nod. “He finished up a project today, over at the Sony lot. Depending on traffic from Culver City, he could be downstairs being briefed by Foley as we speak.”

“Good.” As she closes her eyes, the ridges across her forehead start relaxing. “That’s really, really good.”

Her blatant relief is my inspiring prod. “By tomorrow morning, we’ll have two more here. The Bommer brothers.” A short chuff.

She opens her eyes with a new smile. “Ah, yes. Lydia’s told me about them. The older one lives in Hawaii. He started out in Special Forces but apparently is on a black ops team now. His younger brother is Ethan’s brother-in-law; they married sisters.” She cocks her head, focusing harder on me. “And from the hints ’Dia’s dropped, we might share a few commonalities with the guy.”

“With Shay?” I dip my head, giving in to the weight of curiosity. “That would explain why Foley made a point of sharing the guy’s military call sign with me.”

“Which is what?”

“Ironman.”

Her lips part on a tiny laugh. “Oh, yeah. That certainly would explain it.” At once, she sobers again. “I really don’t care if their call signs are Jessie, James, and Meowth; I’m just glad they’re going to be here soon.” She wriggles closer as Lux declares it’s time for left foot yellow in the next room. “I can’t stand the thought of that witch showing up when we can’t fully protect the kids.”