"I know. You want to protect me. We've been down that road before. Protect me all you want," I add with a magnanimous smile. "But just don't stop me."
If I'd had any doubts that Deliverance was a secret organization, they would have faded by the time we reached the actual building.
Dallas took the most convoluted route possible. In taxis. On the subway. By foot. For all that trouble, I thought the place should be a palace. Especially since I've seen a Deliverance hub before, and that space probably rivaled the CIA in cutting edge tech and equipment.
But we're not standing in front of anything cutting edge. Instead, I'm staring at a ramshackle old grocery store in East Harlem.
I lift a brow as I look from the building to Dallas. "Seriously?"
But he just smiles and takes my hand as he leads me into the building. It's under renovation, and we move through the construction zone and into the small airspace between this and the next building. We enter that building through an emergency exit that opens into a stairwell, descend, then emerge in a small basement. The walls are concrete and smell of mildew. It's cloying, and I'm starting to get a little claustrophobic.
But then he strides past me and punches in a code on a hidden keypad. The doors creak open on mechanized metal hinges, releasing a hum of activity--the buzz of computers, the tap of keyboards, the low murmurs of voices. Dallas turns, holding out his hand for me. I walk the two steps to meet him, then put my hand in his.
"Welcome to the new Op Center," he says, and we step inside together.
The moment we cross the threshold, I see the change in him. Before, his focus had been solely on me, as if I were the thing that centered him. And while I don't feel abandoned or slighted, in this busy, bustling room, he seems to fill the space, growing even taller, more powerful, more focused. And considering Dallas has always had the air of command about him--even in his most playboy of personas--that's saying a lot.
I swivel my head, taking in the entire area--the banks of computers, the work desks, the dry-erase boards that cover entire walls and are filled with colorful notes and tacked up pictures. Two men I don't recognize sit in front of monitors, one talking on the phone, the other wearing headphones and bouncing slightly to some tune I can't hear while his fingers fly across a keyboard. I see Liam in the next room, separated from this one by a glass window. It appears to be a conference room, and he's speaking to someone who stands just out of sight.
The room is a mixture of tech and the almost cliched feel of old detective movies. It smells of paper and sweat and stale fast food, and it's one-hundred-percent obvious that Dallas loves it here.
He's in his element, I think, and though I have always known that the kidnapping profoundly changed both of us, this is the first time that I truly see how far the ripples of that change have extended. This secret career that has been a driving force in his life. And though it started as a way to find our kidnappers, I know him well enough to realize it's now more than that. It's about us, but it's also about the others. It's about justice. And, yes, it's about the adrenaline rush of the chase. The danger. And the thrill of moments like this when he steps into a room in which every person is working toward that common goal of saving a life.
And then there is me. I've made a career out of writing about kidnappings, victims, and the like. Articles, books. Soon even a movie.
In other words, our trauma has become our art has become our passion. I don't know if that's good or bad, but I do know that it's our reality. And if there is one thing that I have learned, it's that you can't escape reality.
Dallas's posture shifts, and he cocks his head, his eyes narrowed in question. "Ready?"
"No," I say, but I move forward anyway, letting him lead me to where Liam has joined the two unfamiliar men,
who stand as we approach, the red-haired man yanking off his headphones and tossing them onto the counter so that a faint drumbeat drifts up into the air.
"This is Noah," Dallas says, as I shake the hand of the man who'd extricated himself from the headphones. "And this is Anthony."
"Tony," the dark-haired man corrects, also offering a hand.
I don't have to ask if these men are good at what they do. Not only do their sharp, competent expressions telegraph as much, but I also know that Dallas wouldn't work with anyone who isn't at the top of their game.
"We're so glad you're okay," Noah says, then winces a little. "Well, that you weren't permanently hurt, I mean. So, you're here to talk about what you remember from the attack, right? Anything you can think of. We've gone door to door already, but the witnesses we've located haven't given us much.
"I'm still hoping to identify the van. We're still obtaining and analyzing footage from cams between the address and the dump site at Riverside Park," he adds to Dallas. "I'm not giving up yet, but so far we've got shit."
"Keep on it," Dallas says.
"Do you remember anything about the driver?" Tony asks me.
"No, I was--"
"Bro, she's here to talk to Colin, not slide into the hot seat. Not yet, anyway." The deep voice came from behind me, and I turn to see Liam. He holds out his arms. "So glad to see you up and about, baby girl. You gave us all a scare."
"Unintentional, I assure you," I say dryly. I've known Liam for almost my whole life, and along with Brody, he's one of my absolute best friends. His mom was our housekeeper growing up, so he's been around me and Dallas forever, and we three were an unbreakable trio up until the day Daddy sent Dallas off to London for boarding school.
Frowning, I glance around the room at these men. "It's not even dawn yet. Don't you guys ever sleep?"
Liam laughs. "In shifts, yeah. But when Dallas called, I got Noah and Tony out of the crib. I thought you would want to meet them."
"Definitely," I say, then smile at the guys. "Sorry to rouse you early."