Page 43 of Undertow

“Cara and I will go,” Reagan said. She said it simply, like it was obvious. It was.

“Wade stays,” Gabe said. He eyed Tom. “We need to maximize security here.”

Wade didn’t argue. Which told Gabe the knee was worse than Wade was letting on, because the Wade who was fine would have argued.

Piper raised her hand. “For the record, I’m right here. And I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Agree to disagree, hon. You need to finish chapter seven,” Tom said without looking up.

“This is literally a hostage situation.”

Tom’s tone remained mild. “Show your work on the proofs.”

Muttering, Piper went back to the textbook.

Cara grabbed her jacket and paused at the door. Her eyes found Gabe’s and held.

Neither of them said anything. They didn’t need to. The conversation they weren’t having was louder than a real one.

She nodded. Barely. Then she and Reagan were out the door.

Gabe watched the car back out of the driveway.

The application deadline loomed. He’d need to call Tyler Price and explain the leave.

He hadn’t thought about any of it. Not once. And that, more than anything—more than the photos, more than the ambush, more than the look in Cara’s eyes at the door—told him what he already knew.

He’d already made his choice. The application was a formality. The badge was a question. And the answer was in this room, with these people, in this fight that had no legal standing and no sanctioned authority and no exit strategy.

He poured another cup of coffee. Sat down across from Tom. And got to work.

22

Reagan drove. Cara hadn’t asked her to—Reagan had simply walked to the driver’s side, and Cara had let her, because her ribs were screaming.

The ribs were worse this morning. Every bump in the road sent a bright thread of pain through her side. Gabe’s posture had shifted when she’d reached for her jacket, the slight forward lean that said he’d wanted to help and had stopped himself, the jaw that tightened when she’d moved stiffly past him.

She didn’t know what to do with that. The protectiveness. It wasn’t possessive—Gabe wasn’t wired that way. It was something quieter and more dangerous. She’d spent most of her adult life making sure no one tracked her damage—hiding the bruises, minimizing the limp, constructing a version of herself that didn’t need monitoring.

She wasn’t used to any of it—not the warmth in her chest, not the panic it put right beside it, not the terrifying implication that someone could see her clearly and still choose to lean closer instead of away.

She shifted in her seat. The ribs objected.

The coast highway unspooled ahead of them. Gray sky, gray water, the monochrome of the Oregon coast in January that made the whole world feel like a pencil sketch.

Sara Medina’s house was a small bungalow on a street that dead-ended at a bluff. Cedar shingles gone silver with salt air. A garden that had been loved once and was now merely maintained. Wind chimes on the porch that rang in a key sounding like loneliness.

Reagan peered over the steering wheel, studying the house. “Think Elena’s in there?”

“No. The woman we’ve been studying wouldn’t put a friend in danger that way.”

Reagan pursed her lips, nodding. “Yeah, that’s my read, too. Still, I think I’ll hang out here, watch the back.”

“Good idea.” Cara opened the door and slid out of the vehicle. She hurried up the front steps and knocked.

The door opened two inches. Chain on. One eye, dark and frightened, scanning past Cara to the street behind her.

“Sara Medina?”