Hidden - Laura Griffin Page 0,101
corner, and Jacob’s pulse kicked up. Tall, bulky. He wore jeans, a baseball cap, and sunglasses. Jacob watched through the binocs as he approached the Western Union office from the opposite side of the street.
“Jacob?”
“I have to go.”
“Oh my God, is he there?”
It was Langham. Jacob knew it with every cell in his body. Where was the takedown team?
“Call me back,” Kendra said.
“I will.”
Jacob watched him, clenching his teeth. The man waited for a break in traffic and then jogged across. It was only half a block to the office, and now Jacob could only see his back.
But it was him. He knew it.
Jacob thought about Robin Nally in the mud by the lake. He thought about Scott Rydell with his neck cut open, decomposing in the summer heat. He thought about Bailey bolting upright in bed with the sheets tangled around her. Jacob had been doing this job twelve years, and he’d never wanted an arrest like he wanted this one.
The man glanced over his shoulder as he neared the office. He reached for the door.
Two SWAT teams rounded the corners and were on him like a pack of wolves. The black-clad officers had him on the ground and handcuffed in under three seconds.
Jacob held his breath as they patted him down. The man’s face was turned away and pressed flat against the pavement. His baseball cap had come off, revealing a dark buzz cut like the runner on the lake had described to Jacob and Kendra.
Sirens filled the air. Vehicles converged on the scene. Soon the entire block was swarming with SWAT jocks and special agents with flak vests strapped over their clothes. Jacob set the binoculars aside and watched everything unfold.
The knot of tension in his chest loosened. He tipped his head back against the seat and thought of Bailey at that juice bar, striding up to him with a press pass around her neck and a determined gleam in her eye. She’d had no idea what she was in for.
Neither had Jacob.
He took a deep breath. Then he picked up his phone and texted his partner.
IT’S DONE.
* * *
* * *
BAILEY LAY ON the lounge chair gazing up at the stars. Loose guitar chords drifted over the trees, and she closed her eyes to relax.
Maybe she’d sleep tonight.
Maybe she wouldn’t.
She hated the bouts of panic and the cold sweats. But Jacob’s special brand of physical therapy made up for it.
A chorus of cicadas surrounded her, adding to the guitar music. And then she heard the familiar rumble of a truck pulling into the driveway. Bailey’s pulse picked up as the engine cut off.
She closed her eyes and waited. The front door opened and closed. Then the back-porch light came on. The back door creaked, and she heard footsteps on the deck.
“Hi, honey, I’m home.”
She smiled without opening her eyes. “Hi, honey, you’re late.”
They’d been doing the honey-I’m-home thing for weeks now. It helped gloss over the uncertainty about their new living arrangement.
“I stopped to get your mail. And while I was in your neighborhood, I stopped at Eli’s for veggie supreme, extra jalapeño.”
She opened her eyes. “God, that sounds awesome. Thanks.” She lifted her hand to her forehead to block the glare of the porch light.
Jacob gazed down at her with his hands on his hips. His sleeves were rolled up, his shirt was wrinkled, and his thick, dark hair was oddly windblown.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
“Yeah. Why?”
“You look . . . whipped.”
He smiled. “I’m completely, utterly whipped.”
“What happened?”
“And I’m starving. Come on.” He held out a hand and helped her to her feet. Then he picked up her crutches and waited patiently as she snugged them under her arms.
“How was work?” he asked as he opened the door for her.
“Boring as hell.” She loped into the kitchen and balanced on one crutch as she took a bottle of wine from the fridge. “They’ve got me fact-checking football stats now. I swear, all this desk work is driving me batty. If Max doesn’t give me back my beat soon, I’m going to lose it.”
Jacob got down a pair of glasses and took over the wine pouring.
“They’ll give it back as soon as you’re walking again.” He handed her a glass and poured one for himself.
“I thought you didn’t like pinot grigio?”
“I don’t.” He smiled and clinked his glass against hers. “Cheers.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “What’s going on?”
He set his glass down on the counter and leaned back against it, watching her.
Bailey’s stomach knotted. “What? You’re making