Page 90 of Blake

“It’s Barclay,” Emmett announced. “I reached out to him last night to see if he had any contacts that could be useful.” He put the phone to his ear. “Hey, Jethro. What’s up?”

Jethro Barclay.

Blake pictured the former Air Force Combat Controller who’d assisted in Janie’s rescue six months before.

Fifty-five. Six-four. Broad frame. Muscles. Salt-and-pepper hair and beard.

The stoic man was highly skilled in multiple areas of combat and survival. A jack of all trades, Barclay had been instrumental in assisting the team with Janie’s rescue six months before.

And whatever Jethro had just said made Emmett’s expression instantly change.

“Hold on.” Emmett held his phone out and tapped the screen. “I’ve got you on speaker with Blake and Draven. Tell them what you just told me.”

“I found Billy Crawford.”

The deep rumble sent a shockwave through Blake’s entire system.

“You found him.” Blake shared a look with Emmett and Draven. “As in . . . you actually know where he is?”

“Last confirmed sighting was in Rio de Janeiro.”

Draven whistled.

“Brazil?” Blake blinked.

Emmett’s rugged face fell into a frown. “How solid is the identification?”

“Pretty damn solid,” Jethro’s New Orleans accent came through. “I’ve had people looking for him for the past several months. Until today, we’ve come up empty.”

“What changed?” Draven asked.

“A confidential contact reached out to me thirty minutes ago. He got lucky. Spotted our guy in the background during an international news broadcast he was monitoring based off a lead. I’ve seen the footage, and from what I can tell, it’s legit.”

“Send it.” Blake’s voice sharpened.

“Check your email.”

On cue, Blake’s phone dinged with an incoming message. He went to the nearest computer, minimized the window already open on the screen, and accessed his work email.

Typing fast, he opened Jethro’s message. He clicked on the attachment and braced himself for whatever he was about to see.

The footage showed a crowded street in Rio. Colorful banners hung overhead, music played nearby, and a reporter stood in front of hundreds of people who’d gathered for the celebration.

Blake scanned the crowd. “I don’t see him.”

“Look behind the reporter. Twelve seconds in.”

With his cursor, Blake fast-forwarded the footage to the timestamp Jethro suggested. At first, he didn’t see him. A beat later, that all changed.

Son of a⁠—

Blake went still. “Holy hell.”

Draven reached over Blake’s frozen hand, tapping a key to freeze the image.

A man in a dark shirt moved through the crowd, turning his head as someone brushed past him. He was partially obscured, but his face was definitely familiar.

Billy Crawford.