CHAPTER 10
JAKE WAS A BEAUTIFUL MAN when he was sleeping. There was a heart-aching peacefulness on his countenance Aria rarely saw in his expression. Dark lashes whispered across his cheeks and his blonde whiskers were raked by the morning sun, lifting the copper and gold from his beard. High cheekbones, a scar deep in the well of his cheek, another along his jaw, and best of all, the sweet, simple rhythm of his chest, rising and falling beneath the thin sheet over his body.
Across from them, Mimi also slept. Yola had spent the night curled up beside her on the bed, Angel in the recliner they’d found and wheeled into the patient room.
He’d scared her. Right down to her marrow. This strong man, felled by the shock to his body that seared his hand and set his heart quivering, unsure if it wanted to resume function.
Please, God, keep him alive.
Aria had slid right into praying as she and Yola got him up into the hallway, as she pumped his chest, restarting his heart for the second time, as she breathed for him, praying it was enough. He’d come back to her.
Then died again, twenty minutes later. This time, tears raked down her cheeks, and she’d begged God audibly.
He’d rebounded more quickly. And since then, kept breathing, albeit reluctantly.
She’d watched him for hours, even after she took the tube out, a dread in her gut.
She couldn’t lose him. The sense of it burrowed deep, took root.
She couldn’t lose him, because despite herself, she could love this man. Let him inside her heart to find a home.
Because Jake had the ability to look past all her walls and see the truth.
Speak it.
She felt most alive when she was saving lives. When she faced trauma, disaster, and the impossible head-on and fought to survive.
Maybe it wasn’t Kia’s heart beating inside her that pushed her to this life, but something inside her soul.
Kia’s heart just made it possible to live the way she was born to.
“You’re pretty good at this trauma doc thing.”
His words, but with them a memory walked in, took root.
Ten-year-old Kia on her bike—the one with the fat wheels—racing down the driveway into the street. Aria, of course, sat on the steps of their home, watching, reading a book. Anne with an E.
“Are you okay, Houlihan?”
She looked over, and Jake’s eyes had opened, searching her face. Clearly, this man could read her mind.
Lifting a shoulder, she gave him a wry smile. “I was thinking about my sister, and the day, well, that I decided to become a doctor.”
“Yeah?” he said and rolled over, curling his injured hand to his chest. He was a big man—he took up almost all of the bed, but somehow still looked so painfully vulnerable.
Thank you, God, that she hadn’t lost him.
“Yeah. It was a Saturday. I was reading, of course, and Kia took off on her bike. It was just a normal day, and I just kept reading. Then I heard tires squealing, a scream, and suddenly, I saw Kia flip over the front of a station wagon. Scared the life out of me.”
“I’ll bet.”
“I ran down to her, and she was crumpled on the other side of the street, screaming. The car’s driver had stopped, but I got there first.” She made a face. “Kia’s forearm hung at this brutal angle, both her radius and ulna broken midway between her wrist and elbow. And while she was screaming, I was mesmerized.”
She expected disgust in his expression. Instead, he wore a smile, nodding. “Of course you were.”
See? “I grabbed her arm, right behind the break, to stabilize it. And I said, ‘It’s going to be okay,’ although I had no idea what I was saying. I remember a neighbor showing up, shouting that she’d called 911. Kia had scraped her jaw, and her helmet bore a black scrub from where she hit it against the curb.”
“Yay for helmets,” Jake said.
“Always. Kia just kept saying, ‘It’s broken. It’s broken,’ as if she couldn’t believe it. And I said, stupidly, ‘Well, of course it is.’ I mean, it was so obvious. I had no idea that she was going into shock. I think I even told her it was really gross.”
She laughed, seeing Kia’s dirty face, her tears, the way she looked at her, almost a spark of anger in her eyes.
“She was really freaked out that they might have to give her a shot. I told her it was like a bee sting, and then all the pain would go away.”
“So, you lied.”
“Yes. Although I’d had so many needles by then, I was pretty used to it. But Kia was absolutely traumatized by needles, so . . . yeah, I lied. But she was always so brave, and she was being this pansy.”
Jake said nothing, an unnamed emotion in his blue eyes. She was caught in them for a moment.
