He brushed his lips against hers and murmured in a voice for her ears only, “I love you, Frankie Bocelli.”

And saw her eyes light up.

Chapter Twenty

If you find yourself in a fair fight, you didn't plan your mission properly. ~ David Hackworth

While Bull helped Hawk repair a lawn mower, Frankie joined Lillian and Audrey in the garden. The soil was warm and fragrant and soothing, and the small plants simply adorable. Baby greens were the best.

After that, Regan dragged her off for a quick aikido lesson while Sirius, the girl’s cat, supervised.

“Frankie,” Caz called from his deck. “I have something for you.”

He met her at the foot of the steps and handed her a folded strip of paper. GIVE TO FRANKIE was written on the outside.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“No sé. I was tossing the clothes I’d worn earlier into the laundry and found it in my lab coat pocket.”

He wore a white lab coat at the health clinic. “Maybe a patient put the note into your pocket?”

“That would be my guess. It would have happened today since I change lab coats daily.”

A chill ran up her spine. She knew only one person who might need to sneak her a message. “Well, thank you.” Ignoring the curiosity in his gaze, she headed for the center of the lawn and away from everyone.

She opened the folded-up paper.

F,

They know you’re here. Get out before they find you. I won’t be here. O takes us away tomorrow. He won’t tell me where.

Please, please, go home and be safe. Thank you for trying. It means everything.

Love you…and I’m sorry,

K

Frankie stared at the note. Read it again. Scowled at the misshapen letters. That wasn’t Kit’s writing. Was this a trick?

Or…

She ran onto Caz’s deck and pounded on the door until he slid it open.

“Frankie, what’s wrong?”

She waved the note. “Did you have a Patriot Zealot as a patient today? A young woman?”

His expression darkened. “Sí.”

“Was something wrong with her right hand? A reason she couldn’t write with it?”

He hesitated.

“Please, Doc,” she pleaded. “It’s not her writing, so I need to know.”

“Ah.” His face was grim. “The Patriot Zealots don’t often come to me, but her right arm was broken. They tried to set it themselves but couldn’t.”

Broken. Broken. Oh, Kit. Those bastardi had hurt her. “Was she all right? Was she—”

Caz shook his head. “If your friend hadn’t used me to convey her note—and if you didn’t have a valid concern over who might have written it—I couldn’t have told you even that much, chica. There are privacy rules. Don’t ask me for more.”

Of course, there were rules. All the rules. Nothing to protect Kit and Aric.

She clamped her jaw over the angry words. It wasn’t his fault, and he’d told her what she needed to know. “Thanks. Really, Thanks, Doc.” At least, for a while today, Kit had experienced some loving care.