She hated-hated-being cavalier about it, but it seemed her only safe path to some semblance of emotional stability. "Semblance" was the right word for it, too, because their tense blood with each other hadn't stopped either of them from warming more of hers-and endearing themselves deeper on just about every level.
Just as disconcerting? On most of those occasions, the gorgeous bastards weren't even trying. Like the morning she'd spied on Rebel as he tackled the parkour run in Dax's gym, providing his own sportscaster commentary-landing himself in first place, of course. And the night she'd overheard Rhett in the shower, belting every perfectly memorized word of Welcome to the Jungle. Then there was Rebel's laughter, given with all of himself, at her stupidest jokes-and Rhett's "innocent" grin when he'd pranked her gullible side.
Those events were easier to write off than the purposeful ones, like the way Rhett drove ten miles to find a store that carried her beloved hazelnut coffee creamer, and the afternoon Rebel had brought handpicked wildflowers to ease her grief that they hadn't found Zoe on the camera feed yet.
Zoe.
There was her hugest reason to keep the distance from the guys. Good news: she wasn't about to forget it; not with the endless ache in her stomach and the constant tear at her soul. Didn't stop her from being damn glad that the guys were bunking across the house. The few hours of sleep she allowed herself each night were the key to staying alert during her shift in front of the monitors.
Now, it was time to get to work again.
That meant shutting off the swoony recollections of Sergeants Stafford and Lange, and focusing her mind completely on what mattered.
Please, God … grant me insight about this. The right kind this time.
So many times, she was sure they'd found Royce or Adler themselves-as if evil geniuses had a certain "walk" and she'd surely recognized it by now-but the urgent strides had always belonged to a scared minion or determined perimeter guard, on their way to some computer room or post. Rhett, Rebel and she still hadn't found the one location in the place they needed to learn about: the exact location where those assholes were hiding Zoe.
While washing her face in the en suite bathroom, she grimaced into her hands. Gulped away tears. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She had no right to this frustration and sorrow when Zoe was living on a diet of the stuff, alone and terrified somewhere in that building, wondering if she'd ever be free-or alive-again.
Hang on, Zo. Please hang on.
She hitched up the pink T-shirt she'd worn to bed long enough to throw on a bra and apply fresh deodorant, not bothering to change out of her pajama bottoms. She'd showered before bed, knowing that right now, all she'd want to do was return to the office-though the fact that Rhett hadn't woken her up yet wasn't encouraging at all. If he'd found something, he'd have called her cell from the office. After brushing her hair into a fast ponytail-now was no time for vanity-it was time to get the update on what the mouse had discovered in the last five hours.
Progress. Please God, just one more favor … let it be some kind of progress.
She wasn't surprised to enter the living room and see only Rebel's mussed bedding on the couch. The pirate had started to stir when she went off to bed, having logged only two hours of sleep himself. By now, that wasn't a surprise. Despite their charming moments, the vibe from both men this week had been, in a word, restless. Perhaps even hyper. It wasn't normal for them. She knew it was silly to be so certain of it, but she was. The truth was emblazoned across both their faces, a far different thing than the tinkles they attempted as remnants of their earlier pissing match. This was something … strange. And different. For them both.
Could she be off the mark? Possible but not probable. Though she'd spent only sparse time with both of them before now, there was also a reason the field of psychology was a perfect fit for her. The gut instincts she relied on for everything from dancing to cooking were especially accurate when it came to people.
So why was this mission weirding them both out?
Part of that replay was obvious. They usually didn't have to deal with a mission tag-along, especially one who'd redefined "break the ice" with them both inside the first twenty-four hours of the op. But her intuition insisted there was more. Something about their dynamic had little to do with her or the demands of the mission, and everything to do with the demands of their relationship.
If that was even what it was …
Was that what was going on? And had her … "fun" … with them become a fly in their ointment?
The questions were jarring. Certainly not because she had an issue with them as a couple-they were actually damn stunning together-but if they'd lied to her about their significance to each other, especially in light of the passion, intimacy, and orgasms she'd given to both … well, now they all had a problem.
Though it sounded like the guys had just hunted up a fresh one of those for themselves.
She stopped as the f word was bellowed so loud, it made the hallway's glass walls tremble. Should she proceed? She felt like one of those too-stupid-to-live ingénues in a horror movie, investigating the bump in the darkest part of the woods.
As she neared the office, another snarl erupted on the air. Fortunately, this one didn't sound like King Kong with a tack in his paw. The words added onto it pegged the speaker as Rhett.
"Moon, you've got to calm the hell down."
A bunch of pounding steps. More animalistic breaths. "That's easy for you to say, isn't it? You're not the one who just blew this mission."
Her brows slammed together. What the hell? The mission was blown? Why? How?
"Okay, chill. We have no idea what happened. You know there are probably a thousand explanations why-"
"Why what?" She made the demand from the doorway. Spying from the hallway wasn't going to cut it anymore. The pain in Reb's voice wrenched her as much as what he'd said. But now that both the guys spun toward her, she wasn't sure that was the right call, either. Aside from their tight black T-shirts and low-slung sweats, they looked like hell. No, worse. Like they'd been to hell, tried to climb out then kept getting tossed back in to give Satan his jollies.
Rhett released the first resigned breath. Past a steeled jaw, he gritted, "The mouse cam went dark."
She drummed her fingers against her thighs. Sent back a look of bewilderment, though her heart thudded an equally urgent tattoo. "So what does that mean?"
Rebel swung an arm toward the live feed monitors, both now black. "See for yourself. It means we're fucking blind, is what it means."
Brynn shook her head. Wondered why she wasn't throwing herself over into the same hell pit as them. "So we just reboot it or something … right?"
"Tried," Rhett supplied. "And failed."
"Which means what?"
"Any number of things. Perhaps Adler's boys finally detected the unit somehow, then snuck up and disabled it."
"Highly unlikely, since the last piece of footage would have shown the unit being picked up and examined." Rebel sagged against the wall and clawed a hand through his hair. "Even if those goons figured out the unit was there, they'd have to fish around for a power switch."
"Theoretically." Brynn hated saying it, but the premise made sense. "When El's nieces come over to play, I have trouble finding the power buttons on their toys, and I can see those." Five minutes with one's thumb up Twilight Sparkle's butt wasn't an experience easily forgotten.
Rebel rammed his head all the way back against the wall. "Which leads us back to the only possible explanation."
"Which is what?" She didn't like saying that, either. Revision: she hated it. Felt like she'd been drafted to the Spanish Inquisition and been told to drill a steel peg through his leg. Same difference, judging from the pain on his face.
"Primary battery life on the thing is three days," he muttered. "You have to program the thing to activate the backup battery-a manual procedure after the unit is turned on."
She absorbed that with careful silence. "And you're not sure if you did that."
His face contorted like that was the second steel peg. "Fucking. Idiot."
"Shut. Up." Rhett wheeled back fully toward his partner. "You perform surgery on bombs, Stafford, not cameras. You're used to being given space, silence and longer lead times for your work, instead of guards, alarms, and deadlines breathing down your business. Cut yourself some fucking slack and let's move on with a new plan."