“I remember the driver yelling at Kia, telling her she should have watched where she was going. She was clearly unravelling, but I think I must have gotten up to protect her, because all I remember is my dad showing up. He had come from the house, wearing his scrubs on his way to work. He worked the night shift, trauma nurse. I remember him turning to the woman and saying that blaming didn’t help. But . . . then he looked at Kia and said that it was going to be just fine. That she was in good hands.”
Jake made a noise, something of agreement.
“I don’t know what it was about that, but I’d spent my whole life wishing . . . well, that I could be like Kia. She never needed me. And suddenly, she did. And I liked being needed.”
“We all like being needed, Aria,” he said quietly.
A heartbeat. A truth. She smiled, meeting his eyes. I need you, Jake.
He was reaching out for her hand when he stilled. “Do you hear that?”
“What?”
He held up his hand and she went silent.
A low humming rattle, in the distance, growing louder with each second.
“That’s a chopper.” Jake pushed himself up. “It’s headed for the hospital.”
“It’s the rescue chopper!” Aria landed on her feet and raced to the window. “I don’t see it.”
“It could be on the other side of the building.” Jake was getting up.
“Stay there.” She put her hand out to stop him as she headed out of the room.
Yola lifted her head. “What’s happening?”
Aria didn’t stop to answer. She raced down the hallway and hit the stairwell door, running up to the third floor, then up the roof access ladder.
The latch on the access door wouldn’t move. She banged on it and pain spiked up her hand. Banged again, not caring. The sound deepened, turned bright and coarse, roaring overhead.
She pushed the door, but it fought back.
Please!
Footsteps behind her—she looked down to see Jake working his way up the stairs.
“What are you doing?”
“Get the door open!”
She turned back, listening to the sound fade, took a step up and set her shoulder against it.
The door moved off its enclosure and broke free. She wedged it up and ran out onto the roof.
Indeed, a chopper, flying north, past them, as if it had already swept the island and was heading home.
She bounced on the roof, waving her arms. “We are here! Help!”
“That’s a coast guard chopper—a Jayhawk. Probably looking for survivors.” Jake had poked his head out of the hatch.
“I don’t care if it’s a spaceship from Mars. We need rescue!” She ran out to the edge of the roof. “Come back!”
Below, the ocean had settled, the waves an eerie green, maybe from the plankton stirred up in the storm.
“Aria.” Jake’s voice was soft, solid in the rattle of her frustration, which was sudden and swift and shaking through her as the orange-and-white chopper vanished. “Aria, it’ll be okay.”
She rounded on him then, unable to stop the rush of emotion from cresting into her voice. “No, it won’t, Jake! We’re stranded here, and look around us! There’s no water, there’s no electricity, the fuel for the generator is going out, and you nearly died. Died. Three times—”
“Shh.” He’d walked out onto the roof now, his arms out. “Shh. But I didn’t. Because of you. I’m going to be fine, and we’re going to get out of here, I promise.”
She stared at him, his words like hands, reaching in to grip her. Hold her.
And then he did. He stepped right up to her and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her to his chest. She rested her head against his breast, listened to his still-beating heart, and let herself breathe.
“I know you’re freaking out. And that you have too much on your plate, and that you feel responsible for all these people, but I promise you’re not in this alone. I’m going to get us out of here. And get you home safely.”
Us home safely. But maybe he meant that.
“You should be in bed.” She stepped away from him.
“I’m tired of being in bed.”
She glanced at his bandaged hand.
“Oh, this?” He raised his hand. “Nothin’.”
Always the tough guy. She rolled her eyes.
He climbed down the ladder after her and closed the vent, not tightly. He seemed to be walking okay, his breathing sound, but she’d like to check his lungs, listen to his heart—
“Do you hear that?”
They stood in the stairwell, the chill from the water rising to turn her skin to gooseflesh. He stilled, listening.
“What—”
Then she heard it too—the sound of a motor, a low humming, echoing up toward them.
“The chopper?”
“Sounds like a boat. It’s got a high-pitched hum.”
He started to descend.
She wanted to grab the back of his shirt, hold him back, but this was what Jake did. Besides, maybe it was the coast guard, on a search mission.
The sound of the motor deepened, revved.
“Jake—”
Glass shattered, a terrific cacophony that shook the entire building. It burst through the hum, a tearing of metal and steel and suddenly the motor roared through the building.
Jake reached the door. “It’s a boat! It broke through the glass windows! And there’s a man in it—”
Then, like the hero he was, he vanished into the disaster.
