“We’re going to find Amit.”
“Fuck,” Trace huffed. “If he’s a thief, aren’t they better off without him?”
Ryan glared at Trace.
“Okay, fine. You’re right.”
“Where was he last seen?” Z asked.
Ryan met Z’s gaze for the first time since Z had stepped into the room. A strange churning erupted in his gut. “Dom’s tracing the GPS in his phone. If I’m right, Amit’ll try to convince whoever this is—presuming it’s the buyer—that Jericho will hand over the original or pay up.”
“What if this guy only wants the painting? Will Jericho hand it over?” Z kept his eyes locked with Ryan’s.
“Yes. He told me he was willing to do whatever it took to get Amit back safe.” Handing over the original painting wasn’t something Ryan would allow—at least not unless he had to—but Jericho didn’t know that. “That’s where we come in. Our only job right now is to find Amit.”
Ryan’s phone rang, interrupting him. He glanced down at the caller ID. Dom.
“Hey, what’d you find?” Ryan asked, putting the phone on speaker.
“Good news. Sort of… If he’s still got his phone on him, and I hope that’s the case, then Amit’s here in the Dallas area. I’ve narrowed it down to close to where Courtney lives. I’ve contacted her to help me out.”
Great. Just what Ryan needed, his mafia-wed sister involved in this. Remembering the last time Courtney had gotten Max involved in a case, Ryan looked up at Z. Courtney had sought Max’s help in locating a missing girl whose father had abducted her. Thanks to Max, that little girl had been found and delivered back to her mother unharmed. Maybe getting Courtney involved wasn’t such a bad idea, after all.
Ryan’s cell phone beeped, signaling another call. The number on the screen was Jericho Ardent’s. “Lemme call you back, Dom. That’s Jericho.”
“Sure thing.”
The line disconnected, and Ryan hit the button to switch to the other call. “Jericho? I’ve got Trace, Clay, and Z with me now. Dom’s already tracked Amit’s cell phone to our area.”
“That’s good,” Jericho said, sounding out of sorts. “I just got a call from a blocked number. The guy said I had six hours to get the painting to him or he’ll kill Amit.”
“That’s actually good,” Z said calmly, talking toward the phone. “He’ll have to give us a location to deliver to.”
“He did,” Jericho said, then rattled off the information he’d received.
“We need that painting,” Ryan told Jericho. “It’s no longer an option.”
“I know,” Jericho said hurriedly. “I’ve got my private jet waiting. As soon as I can give him a delivery point, he’ll be en route.”
It was Ryan’s turn to provide information, giving Jericho the address for their private airfield near the compound.
“Please keep me updated.” Jericho’s voice shook with the instruction.
“Absolutely,” Ryan confirmed. “I’m gonna have Dom call you so he can set up a trace on your phone. Give him whatever information he needs. We’ll keep you apprised, but we’ve gotta get boots on the ground first. Give me a couple of hours.”
“Thank you.”
Jericho disconnected the call, and Ryan grabbed his phone, getting to his feet. “I’ll have Dom send the coordinates for the house he’s located,” he told Trace. “Verify it’s the same address Jericho provided, then go get that fake we acquired. Z, come with me. We need to get to the airfield and wait for that painting.”
Z nodded, and that was when Ryan realized what he’d done. He would spend the next hour alone in a car with Z because he didn’t have a choice.
Why the hell had he done that?
Hoping he didn’t appear as uncertain as he felt, Ryan grabbed his laptop and left the three men in the room.
Was he crazy? Or maybe—something that bothered him more than the question of his mental state—he’d paired himself with Z on purpose.
Not that he had any time to think about that.
Not yet, anyway.
THIRTY-THREE
WALKING OUT TO THE ESCALADE, Z made a promise to himself that he would not engage in personal conversation with RT no matter what. He would not let hope take over, either. Seemed his entire life was based on hope these days.
He hoped his father would wake up and be the same man he was before his accident.
He hoped Reese would decide to come work with him, so he’d get the chance to spend more time with his brother.
He hoped Jensyn would graduate early and then decide to move to Dallas to start her career, so, yes, he could spend more time with his sister.
He hoped his mother would find happiness and be able to live her life to the fullest.
He hoped RT would tell him that he was sorry and that he’d made a mistake.
Hope.
Sure, Z was optimistic by nature, but this was a little ridiculous.
Without asking RT’s permission, Z climbed into the driver’s seat, needing to drive so that he didn’t fidget on the way to the airfield. The last thing he wanted was for RT to think he was still affected by him.
Although there was that.
Even when they’d been in the conference room, Z had been overwhelmed by RT’s presence. The slight musky scent of his cologne, the sexy hard edge to his jaw as he fell into the role he was born to be in—leader. The attractive way his blond hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck.
It was all making Z crazy, and the last time he’d allowed himself to get distracted by RT, he’d gone and fucked up a good thing. At least before, they’d been friends. RT had been punishing him ever since, forcing him to do remedial tasks or take assignments that should’ve been handled by junior agents.
But through it all, Z had kept his trap shut, not arguing, not asking why.
Truth was, he didn’t want to know what RT was thinking. He didn’t want to know that RT regretted what had happened between them.
Neither of them spoke for the first ten minutes or so of the drive, to the point the silence was beginning to grate on Z’s already frayed nerves. In order to alleviate the itchiness that the tension was causing, Z turned on the radio.
“Walking Away” by Five Finger Death Punch erupted through the speakers.
Walk away. Make it easy on yourself.
Okay, good suggestion, but not what Z needed at the moment. He hit the button for another channel.
“Want to Want Me” by Jason Derulo came on. Z sighed.
Great.
You’re the one I want to want me.
Nope. Not helping.
Z jabbed the screen again. Another channel.
“Only Wanna Be With You” by Hootie & The Blowfish.
Okay, seriously. What the fuck?
With his eyes on the road, Z hit the button again. Maybe country music would be better.
“Bottoms Up” by Brantley Gilbert.
Z choked on a laugh. That conjured images better left alone.
Once more.
Ah. This would work.
“Kick the Dust Up” by Luke Bryan.
Yep. He could deal with that.
“Are you okay?” RT asked.
Z glanced over at him quickly. “Never better. You?”
RT didn’t answer.
Z turned up the music.
RT instantly turned it down.
“Look, Z, we need—”
“To talk?” Z adamantly shook his head. “No, we don’t.”
RT twisted slightly in his seat, and Z felt the intensity of his eyes on him. He didn’t want RT to look at him. He preferred that RT ignore him as he had for the last two months.
Liar.
“Once this is over…”
Z felt a stab of anger pierce his chest. “Don’t make promises, RT. I get it. Fun while it lasted, right?”
With a jerk of the wheel, Z took a hard right after exiting the highway.
“Fuck.” RT gripped the handle on the door.
Z gritted his teeth, watching the speedometer climb. Taking a deep breath, he tried to relax. They had a job to do. This wasn’t personal. In fact, as far as Z could tell, it’d never been personal for RT. Right place, right time, and all that fucked up, stupid-ass, bullshit.
Yep. Anger. Not helping, either.
“Z—”
“No!” Z exclaimed, slamming his hands on the wheel.