Page 114 of Risky Passion

Whisper let out a low whistle. “Holy smokes, sista. That’s one hell of a battle scar in the making. Your grandkids are gonna love that story.” She turned on her heel. “Give me a sec.”

She disappeared out the door, and before I could even pull on the underwear Yasmin had given me, she returned with Yasmin in tow and the biggest first aid kit I’d ever seen with foldout compartments and supplies that would make even Maya jealous. Then again, Maya probably had a hand in stocking it.

“Wow,” I said, eyeing the kit. “I’m guessing you get your fair share of wounds to dress around here.”

Yasmin set the kit down and flipped it open, folding out its trays like she was cracking open a treasure chest. “You could say that. The Alpha Tactical Ops team could keep an entire hospital ward in business.”

“Speaking of hospitals,” I said, nodding toward her, “have we heard how Aria and Maya are?”

Yasmin sorted through the kit, pulling out bandages and creams. “Yes. They had cuts and bruises, but nothing serious. They were concussed, so the hospital kept them in for observation. But . . .” Shrugging, she flashed a lovely smile. “You know those stubborn bitches.They both checked themselves out early so they could head down to the wharf.”

I huffed, shaking my head. “Sounds like them. Nothing keeps those two down.”

Whisper bumped her hip against mine. “Okay, now spill. Tell us how Jaxson rescued you.”

I giggled, knowing Whisper wouldn’t let it drop. As Yasmin cleaned and dressed my wound, and I sipped the strong coffee, I told them about the plane crash, the armed bastards chasing me through the swamp, the gruesome crocodile attack that I still couldn’t believe I’d witnessed, and how Jaxson found me neck-deep in the water.

“Christ,” Whisper muttered, her wide eyes fixed on me. “I bet you were glad to see him.”

“Well,” I admitted with a small laugh, “at first, I thought he was one of them. He didn’t have a shirt on, and I didn’t recognize him right away.”

Whisper’s jaw dropped, and she clutched her chest dramatically. “Nice! I bet that hottie isbuff.”

“Calm down,” I said, laughing and shaking my head at her. “But, yeah, you could say that.”

Whisper grinned. “Dang, girl. You really did get rescued by a hero.”

Yasmin chuckled as she finished taping the fresh bandage over my wound. “Well, if you’re going to crash a plane, at least you picked the right swamp to land in . . . it was a miracle that he was so close.”

“It’s all a fucking miracle,” Whisper said so loud her words echoed about the room.

As we laughed together, the tension that had gripped my shoulders for hours finally began to ease.

After they left, I dressed and headed down the hallway, my damp hair clinging to the back of my neck. The gymnasium was illuminated by sunlight streaming through the high windows, but several massive floodlights had also been set up. Rows of temporary tables stretched across the space, each one stacked with boxes salvaged from the orphanage fire. Some had already been opened, and their contents were sorted into small, organized piles of papers and photos next to each box.

Near one of the side walls, Cobra stood in front of a makeshiftevidence board. He was putting up notes and photos in neat rows, creating a grim posterboard. As I moved closer, my stomach twisted. The board was full of faces, names, and ages, some with the word deceased written next to them, and so many of them had died far too young.

Ryder and Whisper, my teammates from Border Force, were sitting at one of the tables. Each was quietly focused on a box, their heads bent over papers as they sifted through the contents. At another table, Jaxson’s brothers, Parker and Whitney, were doing the same. Their expressions were a mixture of somberness and quiet curiosity. It was easy to tell that they were triplets. Although they weren’t identical, they all had the same nose, same stunning caramel eyes, same laser focus.

Yasmin must still be with her brother.

Cobra bounded over from the evidence board and at a box with an open lid, he pulled out a handful of paperwork.

“Is there a certain box I should start with?” I asked, breaking the quiet hum of the room. I didn’t want to risk disturbing any kind of order they might have been keeping.

“Take your pick,” he said. “There’s no set plan yet, so dig in. Every piece helps put this puzzle together.”

Nodding, I grabbed one of the unopened boxes from the stack. As I carried it to an empty spot at the table between Whitney and Whisper, the smell of smoke tickled my nose.

I set the box down and lifted the lid.

On top rested a class photo. The edges were curled and yellowed with age, but the image was still clear. The year was written on a chalkboard held by one of the kids in the front row: 1981. Two years before the orphanage was shut down.

The children in the photo were lined up in neat rows with stiff postures, as if someone had barked at them to stand up straight. They were all different heights and sizes, but one thing united them: the sadness in their eyes. Not a single child was smiling. Their faces were pale, their clothes ill-fitting, and their bodies were painfully thin.

It was creepy and painfully sad.

A lump formed in my throat as I set the photo aside. I didn’t knowwhat I expected to find in these boxes, but I doubted any of it was going to bring a smile.

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