“Jake!” She followed him down into the water. Bracing and probably riddled with gasoline and other debris, it was black and murky and up past her waist.
The boat had lodged itself against the information booth, the motor still running. Jake reached it, climbed over the edge, and shut it off. A man sat in the bottom, holding his arm, groaning.
“Are you okay?” Jake climbed up onto the information desk and reached for the man. Midthirties, short, cropped hair, with a paunch around the middle and a three-day beard growth. He held his arm to himself, already wrapped in a sling.
“Is this the hospital?”
Aria sloshed up to them. “Yeah. What’s going on?” Close up, he looked like he’d done battle with a wall, or a set of stairs, a survivor of the storm, with bruises on his face, a cut over his eye. “What happened to you?”
“What do you think?” he said, then winced. “Sorry. I need drugs.”
“What you need is to have that arm looked at,” Aria said.
“Are you a doctor?”
“Yes, she is,” Jake said and reached for him. “You’re in good hands.”
Her throat thickened. But yeah, she was made for this. “Let’s get you upstairs,” she said as she helped him off the counter. “Watch out, the water is cold and dirty.”
He eased into it, wincing. Up close, yeah, he’d taken a beating.
“How did you survive the storm?” She helped him toward the stairwell.
“One hour at a time,” he said. “Name’s Hagan.”
“Well, Hagan. You’ve come to the right place. We’ll take good care of you.” They stepped into the stairwell.
“Hey!” Jake’s voice stopped them. He was still standing on the information counter, the water to his ankles, illuminated in the wan light. “Can I borrow your boat?”
Jake had that knotted feeling in his gut. The one that said something wasn’t right.
The man bore all the telltale marks of a beating, and Jake had seen more than a few beatings.
But what was he going to say? “Um, I don’t like the look of this Hagan fella”? Because they all looked a little worn around the gills, beat up and on edge, and who was to say that Hagan hadn’t found his way out of a sinking ship the way the bruises littered his face, his body.
He seemed friendly enough as he sat on the floor on one of the mattresses in the staff lounge. Aria knelt in front of him, running her fingers gently up his arm as he gritted his teeth, trying not to wince.
The arm was deeply bruised, clearly injured, swelling just above his wrist.
“I wish I could get an X-ray,” Aria said. “I can’t be sure. The bone doesn’t feel displaced, but it could be a hairline fracture with the swelling.” She got up and walked over to Jake. “I’m going to try and splint it while you’re out.”
Aw, shoot. Because Jake had been trying to figure out if he should take back the request to borrow the boat.
The man wore grimy black trousers, a gray T-shirt, and beneath his sleeve, a tattoo that looked like some kind of anchor symbol. Maybe he’d served in the military. He was a big man too. Over six feet tall, burled shoulders, as if he spent time outdoors or at the gym. He certainly bore a rough edge about him, something gritty about the way he glanced at Jake, as if sizing him up.
And maybe Jake might have put that aside, attributed it to some wizened sea dog who’d seen too many storms, but if he read his hands right, the guy also had a couple bruises on his knuckles as if he’d given as good as he’d taken.
Yeah, no, Jake wasn’t leaving.
“We need fuel for the gennies. I can’t believe they’ve lasted this long,” Aria said. “And more water, if you can find it. We’ve got about six bottles from the coffee shop, and maybe twenty-four more in the supply, but who knows how long it’ll be before help gets here—if they get here at all . . .”
He cupped his hand under her chin. Met her eyes. “Help will be here.”
She made a face. “You don’t know that.”
The despair in her tone added to the roil in his gut and now he had to go. At least to find fuel.
She sighed. “Oh, what am I saying? I don’t feel good about you leaving. What if you have another seizure?”
He didn’t feel good about leaving either, but for an entirely different reason.
“I’ll be fine. But . . .” He glanced at Hagan. “Maybe I should stay.”
She followed his glance and drew a breath.
And that’s when Yola came into the room, her face drawn. “Mimi’s vent just died. I’m going to have to bag her again.”
Right.
Aria put her hand on his chest. “Don’t get killed. Please.”
“I promise.” He glanced again at Hagan. But the man sat with his head back against the wall, his eyes closed.
Probably Jake was simply jumpy. Overprotective. It came with the territory of being a SEAL. A big brother.
