Page 20 of Calypso's Shield
“Nothing,” I bite out. He wouldn’t understand the mess I’ve gotten myself into, and I sure as hell don’t have the energy to explain it.
Ponder scoffs. “Then sit the fuck down and get to work. We’ve got missing kids who need our help.”
Like I don’t fucking know that. Like I’m not already losing sleep over it.
I sink into my chair, ignoring him, and wake my computer. Logging in, I open my case files, my fingers moving on autopilot until I come across a name.
Gareth Downs. One of the kids the Royal Harlots rescued.
A flash of relief washes through me. At least one of them made it. But if I can’t be out there helping them end thistrafficking ring, I’ll do what I can from this side. I start digging, running an extensive background check, making sure nothing leads back to the Royal Harlots or the Royal Bastards when this ring finally collapses.
My phone lights up with a text.
Calypso: We’re done. Scarlett sent most of the kids your way. Be ready.
Me: How many?
Calypso: Twenty. The hospital will call once they arrive.
Me: Any casualties?
Calypso: No children.
My shoulders ease, but I don’t exhale. The chat bubbles pop up and then disappear. She’s hesitating.
Calypso: I understand if you don’t want to come back here. What you needed to do is done.
The words hit like a punch to the ribs. She thinks I’m walking away? That I’d leave after this? Fuck that.
Me: Fuck that. I’ll be there as soon as I can.
Calypso: I don’t know how this is going to work. I’m an outlaw. You’re not.
Me: We’ll figure this out.
Calypso: We’ll see.
Me: Keep pushing me away, and I’ll take you over my knee, swat that beautiful ass until it’s red with my handprints, and you’re begging me to take you.
Calypso: Promises, promises. Don’t make threats you can’t back up, Farris.
Me: Oh, I can and will.
Calypso: We’ll see.
“Dalton! Incoming.” I jerk my head up as Ponder slams his phone down. “Multiple victims just dropped off at the hospital.”
I grab my jacket. Showtime.
Fifteen minutes later, the hospital is chaos.
Nurses rush between gurneys, their voices urgent but controlled. Children are crying. Some are in pain, some in pure, bone-deep terror. Doctors work frantically, trying to assess injuries and keep them calm. The air is thick with antiseptic and something worse, something primal. Fear.
My stomach twists at the sight of them. Bloodied, bruised, malnourished. Hollow eyes that have seen too much.
I stop at the edge of the ER, my throat tightening. A little girl, no older than five, clutches a teddy bear with one ear missing. Her tiny fingers grip the fur so tightly they’re turning white. A nurse kneels in front of her, whispering soft reassurances, but the girl doesn’t react. She just stares through the nurse with a vacant, empty gaze.
How many months did she spend locked in a cage? How many nights did she cry for parents that never came?
