No. No, no, no.
Trevor tried to scream the word, but he couldn’t. Ollie’s lips were on his, the kiss drawing out his soul, stealing his reason, making him weak. Alone. Lost.
His eyes fluttered shut, and a cold chill settled over him. It took a moment to realize that Ollie was no longer on top of him, and the cold had settled in his absence.
Ollie!
Trevor tried to scream, but the sound was only in his head. He couldn’t get it out into the world. Couldn’t call to Ollie. Couldn’t argue for him to stay. Couldn’t tell him that he loved him. Needed him.
He could only look around in horror at the empty room. At the harsh lights that made the bedroom feel like a jail cell.
He could only feel the well of loneliness looming deep within him as he cried out, Ollie, Ollie, Ollie.
“Hey, hey, I’m right here. Come on. It’s time to leave.”
“Don’t leave.” He heard the words, but he couldn’t wrap his head around who was talking.
“Trevor—Trevor, wake up.” Hands on his arms. The brush of fingertips over his cheek. The voice so, so gentle. “Come on, wake up. We found him. We’re leaving in two minutes.”
“Don’t—don’t leave.”
“Dammit, Trev. Wake up. We found him. We need to go.”
Found him.
Found who?
Ollie?
But it was Ollie talking to him. Ollie saying goodbye. That he was leaving. That he was walking away just like Greg had done.
So who had they found?
The words made no sense—until they did.
He sat up with a jolt, reality hitting him like that damn Acme anvil hitting the coyote. “You found him.”
“And we’re going now. Come or stay, but we’re out of time.”
“I’m in.” He’d slept in his slacks, so he slid out of bed, shoved his feet into his shoes, and grabbed his shirt as they hurried from the room.
“You okay?” Ollie asked, glancing sideways at him as they hurried toward the front door where two Range Rovers were waiting.
Trevor nodded, tucking his shirt in as they sprinted to their vehicle. “Catch me up,” he demanded once they were settled in the back. He reached for Ollie’s hand. “How’d we find the guy?”
Ollie ignored Trevor’s hand, instead leaning forward to say something to Brax, who was driving. When he settled back, he kept his body angled toward Trev’s, his hands on the slim binder with the mission specs.
“It was Quince who tracked him,” Ollie said.
“But you remembered,” Mario pointed out. “I’d found a ticket stub for Wicked—you know, the musical—being used as a bookmark. Didn’t think much of it, but logged it. And that was enough for Ollie.”
“What did you remember?” Trevor asked.
“A guy,” Ollie said simply. “She never talked much about who she went out with when we were in an off-again phase, but one time we were talking about Wicked—I think it was touring—and she mentioned that a bi-coastal guy she’d gone out with had promised to get them front row seats. But she was back with me, so that wouldn’t happen.” He shrugged. “And then about eight months later we were on-again, and I saw the souvenir sweatshirt at her place.”
“She’d gone to New York to see him.”
“Yeah. I found out they’d seen each other several times when we were apart. I mentioned him not long ago, actually. She was going to Manhattan for some article she was writing, so I asked if she was seeing that guy.”
“Was she?”
“Nope. Told me she’d shut it down. He wanted to get serious, but she didn’t.”
Trevor nodded slowly. “So maybe he’s the jealous type.”
“That’s what I thought. But she never told me his full name. Just Bobby. But Quince is a god among men and managed to track him down.”
“Robert Ellis Fulton,” Mario said, speaking for Quince who was in the second vehicle. “Damn solid work, too. Once we had that, I was able to dig in. We’re heading to his LA house—he’s in Valley Village.”
“With luck,” Leah said, sliding into the conversation, “he’s holding Courtney there and this will be over before it’s begun. A little less luck, and we’ve got him, then Quince can work his magic to tell us where Courtney is being held.”
Trevor nodded. Ollie had probably never seen Quince in action, but he’d had that privilege. He didn’t know if it was MI6 training or something else, but Quince was better with a hypodermic and the power of suggestion than anyone else he’d run across in his years doing this kind of work. “Quince is amazing,” he told Ollie, reaching over to take his hand. “If we have to get into Bobby’s head, he can totally manage that.”
He squeezed Ollie’s fingers, more relieved than he should be when Ollie squeezed back, though the gesture seemed a little half-hearted.
Get a grip, he ordered himself. One bad dream didn’t mean the world was crumbling beneath him.
“There’s another reason we’re one-hundred percent convinced this is our guy,” Ollie said, pulling his hand free of Trevor’s as he clenched his hands together in what Trevor recognized as a nervous habit.
Trevor frowned, focusing on those hands as trepidation built. “Tell me.”
“Angelina Castor.”
Trevor shook his head. “Should I know that name?”
“No,” Ollie said, then drew a breath. “She’s dead.”
Trevor heard the crack in Ollie’s voice, and knew he was terrified for Courtney. “She used to date Bobby, and she died two days after she broke up with him. Accidental fall from her balcony. Except the balcony railing came up to her ribcage.”
Trevor reached over, then took Ollie’s hand again. “She’s not Courtney.”
The pain in Ollie’s face when he met Trevor’s eyes was like a gut-punch to the soul. “Isn’t she?”
“We’ll catch him. We’ll get her back. Don’t go worst case until we have to. Stay positive.”
Ollie nodded, then tugged his hand free before rubbing his face with his palms even as Trevor’s throat went tight.
He felt it, then. That almost-forgotten sensation that preceded a panic attack. The way his breath caught in his throat, as if something was blocking his airway. The increased tempo of his pulse. The fine beads of sweat gathering at the back of his neck and on his upper lip.
Stop it.
He ordered himself to relax. To count to ten, then breathe in through his nose.
Once, twice, third times a charm.
Ollie turned to him, his brow furrowed. “You okay?”
Trevor waved the words away, then pressed his fingers to his temple. “A little carsick. Nothing to worry about.”
“We’re here,” Brax said, sliding into a spot in a tree-lined neighborhood. “The house with the blue trim.”
Ollie pulled out his radio, contacting the first car. “Move in,” he ordered. “Team two covering the exits.”
Trevor eyed him. “We’re not the first team?”
Ollie shook his head. Just one firm shake, and Trevor realized that Ollie feared what the team would find in there. Knowing that, it was all Trevor could do not to pull him close for a hug. Not now, though. Not when Ollie was focused on the mission.