Page 184 of Split You Open

“Dixie must’ve put a tracker in his wife or kid,” Anchor goes on. “That’s the only explanation I can think of given that I patted them down for any type of devices that could’ve been tracked.”

I finish up his stitches and toss the needle into the trash.

“Blair must’ve freed the hostages,” I tell him. “Police told us that there was a woman and kid running down the street calling for help.”

Anchor swears violently.

“Hey,” Santi snaps. “She did the right thing!”

“She got rid of our leverage⁠—”

“You don’t hold innocent people hostage! Especially not women and children, you sick fuck!” Wes bellows from where he’s standing by the back door, his body tense. “Blair was fixing your mistake. Thank god she did or they could’ve gotten caught up in the shootout.”

Anchor looks to me as if I will agree with him.

The fuck I will.

“They’re right,” I tell him. “In any case, you got what you wanted. Dixie came to you.”

Anchor’s jaw clenches tight as he glares at me, then the rest of us. He doesn’t see that he’s done anything wrong, that much is clear.

Rhett doesn’t make a sound as he stares out the kitchen window, his back facing us. He’s been stiff and silent since Wes and I brought Anchor back without his daughter. His hands, however, now curl into fists at his side.

“How about,” Wes hedges after a tense silence. “You continue with your story. We need to know it all before we can be any help to Blair.”

Right, count on Wes to get things back on track.

Anchor must agree because he nods once.

“They broke in on both floors at the same time. Blair fought her way up to me. We were cornered in the primary bedroom when we were split up. I’d opened the window and we were going to jump but they came in guns blazing. Blair moved in front of me as they opened fire and—” Anchor abruptly stops talking.

I leave his side to head to the sink to wash my hands and to give myself a chance to tamp down my reaction.

So, Blair’s hurt.

Bile climbs up my throat. I brace my hands on the edge of the sink and force myself to take several deep breaths. It doesn’t help. Not to relax me, or to tamp down the nausea. Pushing away from the sink, I turn to look back at Anchor.

On the other side of the room, Santi groans.

“How hurt is she?” he demands. “What are we going to find when we get her back?”

Anchor doesn’t say anything. The lack of a response makes this so much fucking worse. Because if he can’t assure me that she’s fine—which he would under normal tense situations—then he’s just as scared as we are.

Anchor’s stony expression locks onto me.

Yeah, it’s fucking bad.

I choke down a groan and shove away the terror creeping up my spine.

There’s a tense pause before Anchor breaks the silence to continue, “Blair pushed me out the window before I could grab her and do the exact same thing. I heard her scream for me to run and then… nothing. The way I landed caused the twisted ankle and dislocated shoulder.” He waves dismissively at his injuries as he speaks, his brows crashing together. “I couldn’t do anything without putting myself at risk, too. I knew she’d have a better chance at being saved later on if I got away. But I managed to put my phone in one of the cars that had pulled up. We can track it and find her.”

He put his phone in one of the cars…

This piece of information—good news in the wake of all the bad—is crucial. Everyone erupts into action.

Santi scrambles over to the island and opens his laptop.

“Number, now!” he snaps as Rhett grabs his boots by the back door and shoves them on.