Page 164 of Protecting You

Grant shot Callan a look over his shoulder, clearly surprised.

Callan was a little surprised himself.

If Alyssa had told him what her cousins had planned, he might’ve eschewed their help. He might’ve let his pride and his own desperate need to stay in control get in the way.

But his pride was gone.

His need to stay in control? MIA.

Callan didn’t care how Alyssa and Peri were rescued. He didn’t care that Alyssa’s cousins had thought of something that had never occurred to him.

Not because it wasn’t an option, but because he’d believed, foolishly, that he had it all under control.

Stupid, stupid pride.

“We’re going to work together, Gavin,” Callan said, “to bring both our daughters home.”

“She’s good,” Grant said.

Callan looked at the orange dot moving on the phone screen.

The blue one stayed in place.

“They found the decoy.” Grant sounded triumphant as he focused on the phone. “Good job, bro. They think they’re in the clear.” He looked up at Callan, and smiled.

“We’ve got them.” For the first time since this whole thing started, Callan—thanks to these Wright brothers—was a step ahead.

CHAPTERTHIRTY-SEVEN

Alyssa shivered in the cold wind. Why hadn’t she brought her jacket?

Ghazi and Benson had loaded her onto a speedboat. Another man was driving. All three of them wore thick, padded winter parkas. The driver had a hood pulled up over his head, so she’d barely gotten a look at his face.

Ghazi sat on one side of her, Benson the other. As if they feared Alyssa might jump into the freezing North Atlantic waters and try to swim for it.

Leaving Peri to her fate.

Poor Peri. She imagined the child, wearing her sweet little flowered dress, taking this same ride. She must’ve been so afraid.

Alyssa was an adult. She knew Callan, Dad, and Grant were following her progress. And even so, she was terrified.

She tried not to worry about the tracker.

It was working. Grant had confirmed that in his text as she’d driven away.

She’d sewn the tiny thing—no larger than her thumbnail—beneath the hooks in her bra. The fabric there was naturally stiff, and men didn’t know bras. Nobody would notice if it was a smidge stiffer in one spot than the rest.

It’d worked. Benson hadn’t found it.

Unlike the cheap tracker hehadfound, the one still with her was connected to a satellite. No need for Wi-Fi or phones. Even out here, bouncing across the rough water, it would work.

She watched the shoreline as the sun dipped behind the trees. The forest had always seemed a magical place to her, filled with treasures and mysteries.

Unlike the ocean—vast and cold and cruel.

The Portland Headlight rose in the distance, the white column gold in the setting sun.

She and Callan had been there, together, just a few hours before. Not for any romantic reasons, though she should’ve told him how she felt. Who cared if he rejected her—again? At least he’d know.

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