Page 62 of Entwined With You

Every.

Single.

Part.

Honestly, I’m so relaxed when the timer I set goes off that I want to text Morris that we’ll grab our drink tomorrow.

Which I would. Except this isn’t just a drink. This is our How We Handle Being The Two Double Agents at Group Ultra chat.

That’s why I force myself to my feet with a sigh of pleasure coupled with a groan of annoyance.

“I really wish I was staying,” I tell Brax, who’s stretched out naked on top of the bed covers.

“So do I,” he says.

“Hold that thought. The bar’s only twenty minutes away. Another twenty for a drink and our chat, and twenty back home. An hour. Tops. I’ll try to make it in fifty-two minutes.

He grins, taps the button on his watch to start the timer, and says, “Go.”

I roll my eyes, race through finishing getting dressed, then sprint down to my car.

I actually make it to the bar—uninspiringly named Joe’s—in seventeen minutes.

Clearly, it’s shaping up to be a stellar day.

I wave to the owner, and since I don’t see Morris, I head to the back to hit the rest room before grabbing us a table. There’s only the one, and while the doorknob turns, the door itself is stuck.

I frown, then put my shoulder against the door and push until it’s open enough for me to barely squeeze through.

I get my head in, then look down to see what the obstruction is.

It’s Morris.

I scream and jerk back automatically, banging my skull in the process.

I pull out my phone and dial 911, then push through the exit to the alley just so I can get some air.

I don’t even have a chance to draw a breath before someone tall and strong hits me over the head, knocks my phone from my hand, and the rest of the world goes completely black.

Brax stared at the body on the floor of the bathroom stall. Morris Grey had been tortured before he’d been killed. Somebody had locked themselves in the one-hole bathroom and spent his time making sure Morris had a long, long night filled with nothing but pain.

He wondered what Grey had given up. If Group Ultra now knew that Sabrina was working with Stark Security and the SOC.

Of course they did. That’s why they’d taken her.

And that’s why they would kill her once they squeezed every bit of intel out of her.

They had to hurry. Dear god, they had to hurry.

Nausea rose, and he forced it down. Physical aches, regrets, should-haves. All of those were useless now. All that mattered—all that he could permit himself to focus on—was getting her back. Locating her. Getting to her. Setting her free.

And then holding her tight until he was certain she was real and safe and alive.

“We’ll get her back,” Mason said, standing beside him and looking down at the corpse with an expression that was both determined and sad.

“We will,” Brax said, because no other option was possible.

His phone rang, and he snatched it up eagerly, a tiny sprig of hope blooming when he saw that the call was from Quincy. “Tell me,” he said, without preamble.