A man in love—
Nope. He could not let himself love her . . . not when he had to walk away from her at the end of this gig. So, he dropped a kiss on the top of Aria’s head and nodded. “I’ll be back in a jiff. I’m going to the harbor to find some fuel in one of those boats. Maybe a radio.”
“Be careful.” The warning came from Hagan, who opened one eye. “The prison was destroyed. There’s gangs out there.” He closed his eyes. “Armed.”
“Lock the stairwell behind me,” he said quietly to Aria.
Angel stood in the hallway. “I want to go with you.” She put Toby down and the puppy scampered to Jake. He picked it up, endured a few kisses on his chin, and walked down to her.
“Angel, no. It’s too dangerous. We don’t know what’s out there. There’s debris everywhere and—”
“What if he came back for me?” Her eyes were wide. “What if Baker came back and I wasn’t there and—”
He put the puppy back into her arms, then put his hands on Angel’s shoulders. “How about if I swing by the youth hostel? Where is it?”
“Just a couple blocks off the harbor, near where you found me.”
“I’ll see if I can find it.” He rubbed the pup behind its ears, and the animal leaned into his hand. “You keep this guy safe, okay?”
She nodded, her blue eyes glistening. “Thanks, Jake.”
He didn’t know why his throat tightened as he walked away. She just seemed so . . . lost, maybe. And oddly familiar, as if a part of him recognized her from a long-ago life.
He went down the hall to grab his backpack, wishing he had a weapon. He’d have to make do with his Leatherman. He dug it out of the pack, shoved the tool into one of his knee pockets, left the pack, and headed down the stairs into the murky waters of the first floor.
Water had continued to seep into the room, reaching his waist as he waded to the boat. A flat-bottom metal skiff, probably used to transport goods across the harbor, it slid easily back into the water. He rolled into it, then checked the motor, turned on the choke, and yanked the pull-start.
It revved on the first try. He kicked it away from the desk, sat on the bottom, and gauged the distance between the water and the top of the door.
No wonder the guy went through the glass. He’d end up with his head off his shoulders if he went through the doors. But the big paned windows still held shards of jagged glass.
Jake puttered over, then turned off the motor and eased the boat through, an eye on the guillotine above.
Outside, the water had started to recede, shiny and dark under the sun, although the parking lot still stood under four feet, he guessed. Toward the center of the island he’d probably find clear roads, but if he wanted diesel fuel, he’d need a yacht, something big.
Something that might also have a working two-way radio.
Overhead the sky had cleared, but the wind still rushed over the island, carrying a bite, something angry from miles offshore. A rank smell saturated the breeze—dead fish, decaying wood and other debris, gasoline in the water. He moved up to the seat and motored away from the building, toward the tiny harbor that edged the hospital grounds, then he turned and got a good look at the building.
A parking light had fallen into the second story and uprooted an outside transformer—and probably accounted for the terrible boom he’d heard that first night. The wind had stripped every window on the south side of the building. He motored around submerged cars and emerged at the back of the hospital. Here, the northern winds had defaced more than windows—the entire back half of the building had been sheared off, the innards open to the wind, and the lethal palm tree that had collapsed their enclave speared the end of the building.
He turned away, unable to look.
Across the harbor, the wind left pickup sticks where homes had once bordered the shoreline. Nothing but rubble—roofing tiles, wood, plaster, furniture, appliances, crushed vehicles.
He prayed there were no bodies, but he wasn’t the only one who thought they could simply hunker down and ride out the storm.
Motoring out into the waterway, he headed west down the shoreline, past a school, its roof torn off, then an elementary school, the playground equipment twisted, destroyed by flying metal. A pileup of boats to his left evidenced a small harbor, but nothing except utility vessels there. He noticed an overturned speedboat with the words Key West Police on the side, and sure enough, he passed the detention center, the grounds edged by fencing and barbed wire, now a knotted tangle. The roof lay half-torn from its foundation, a wall nothing more than rubble, and the main administration building scooted off its foundation.
He kept driving, his gaze skimming the shoreline, water splashing up in a fine spray. Around him, the ocean spat foam at him, driving him into shore, the sun warm on his skin.
In the distance, he spotted a seaplane. Just drifting.
The resorts had taken hits—from torn roofing to destroyed outbuildings, boats and water toys piled up on the shoreline.
No one walked the beaches, the town lethally quiet.
