He pivoted, taking in the solid brick his friend’s jaw had become. “Okay,” he uttered. “Valid points. But…that’s not all, is it?”

Zeke looked ready to take his own turn at smashing the window. “No,” he confessed quietly. “Rayna’s already battling some fucked-up nightmares. Lots of them.”

Garrett felt his brows jerk. “And you have firsthand knowledge of this already?”

“It’s not like that, asshat.”

“And…how is it, then?”

“I slept on the couch in her room, okay? She’s been through hell. She hasn’t had anyone to be strong for her. I just…needed to be there. It just needed to be me.”

“Yeah.” Garrett said it as he turned and looked back at the mob who still clamored near Sage, Rayna, and their families. “I get it, Z.”

Hell, did he get it. He got it all over again, this very second, when Sage looked toward the position he’d been occupying behind her right shoulder. When she discovered the Sea-Tac officer there instead, her gaze scoured the terminal in panic. Garrett stepped over, making sure he hit her line of sight. When she found him and visibly relaxed, it was the greatest high of his day. Screw that—of his year.

He fought the compulsion to finish off the deal by lunging for her, sweeping her into his arms, and dragging her home, safe against his side. Her grateful little smile didn’t help his resistance. He settled for what he could do about things. He nodded back, mouthing two words.

I’m here.

From the depths of his being, he swore to stay near. Even if she demanded that he take a knee before her, smack a sword to his chest, and swear it with the fealty of his last breath, nothing would change—nor would it for a long damn time. She wasn’t getting rid of him, no matter how many industrial-strength chains he’d just seen hanging on King’s body. The slimebag hadn’t just been extradited to the same country as her. King was in the same goddamn city now. It changed everything and nothing with the same stunning blow.

Sage laughed at something her mom said. The sound warmed every inch of Garrett’s senses, reaffirming the promise he’d just made to Zeke. His woman felt safe enough to laugh again, and he’d make damn sure things stayed that way, even if she took a few breaks to restart her rebel yell behavior toward him. He held no illusions that she wouldn’t go there, either. Her attempt to unravel his thinking about “Sir Garrett” would take flight with some new inspiration, and he’d be tempted to hogtie her all over again.

Or handcuff her to the bed.

Or lock her into a spreader bar.

Damn it.

He’d been hoping that the long journey from Thailand and the return back to familiar soil would be the magic erasers on his darker sexual urges. But just the flash of that image in his head, of tying Sage up until she was totally at his mercy…

Shit.

His cock surged in ways that weren’t cool in the middle of a jammed airport terminal with the world watching on live feed. Thank God the crew from TMZ had skipped this particular news op. His hard-on was safe from their digital boner detectors for now.

And Sage still wasn’t safe from him.

He redirected his thoughts toward just getting her home right now. Maybe in a few days, things would be different. Maybe after Zeke did some digging, and assured them both that King was bound for some high-security hellhole somewhere, he could relax and rewire his head so it interfaced with his dick correctly again. The ways that Sage deserved. The normal ways.

Whatever the fuck normal was anymore.

* * *

His ringing cell roused him from a dead sleep. That part was pretty normal.

When it did that at seven thirty in the morning, it wasn’t normal.

Garrett gaped at the phone’s screen, certain he hadn’t read the time right. The last time he’d slept past five, let alone seven, had been in the days Sage made it worthwhile to sleep in. He hadn’t set the alarm last night, certain he’d wake up just because the den couch was as comfortable to sleep on as a bed of nails. But sure enough, here he was, clicking the green button to blurt a greeting to Zeke.

“Hey.”

“Hey, man.” There was a discerning pause. “Whoa. Did I wake you up?”

“Don’t worry about it. What’d you find out?”

He didn’t elaborate further on the question. The bombshell of seeing King had jarred Zeke as deeply as him. Zeke had likely sparked up his street network the second they’d left the airport. Z knew the workings of the Seattle streets the same way Garrett knew every part of a corn thresher. He had to admit that at times he couldn’t believe he was best friends with an orphan from Pioneer Square, but right now, he’d never been more grateful Z had kept up with that underground network.

“Plenty,” Zeke gave up in a growl, “and none of it’s pretty.”

“Hell.”

“Yeah, that’s what this is gonna feel like.”

He got up and peeked around the corner into the bedroom. Not a sound or a movement came from the bed piled with the poofy linens in dark green and cream that Sage had picked out when they first bought the place. She was burrowed deep and sleeping soundly, and if she wanted to do so until next week, he was going to let her.

“All right,” he said after returning to the den, “lay it on me.”

There was a weighted breath on the other end of the line. “His real name’s not King. I know that doesn’t surprise you. His sixteen other names might, however.”

“What the f—” He let a stunned breath stand in for the profanity.

“That’s only where the numbers begin with this guy. Apparently he’s been at this shit for a while. He grew up in Vegas as Isaiah Irwin. He dropped out of school when he was fourteen and started in the scene as a junior-level pimp. That’s when he became ‘Ice’ Irwin. When the big man there decided to offer franchise opportunities to his boys, setting each of them up in major cities across the country, Irwin was the Sea-Tac guy. He set up a very successful racket here, going high-end with his game. He catered to the tech-corridor execs and the guys coming to visit them, strictly shit out of the Alexis, the Four Seasons, the Edgewater. Naturally, he had a different identity that he used with each hotel.”

Garrett pounded a finger on his knee. “Slick asshole.”

“No kidding. Well, everything was going along peachy, happy girls and happy clients, until Irwin, or whatever the hell he called himself by then, decided to set up a little side biz and not tell the boss about it.”

“What kind of a side business?”

“He got a bunch of guys onto the base as contractors.”

“Our base? Fort Lewis?”

“Affirmative. Now you know where I’m going with this one, yeah?”

He wouldn’t be surprised if a megawatt light bulb of understanding appeared in the air over his head. “Holy shit. Was he tied to all those weapons that started disappearing off base a few years ago?”

“The ringleader. He set up a new identity for the racket; had the balls to name himself Rambo Righteous for it, if you can believe it.”

“I’m learning to believe anything from this bozo right now.”

“He ran the goods to the highest bidders in Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iran, you name it. Three guesses as to what city he used as home base, and the first two don’t count.”

“Bangkok, Thailand.”

“Check,” his friend replied. “But the reason we never caught him is because he got a line on someone greedy from inside the supply chain. He didn’t need the base anymore, so he pulled his guys out before we nailed their asses. Another racket set up, another alias established.”

“Of course,” Garrett muttered. “And this time, he was Chuck fucking Norris.”

Z’s growl all but strangled him through the phone for defiling the great name of Chuck.

“Joking.”

Z forgave him with a quick grunt before going on. “Once the bastard got integrated into Bangkok, the criminal world was his oyster. Drugs, diamonds, even those ridiculous fake Rolexes.”

“And human trafficking.”

“Roger that. Loud and clear.”

Garrett could no longer contain his enraged growl. “He’s the eBay of illegal and immoral.”

“But the racket he ran with the highest debt to pay back is the firearms game. When you add his injured party to the mix, the United States government, you end up with an extradition back to the scene of the crime faster than you can say ‘do me in the ass again please, warden.’”

Garrett dragged an ottoman over with his foot and then hiked his heel on it. “I hope the bastard is squealing like a pig as we speak.”

Zeke sent back an unsettled snarl to affirm the sentiment. “I hope the asshole isn’t doing anything right now except brooding in solitary.”