She remembered the comments she’d overheard. “Are you still getting crap from the other guys?”
“We’re south of the Mason-Dixon line. I’m sure I’ll still be getting crap in twenty years.” He paused. “It’s not bad. I’ve heard worse. It just makes it hard to cover some guy’s ass when you know what he thinks of you.”
“Are you going to say something?”
“I’m going to keep doing my job as well as I can.”
“But that’s not right, Irish.”
“I spend a lot of time thinking about right and wrong,” he said. His eyes were very serious. “Sometimes it’s worth losing a few battles to win the war.”
“Maybe,” she said.
“Not maybe. I—” He stopped short and frowned, looking past her. “Look. Is that local?”
She looked at the television, which was still muted. The reporter was in a box at the upper left, but the majority of the screen showed an aerial shot of a large home on an even larger plot of land.
Or what used to be a large home. Because the building on the screen had been destroyed. Fires blazed in four areas that she could see. Smoke streamed from the structure, which was surrounded by fire trucks and ambulances.
Her eyes locked on the closed captioning flashing across the bottom of the screen.
. . . in Annapolis. First responders have yet to identify any survivors. Local sources estimate that twelve to fourteen teens may be in residence at the group home at any given time—
Her heart stopped. What had Michael said?
There’s a part of me that’s relieved that my brothers aren’t here. If no one I know has any idea where they are, they’re safe.
This couldn’t be a coincidence. Couldn’t be.
The guy who sent those texts is dead. But I don’t think he’s working alone.
Shit. She fished her phone out of her pocket and dialed with trembling fingers.
“What’s wrong?” said Irish. “Do you know where that is?”
“Yeah,” she said.
She didn’t expect Michael to answer, so she almost dropped the phone when he did.
His voice came across the line, rough and gravelly. “Hannah. I’m sorry—”
“No. Michael. Listen to me. I’m not calling about that.” Her voice almost broke as she looked at the screen again. “You need to turn on the news.”
CHAPTER 27
They were stopped at the end of the road. The police had set up a barricade. The hell with that. Michael almost shoved Tyler out of the driver’s seat to floor the accelerator.
He must have actually started trying to do that, because Tyler grabbed his arm. “Hey. Take it easy. I’ll park down the road a bit, okay?”
Hunter was in the back seat, but he’d come to the edge to peer around them. His breathing was almost as quick as Michael’s. “Do you think they’re here?”
“I don’t know,” said Michael. After Hannah’s call, he’d stared at the news for a solid minute. His brain hadn’t wanted to process the images or the words—until it all burrowed into his brain with the force of a speeding bullet.
Another bombing. At a group home for teenagers.
Guilt and panic had wound through his thoughts, leaving no room for anything else, and they showed no sign of leaving. To think, a few hours ago, he’d been relieved that his brothers had been taken. Relieved. He’d thought this meant safety for his brothers.
Gabriel had wanted to run from the hospital. Michael had stopped him.
He hadn’t been able to get out of Tyler’s apartment fast enough. Thank god Tyler had followed him to the parking lot, because it wasn’t until he was out in the cold November air that Michael remembered he had no truck, no way to go anywhere.
While Tyler drove, Michael had called the social worker. No answer. No surprise, either, considering it was after eleven on a Sunday night.
Next, he’d called David Forrest, who didn’t have any information, but at least he was awake and concerned and said he’d find out what he could immediately.
After the bombing at the restaurant, Tyler had been able to deflect some of the fire damage. Did Gabriel have the strength to do the same? Were his brothers hiding here somewhere? Would they have tried to rescue the other residents, or would there not have been time?
He texted Hannah. She’d have access to a radio, and she’d know what was going on.
Have they found any survivors?
Not yet.
He gritted his teeth and typed another message. His finger shook as he pressed send.
Have they found any bodies?
No text came through, but his cell phone rang. Hannah.
“We’re five minutes away,” she said. It sounded like she was crying. “I’m trying to reach my dad to get more information, okay?”
“Do you know anything now?” His voice was hollow.
“They’ve found—” Her voice broke. “They don’t know—Michael, I’m sorry.”
“What, Hannah?” He had to choke the words out. Her emotion said more than her words did. “What have they found?”