He spotted the Bahama Mama. The tiki roof had blown clear off and vanished, probably out to sea. And a schooner lay in the pool. A downed palm tree blocked the back entrance, right where he’d found Angel.
Seagulls screamed above him as he rounded the shoreline.
The big harbor, the one by Margaritaville, came into view. When he’d driven by, before the storm, it hosted tall-masted sailboats, massive catamarans, and three-story yachts.
Now, the watercraft were piled together like a traffic jam, bumping and hacking at each other’s hulls as the waves drove them into a knot. Many of them were half submerged, others driven onto shore, across the cobblestones.
But there, down the shore, a sixty-foot yacht was moored on the beach, its beautiful blue hull embedded into the sand. He motored up to it and tied off, jumping aboard at the stern, where it sank into the water.
He went first to the captain’s nest, checked on the two-way radio.
Dead.
The fuel tanks were located below the deck, but he found the latches and opened them to reveal the massive diesel holding compartments. They were intact but too big to move, so he got back into his boat, found a nearby skiff, and raided a twelve-gallon square tank off the back. Then he found a hose and siphoned off fuel into the tank.
He loaded the tank into the boat, glancing at the sun. Past noon. He should find them some food.
Nice yacht—and it had a rescue dinghy in the back, a lounge on the upper deck, complete with a stocked bar, and below deck, a fancy galley kitchen. He found the fridge empty, however.
But then . . . oh yes. Spam. He opened a cupboard and discovered three little blue tins stacked in with a can of corn, chili, and sardines.
Odd stock for blue bloods, although maybe it belonged to the staff. He went in search of a bag in the captain’s roost and found another jackpot—the emergency bag.
He’d call it Christmas. Zipping open the bag, he discovered a full emergency supply kit. A dozen water pouches, a handful of protein bars, water purification tablets, flares, candles, a lighter, a whistle, and . . . thank you, Santa, a transistor radio. The batteries looked corroded, but maybe he could find more.
He packed it back up, added the canned goods, and headed back out to the skiff. The sun had dropped, hovering midpoint into the afternoon, the sky a deep, hopeful blue.
For a moment, he stood, staring out into the horizon. Blew out a breath.
So maybe he was impulsive. And made some doozy mistakes. But . . . I am forgiven. I am clean.
He wanted that more than he could admit.
Jake was pushing off when Angel’s words skimmed through his mind. “What if he’s out there?”
The wavering in her voice made him decide to take a look.
After double-checking his line, he got out and headed across the beachhead toward town. She’d said the hostel was near the beach where he’d found her, so maybe he’d just wander down a few streets looking for life.
Water flooded the streets, up to his knees in some parts, dry in others, as he headed out of the shopping district into the residential area. Broken tree limbs, roofing, soggy drywall, fencing, and grimy, pressed earth littered the streets. “Hello? Anyone here?”
A few seagulls cried overhead, but even the wind didn’t answer. He turned down another street.
The neighborhoods in this part of town betrayed an age and character resonant of the twenties and thirties, with deep porches and fenced yards. Hurricane windows. And all abandoned. “Hello? Anyone need help?”
Oh, this was fruitless. He didn’t have a clue where the hostel might be in all this mess.
And probably, Angel was better off without the jerk. Any man who took off when things got prickly . . .
No. That wasn’t what he was doing with Aria. He was respecting her fears. Walking away first, before she had to run away.
He was turning when he heard it—a shout, distant but clear.
“Over here!”
Jake stopped. “Where?”
“I’m here!”
He followed the voice. “Call again!”
“On this roof! Over here!”
He jogged down the street and spotted a kid standing on the veranda of a dilapidated two-story house. Half the roof had blown off, tiles scattered on the street, and the grounds were surrounded by water, a moat around the house.
“Are you okay, kid?”
A boy with short brown hair looked down at Jake like he might be seeing a Marvel hero.
“I’m trapped. The roof collapsed and I didn’t know how to get down.”
“Right. Okay.” Jake measured the distance—too high to jump, but maybe—“Hang tight.”
He’d passed a piece of two-by-four and now ran back, pulling it up from the water. Maybe twelve feet long, it might work.
He came back and set the two-by-four against the house. “Climb down. I’ll hold this and you can shimmy down.”
The kid stood there, considering Jake’s words.
“What’s your name?”
“Bailey.”
