Dan turned sober brown eyes on me, as though he were seeing me for the first time. He swallowed. Loudly.
“Police officers—with children—go out on the streets every day. Soldiers—with children—are asked to sacrifice for their country. I will not be made to feel guilty or judged about risking my life to rescue my husband, because I don’t do so lightly or with flippant disregard for my kids. I am very well trained. I was part of an elite extraction team as a field agent. I can do this.”
I leaned forward and Dan leaned away in a mirroring motion. Alex smirked and dipped his head to his chest to hide his smile.
“Quinn is right. The greatest risk to me when I go to Nigeria is capture by the US government. So we have to make sure that doesn’t happen. But allow me to address your words about Jack and Grace. If Greg died, I would die too. I know I would. We have been married for fourteen years. He is my soul.”
He truly was. He’d been my first real home, my first unconditional anything. And he still was.
Perhaps my need of him was unhealthy, made me weak, but I didn’t care. I was weak for him. I always would be.
I’d spent fourteen years as a we. An us. And becoming a me at this point was entirely out of the question.
“I don’t know if you can grasp that—and I mean no offense,” I continued, “I don’t know if you’ve ever loved and needed someone like I love and need Greg.”
Dan’s mouth compressed and his eyes moved between mine, a flicker of understanding behind his expression.
“So I can either sit on my talents and skills, wait for someone else to save the other half of myself, to save Jack and Grace’s father.” I leaned away, turning my attention to my hands where they rested flat on the table’s surface. “Or I can put those considerable talents to use, and do it myself.”
“What’s the plan? After we get you into Nigeria?” Quinn—finally recognizing the futility of trying to dissuade me—took a large gulp of his whiskey.
“Depending on the facility where he’s being held, I’ll either go in on my own, or ask for a volunteer to accompany me. We extract him and the other hostages.”
“I volunteer.” Dan lifted his hand before Alex could speak up, and pointed at the hacker. “You need to find Greg, and do all the hacking . . . weirdo voodoo stuff . . . that you do.”
“I agree.” Quinn gave his glass another twirl. “And we need to open negotiations as soon as possible, let them think there’s a lot of money to be made if they hold out for ransom. We’ll channel it through the United Kingdom, try to draw out the ruse. Then we can ask for a proof of life.”
The promise of a significant ransom might keep Greg alive long enough for me to extract him.
“You should ask Marie and Kat to help.” Alex’s fingers flew over his keyboard, his eyes affixed to the screen.
Dan stiffened, a dark cloud of disquiet passing over his features. “With what?”
“Kat can front the ransom.”
“No,” I disagreed. “Quinn should fly down to Lagos on my behalf, to negotiate the ransom. His bank account will check out.”
“His bank account is peanuts compared to Kat’s. If she were to go down there—”
I saw Dan growing agitated at the mere idea of Kat flying to Nigeria, so I decided to change the subject. “How can Marie help?”
“She can put pressure on the government, write an exposé, flash her AP credentials all over the place.”
“Marie?” Elizabeth scrunched her face. “I thought she wrote for Cosmo. She has AP credentials?”
“Yes . . .” I hadn’t thought of asking Marie for help, but the idea definitely had merit. “She’s freelance, but she’s also contract staff with the Chicago Sun, and they’re a member of the AP. She could do a human interest piece on Greg, on the abduction.”
“Human interest piece? This shit is straight-up news,” Alex snorted, shaking his head. “She might win a Pulitzer.”
CHAPTER 8
Dear Husband,
I was thinking about you and decided I would write you a little letter to let you know how much I love you. We used to write each other love notes often when we were dating and early on in our marriage. I know that life has become super hectic, especially with our two little blessings' schedules keeping us on the go and worn out, but I want to try to be better about taking time to let you know how I'm feeling, even if it's just a quick note every once in a while…
-Allison
Letter (written during lunch break at work)
Texas, USA
Married 18 years
Present Day
Fiona
I waited. And waited.
And waited.
Just after 2:00 a.m. on Friday, local time, I was released from my crate.
I was happy to be out of the crate.
I was thankful for the crate, but—after twelve hours—I also hated the crate.
“Are you okay? Do you need water?” a faceless female asked, accompanied by gentle hands reaching into the box.