Page 64 of Duty Compromised
I shook my head against his shirt. “I don’t feel extraordinary. I feel like I’m drowning.”
“That’s because you’re human.” His hand kept moving in those steady circles, each pass loosening something wound tight in my chest just a little bit. “Not the walking computer everyone seems to think you are. You’ve been rammed off the road, attacked, had your sanctuary violated, and have been awake working for nearly two days straight. You’re allowed to break.”
“I don’t know how to break.” The admission came out raw. “I don’t know how to process any of this.”
“You’re doing it right now, and it’s okay.” He pressed his lips to the top of my head, just for a moment. We sat there for another minute, maybe two, his hand still moving in those slow circles while my breathing gradually steadied. The highway stretched empty in both directions, but I could feel the tension in his body, the constant vigilance even as he comforted me.
“We should keep moving,” he said finally, his voice soft, reluctant. “We can’t stay out here on the road exposed like this…”
He didn’t need to finish. I understood. I was putting us at risk. It didn’t matter how much I wanted to stay in his arms. It didn’t matter if he was the first man ever whose arms I wanted to stay in.
“Okay.” I pulled away slowly, already missing the solid warmth of him.
As he merged back onto the highway, I noticed how he held his left arm closer to his body, how his breathing stayed deliberately shallow. He was in more pain than he’d admit.
After a few minutes, he pulled out his phone, steering with one hand. “Need to update George on what happened.”
The phone rang through the truck’s speakers. Once. Twice. Three times. Four.
Voicemail.
“You’ve reached Special Agent George Mercer. Leave a message.”
Ty’s jaw went rigid. “George, it’s Ty. Situation at Vertex was FUBAR. We got the equipment we needed, but barely. We’re clear of the immediate area but need that safe house location now. Running out of options here. Call me.”
He ended the call, tossing the phone into the cupholder with barely controlled violence. “Hell of a time for him not to pick up.”
“Maybe he’s in a meeting.” I cringed. It was nearly midnight. Why would he be in a meeting?
“George doesn’t miss calls during active operations, even this late. Not unless—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening further.
We drove in tense silence for another few minutes, the highway empty except for the occasional semitruck thundering past. My eyes were gritty, and even staying conscious felt nearly impossible. I didn’t know how Ty was so focused despite being in worse shape than me.
The phone finally buzzed. Not a call—a text. Ty grabbed it, eyes flicking between screen and road.
“It’s from George.” He handed me the phone. “What’s it say?”
I read aloud, my voice still thick from crying. “Safe house address: 1847 Oak Ridge Road, toward Springfield. Not ready for at least three hours.”
“Three hours.” His knuckles clenched on the steering wheel. “We need somewhere now. Can’t stay exposed this long.”
As if in answer, a motel sign materialized from the darkness—Sunset Inn, the neon letters stuttering between pink and orange like a dying heartbeat. The kind of place where people went to disappear, to hide, to do things they didn’t want witnessed.
“There.” He pointed, already slowing for the exit. “We’ll hole up for a few hours, then move to the safe house when it’s ready.”
The parking lot sprawled before us, cracked asphalt and shadows. A few cars huddled near the office like moths drawn to the sickly yellow light behind grimy glass. Everything about the place made my skin crawl—the boarded window on the second floor, the dumpster overflowing with things I didn’t want to identify, the way darkness seemed to pool between the surrounding buildings.
Two weeks ago, I wouldn’t have entered a place like this for any amount of money.
Two weeks ago, I’d been a different person entirely.
Ty pulled into a spot near the edge of the lot, positioning the truck again for a quick exit. He turned off the engine but left the keys in the ignition. Even that small movement made him pause, breathing through what was obviously a wave of pain.
I reached for the door handle, desperate to lie down, to close my eyes, to pretend for just a few minutes that we weren’t running for our lives.
“Wait.” His hand caught my arm, gentle but firm. “Stay in the truck until I come back.”
“But—”
