Page 62 of Under Cover
You can’t fix the whole world, Crosby.
He wasn’t sure whose voice it was—coulda been Harding’s, coulda been Natalia’s, coulda been Garcia. But whoever was talking in his head, it set up a howl of homesickness he wasn’t sure he could drown out.
He pulled the quilt and one of two pillows from the bed and threw them at Junior before kicking off his boots and hunting around the place until he found the tiny chest of drawers next to the closet.
Sweatpants and T-shirts, clean but used, with the Goodwill tags still on ’em.
Fuckin’ subtle, McEnany. Subtle.
Didn’t matter. Crosby would get new clothes tomorrow when he bought socks and underwear, so he didn’t have to worry about McEnany feeling like he owned Crosby with his gesture of “goodwill,” and in the meantime he’d share the bed with his gun belt and cover up with his Kevlar on top of the blankets. He was aware any one of the heavily armed guys three apartments beneath him could crawl up the stairs and take him out when he was sleeping.
He locked the door—and the two chains and three bolts—to make himself feel better about not dying in his sleep, fully aware that Junior on the couch might be the one to do the honors.
But Junior was curling up very much like the whipped puppy he seemed to be, and Crosby wasbeatto his toes. He slid out of his jeans and into one of the pairs of sweats and took off his Kevlar before putting his sweatshirt back on.
As he crawled into bed, his phone banged against his hip from his hoodie pocket, and he pulled it out, figuring he had the excuse of texting his girl.
But Junior didn’t even shudder as Crosby pulled up the one blanket and the sheet, trying not to shiver in the spring cold, and Crosby figured that his fleece jacket, the vest, and the sweats should actually give him a little bit of warmth—enough to sleep, maybe—and he hid under his Kevlar tent and pulled out his phone.
Following Garcia’s directions, he found Garcia—whom he’d listed as Callie, spoofing Gail’s number. Get it? Callie, Calix? God, he was pissed off. His humor was fucking savage right now.
Garcia had sent a text about half an hour after his last text, saying he’d gotten to the building safely, and about half an hour before the text that had made McEnany go insane.
Toby’s in the hospital but safe.
Took out five Sons assassins—well financed, well trained, waiting for me and Toby to emerge. They didn’t expect SCTF to hit them like Navy SEALS.
Two other cops loyal to the Sons taken out.
Harding’s PISSED.
Gonna be open season on SCTF. Watch your back, Cowboy, I’ll watch mine.
Ca.
Crosby read the text string six to eight times over, making sure again and again and again that Garcia was okay.
God. He didn’t want to be here in this shitty apartment with this puppy who needed training up and a Kevlar blanket. He wanted to behome, wherever Garcia was, secure in the knowledge that the warm body next to him would keep him safe.
It took him a whole thirty seconds to remember he had info to deliver.
They want me to infiltrate the Forty-Third’s Active Crimes division. Gail’s roommate won’t hire any Sons. Tell Gail to give Iliana fair warning I’m there.
Then, because he had to:God, I’m glad you’re all safe.
And then because he had to say something—something—although he couldn’t sayI love you, could he? Garcia had said it when he’d been asleep. They weren’t there yet, were they? God, he wanted to be there. But he had to say something. Something to say he missed the haven he’d had in Garcia’s arms, in his house. He wanted more.
Take care of the zombie gnome, he wrote at last.I’m gonna want more of them.
He yawned then and reset his phone to the bad guy’s presets before shoving it in his pocket, still on the battery. He had a power cord—he’d plug the whole works in the next day—but right now it was the closest thing he had to home.
“I got work at seven,” Junior said softly into the air. “I’ll be up in a few hours. You can have the other blanket back then.”
Shit. “Thanks, Junior,” Crosby murmured.
He was wondering how long he could go without sleep and if it would be possible to really keep one eye open.
He dozed lightly, his body welcoming even that. At seven, the buzz of the kid’s phone woke him up, and after Junior had stood and yawned, he gave Crosby his blanket before he left.
