𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐫, m. tate & i. lahey

𝟎𝟐𝟒. insufferable smiles

ANCHOR

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MALIA PEERS THROUGH the blinds to the window facing the front of her house, watching as Scott parks his motorcycle a few feet away from the porch. Both he and Isaac get off and begin to approach the door.

She hurries over and opens the frame, blocking off the entrance from the two boys by keeping a hand on the doorknob. "You didn't have to come all the way out here."

"You weren't answering our calls or texts," Isaac says as they step onto the porch.

"I can't help you. Not right now."

Scott speaks, "What if we told you that you're the only one we have left?"

"You're not gonna want my help."

"Anything that happened between us—"

Malia interrupts him quickly. "I'm talking about something that's going to happen. Something I'm going to do"—she looks past Scott to meet Isaac's gaze—"and you're not gonna like me much after I do it."

"Is that why I hear three other heartbeats in there?" Scott questions, nodding towards the room behind the girl. "And why yours is beating so fast?"

Malia gulps as she averts her eyes, a wave of guilt hitting her. "Go home. I can't help."

Isaac's expression is unreadable as he narrows his gaze at her. "Malia—"

Scott stops him, motioning for them to take their leave instead. They start towards his bike, and Malia enters her house and closes both the screen and the door. She peeks through the curtains to see them driving off.

Malia blinks before spinning around. Braeden and Allison restrain a man to the ground, both of them grunting as he struggles against their hold. "Did you get anything out of him?"

"Not yet," Braeden says through gritted teeth.

Malia steps closer and kicks him in the shin, reaching down and bundling the collar of his shirt in her fist. She hoists him off the ground while Allison and Braeden assist in slamming him against the fireplace.

"You think you can make me talk?" the man begins with a thick accent. "I am Spetsnaz. Soviet Special Forces. In battle, we kill out wounded." Braeden applies more force to the forearm pressed against his neck, and he gags. "You could tear out my fingernails, cut my lip with razors. I'll still say nothing."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but your section is out of work and broke, right?" Braeden asks.

"You won't get a word out of me."

Her next inquiry makes him go silent, and he glances between them with a raised brow. "What if we paid you ten thousand dollars?"

Soon enough, the man is shoving the stack of money into his pocket without needing further convincing. "The Desert Wolf was last seen close to the Canadian border," he explains. "She won't travel by plane. She will stay away from surveillance cameras when she can."

"Then we still have time," Braeden says to the teenage girls.

"There's another reason she won't fly," he starts, catching their attention once more. "She's not traveling alone."