Page 143 of Wyatt

“Hey!” shouted one of the nearby officers, but he ignored him.

Tate held up his hand to the officers, walked over and crouched next to Wyatt.

Wyatt emerged with a crumpled receipt and a pair of keys. He unfolded the paper. “It’s for a campground. An overnight camping permit.”

He examined the keys. “A Subaru car key. And this bunch looks like the kind of keys to a master lock, a padlock type.”

“A camper key?” Tate said.

York had followed them and now stood, scanning the cityscape.

“We need a computer hacker,” Tate said. “Someone who could trace that phone signal.”

“Our hacker might be locked in a car.” York’s jaw tightened.

“And we’d have to make the call to follow the signal,” Wyatt said. “So that’s a no.”

Please, God. Help me find her.

Wyatt was shaking now, the cold finding his bones. From the pain radiating through him, he’d seriously injured his hip. He was still coughing, too, his lungs probably swimming with diesel fuel.

Oh, why had he left her in the first place? If he hadn’t been such a coward—

You’re pretty hard on yourself, Guns. But the more you focus on your failures, the more cluttered your brain will be.

He took a breath, trying to think. So maybe he didn’t have to have all the answers. And maybe hewasfocused too much on his failures. Sort of went with the job, really.

But maybe he needed to start looking at his blessings.

Like Mikka, back at the hospital, waiting for his daddy to bring his mommy home.

Back at the hospital.

“She’s at the hospital.” Wyatt grabbed Tate’s arm. “He met me at the hospital, and we took an Uber here. He had to have…well, what if he parked at the hospital?”

“He could have parked anywhere and taken a cab to the hospital.”

“He said he wasn’t a terrorist. He wasn’t trying to get people killed.”

“Except Kat,” York growled.

Tate was nodding. “Let’s go.”

Wyatt bit back the grinding in his hips as he followed Tate and York through the crowd, toward the exit.

Tate led them over to a black SUV, talked to the agent standing near the driver’s door, and by the time Wyatt caught up, Tate had slid in behind the wheel.

York jumped in the front beside him. Of course.

Wyatt slipped into the back seat, stifling a groan. “Go!”

He leaned up, backseat driving as they cut through the city. “C’mon, Tate.”

“Sit back! We’ll get there.”

“Take a right!”

“I can see the GPS—”

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