her yawn. “Cut me some slack. I had a late one, so I slept in.”
Even with my chest swelling with smugness, I’m not taking any credit for the huskiness of her words. We talked until the wee hours of this morning, but that was more to drown out the noises I didn’t want to hear two rooms over than anything else. We behaved—for the most part.
I can’t say the same for Isabelle and Isaac. If I had any doubt they hadn’t acted on the bristling chemistry that bounced between them last night, I don’t anymore.
Disturbed by the waywardness of my thoughts the past week, I squish my phone closer to my ear before asking, “Can you give me the deets on Carlyle Shroud? Something fishy is still going on here, but it feels murkier than just a kidnap-for-sale arrangement.”
“Just a kidnap-for-sale arrangement? Jesus, Brandon, you’ve been in the field too long. Time for desk duty.”
I physically gag. “I’d rather die than work behind a desk. The months I spent at HQ between placements were bad enough.”
Phillipa’s laugh does weird things to my cock, but since I’m trying to pretend it isn’t hardening in the middle of the day like a freak, I shift my focus elsewhere. “Did Grayson log movement sheets last night?”
“Yeah,” Phillipa replies between keystrokes. “He also requested additional comms for the event he referenced last night.”
“Was permission granted?”
I smile in gratitude when she says, “It was when I pushed through his request. You’re right, BJ, sometimes flexing a bit of muscle does more good than bad.” She breathes slowly out before asking, “Got a pen?”
I yank a notepad and pen from the breast pocket of my suit jacket before telling her to go ahead.
Once I have Carlyle’s details jotted down, I thank Phillipa for her assistance before joining Isaac next to the only window in Megan’s room. Pretending Phillipa’s husky request for me to call her tonight wasn’t laced with hidden innuendo, I lock my eyes with Isaac and say, “Boss… umm… Isaac.”
My ruse is played to perfection. Not only does Isaac’s chest rise so fast I’m confident I am moments away from having my eye gouged out by one of his peacock feathers, he reminds me were on an even playing field. “You can call me Isaac. I'm not your boss.” It gains him my respect. A lesser man would have tried to play on my ‘supposed’ insecurities.
Isaac listens intently when I disclose, “I called in a favor with a girl I know. The owner of this property is Carlyle Shroud. He's fifty-eight years old and has been receiving disability checks since a workplace injury nearly two decades ago.” Even with knowing everything I’m informing him by heart, I read it off my notepad. It makes it seem as if I am as unknowledgeable in this case as his crew, which keeps the playing field even as he strived to make it only seconds ago. “His disability checks have been deposited each month, but none of his bank accounts have been utilized in months, which is surprising. Carlyle is what you might call the local drunk. More than eighty percent of his support payments are spent at the liquor store in town.”
“Does he have any vehicles registered in his name?” Isaac asks, curious.
Nodding, I flick through my notepad. “Yes, one. A black Dodge truck, license plate number 44W—”
My eyes float up from my notepad when Isaac interrupts, “2285?”
When I nod, his features flood with devastation before he yanks at the window we’re standing next to. When it fails to budge from his frantic tugs, he smashes his elbow through the glass like he’s a drug lord outrunning the DEA.
The urgency of his panic comes to light when he shouts out the window, “Where’s Isabelle?”
Carlyle’s only mode of transportation is parked at the front of his shed, and we’re miles from the closest town.
That can only mean one thing.
He’s still here.
When Isaac shouts for Hugo to “Get Isabelle,” I follow his sprint down the warped stairs. They’re not sturdy enough to take the weight of our frantic stomps, but we take the risk, preferring to fall through the rickety wood than have Isabelle reach the barn she’s pacing toward before us.
During our sprint across the overgrown field, I call in backup. “My name is Brandon James. I'm an FBI field agent. My number is 443567. I need an ambulance and a police unit brought to 15634 Snow Mountain Road, Parkerville.”
My stomach gurgles when I request a first