Except there wasn't enough reassurance to douse the fire in his gut. He'd rather be back in Rubistan sweating it out while he waited for an ass-beating thinly disguised as an interrogation than have to worry about his family. He might not have provided the most glamorous life for Rena, but damn it, she was supposed to be safe in her own house.
The hammer thunked to one side. Grazed his thumb.
Crap. He needed to get his head together before he faced Rena again. She would want to talk, and he wanted to pound more nails.
Pound some heads.
At least she was occupied now hovering over Chris. The kid was scared spitless. As well he should be. He could use some coddling from his mom and wouldn't want his dad around to witness him scared and tucked into bed.
Rena's face had been so pale when he'd walked through the door, he'd thought for certain someone had died. She didn't need this. She should be putting her feet up and banging back bowls of peach ice cream.
Instead, they were facing court cases and God only knew what from this Miranda person and her deliveries. Most likely it was a drug purchase.
How ironic. He was busting his ass trying to collar drug runners to stop that very thing from happening to other people.
He'd already left a message for Spike about setting up a meeting with the OSI to report the brick incident. Not much sleep for the OSI agent tonight after the dive, but there were too many coincidences stacking up. Even if this bore no relevance to their investigation, he was bound by his job to report any brushes with possible illegal activities. Hell, even a happenstance chat with a stranger in a bar might not be so coincidental.
Had his family somehow been targeted because of him?
Paranoid? Possibly. But he couldn't be too careful when it came to Rena and the kids.
Crouching down by his toolbox, he tossed in the hammer, nails, and wished life could be this easy to organize. He hefted the box up, nails rattling against wrenches, and strode to the garage door, punched in the code. The door rolled up and open. Inside, he closed the door and double-checked the lock. Checked the window as well, then cranked the fan in lieu of a breeze since that window would be staying shut from now on.
He ditched the toolbox on his workbench—beside his Shakespeare anthology. The book was getting dog-eared from overuse these days.
Thumbing along the edges, he slowed, flipped it open. Two Gentlemen of Verona. "The private wound is deepest."
Well, hell. He could use a little less insight tonight. He smacked the book shut. He'd have to work off his tension in a more basic way. Sex would be great. But not wise. And not an option.
Exercise.
He sat on the edge of the weight bench and unlaced his boots, one, two, tucked them to the side. He unhooked his web belt, placed it within easy reach on his workbench, then peeled off his sweaty flight suit. God, how many hours ago had he put the thing on?
Wearing only his black T-shirt and boxers, he reached for a pair of workout shorts flung over a weight bar.
The door from the house opened—revealing Rena. His hands closed around the shorts. Talk about being caught with his pants down.
She startled to a stop. Tension to match his rippled off her in visible waves. Corkscrew spirals of hair all but crackled with energy.
After a quick flicker-glance down his near-naked body, her gaze met and held his. "I have something I need to say.">"Good, okay." Scorch's voice moved closer. "Just—"
A hand smacked J.T.'s back. "No talking!" a heavily accented voice shouted. "No talking!"
O-kay.
Footsteps shuffled along a dirt path. Or sand. Who knew? The guards talked back and forth, not that any of it made sense.
Hands guided them up concrete steps. Inside. The haze darkened.
The hood swept up and off J.T. blinked against the stark lightbulb inside what appeared to be a craphole jail. Standard for this country. He hadn't expected any better from these guys than where they would keep their own prisoners.
He stared at his three crewmates, probably the last time he would see them until they were released. The interrogations would start now. Rough. But at least they were in official hands.
One of the foreign soldiers stepped forward. "We question now. You." He pointed to Spike. "We start with you."
They knew what to say, what not to say. Although Spike had the most to cover, and would benefit from more time to gather his thoughts. Hellish luck that they'd decided to begin with him.
J.T. glanced at Scorch. Their mission. Keep the enemy off Bo and protect Spike's secrets. J.T. started to speak, to divert attention and buy Spike extra minutes, but Scorch beat him to it.