“Okay, Bailey. Just put your foot over the edge and climb down. Hang on until you reach the board. I won’t let you fall.”
He guessed the kid to be around age ten. At ten Jake remembered being willful, tough, and just stupid enough to put his foot over the edge and take a risk if some guy told him to.
Bailey was definitely ten. He threw his legs over the veranda wall and slid down, holding himself a long moment before he climbed onto the board. Jake braced it between his legs as he shimmied down, over the knee-high fence and onto the street.
“Nicely done,” Jake said, giving the kid a quick, cursory check over. Grimy, soggy, but he seemed to be fine. “What are you doing out here?”
“I was looking for my dog. He ran away in the storm, and then it hit and I didn’t know where to go, so—”
“You weathered the storm . . . here?” Jake spotted a no-trespassing sign on the fence.
“It’s an abandoned house. I thought . . . it had a big claw-foot tub, so I thought maybe I’d be safe . . .” He lifted a shoulder, and that’s when Jake spotted the reddened eyes, the streaks down his cheeks.
“Okay, kid. Let’s bring you home. Where do you live?”
Bailey pointed deeper into the neighborhoods. “But there’s nobody there. My dad works for the police department and left before the storm to evacuate people.”
“He left you home alone?”
“I was at a friend’s house. My mom was supposed to come and get me after her shift at the hospital, and when she didn’t, I went home. But the house was empty, and my dog was gone. I thought he got out of the yard, so I went to look for him.”
“They evacuated the hospital, kid. There’s no one there.”
From the shock on the kid’s face, maybe that could have come out better. Jake blew out a breath. “Okay, let’s go to your house and see if your mom is there.”
Bailey nodded, a little spark in his brown eyes.
They walked down the streets, the houses turning smaller, more compact, bungalows nestled practically side by side with only fencing separating them. The storm had ravaged all the homes in some way—peeled roofing, shredded fencing, broken windows, missing front porches—and many were embedded with the litter of their neighborhood, including watercraft, motorized vehicles, and furniture.
Bailey picked up into a jog as they turned down a street littered with branches. “That one.” He pointed to a small pink one-story bungalow, its picket fencing like spears littering the uprooted cobblestone driveway.
“Mom!” Bailey yelled, going through a hole in the fence and climbing onto the porch. “Mom!”
He burst into the front door.
A magnolia bush lay stripped, its petals browning in the sun. Curtains blew through a jagged front window.
Bailey’s voice echoed in the house.
Jake stayed on the porch, his heart sinking.
Bailey appeared a few minutes later, head down.
“Okay, kid. Come with me. We’ll figure out where your parents are.”
Bailey said nothing as he followed Jake out of the yard.
“What if she came home and went out looking for me? I should have stayed home.”
“Okay, listen, I get it.” He resisted the urge to put his arm around the kid. But he knew what it felt like to wish you’d made a different choice. “But there’s no blame here. You did what you had to in order to stay alive.”
They were rounding the corner onto the main drag when shots cracked the air.
Jake froze, turned.
“Did you hear that?” Bailey said, and Jake grabbed his arm, pulling him into the shadows.
“Those are gunshots.”
Bailey’s eyes widened.
“Okay, let’s go. Stay close to me.” He started off in a jog toward the harbor. Bailey, good boy, kept up.
They somehow emerged by the Bahama Mama. More gunshots, and now Jake heard voices. “In here.”
Gesturing into the destroyed lobby, he waited until Bailey was inside, then pointed to the lobby desk.
“Get down.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know. Stay here.”
He ran out into the parking lot and crouched behind the only car in the lot. Then, every cord in his body chilled as a cadre of men walked into view. They wore black pants, gray T-shirts. One turned.
KWDC was printed in black block letters on the back.
Key West Detention Center.
Six of them, and at least four were armed, two with Remington pump shotguns. The other two with Glocks, which they recklessly shot into the air.
Perfect, just—
Bailey was edging out of the desk area, his eyes wide.
Stupid kid! Jake waved at him to go back.
“Hey you!”
He closed his eyes.
“Hey you, kid, c’mere!”
Aw. Jake didn’t want to look, but well, what was he going to do?
Bailey came out from behind the desk, his hands up, shot a glance at Jake, and started walking.
Jake didn’t have a clue how this might go down, but he knew one thing.
He really, really wanted to keep that promise to Aria to stay alive.