Unseen (Will Trent / Atlanta Series)

they go off-radio. We don’t know how far this thing reaches. I’ll stay there until I get the word that the boy’s in Atlanta.”
    Will asked, “Who’s going to follow the ambulance? Sara’s not going without backup.”
    “Denise will be behind them the whole way. She’ll have her piece and her shotgun. Amanda thinks a larger escort team would alert Big Whitey.”
    Will held out his phone to Sara. “Use this to check in with Faith every half hour.”
    Sara tried not to bristle at being ordered around. “I’ve got my hospital BlackBerry.”
    “The 689 number?” She nodded, and he pocketed his phone. “I’m serious. These people don’t mind collateral damage. You need to call Faith every half hour until you’re safe at the hospital.”
    Sara wasn’t sure this was necessary, but Will didn’t give her a chance to disagree. He headed toward the house. She saw him take one of the candies out of his pocket. Instead of peeling away the wrapper, he bit it off with his teeth.
    Again, Sara followed Will. He was back in top form—back in charge. Even in that awful maintenance uniform, he seemed like his old self. She watched him walk, the easy, athletic gait, the muscular line of his broad shoulders. Her big, tough cop. If Sara was trim, at least she was the kind of trim who didn’t settle.
    Faith walked beside Sara. She was silent as they trudged across the yard. The tension crackled between them like static electricity.
    Sara said, “You are a fantastic liar.”
    Faith grinned. “I really am.”
    Sara couldn’t stop herself from smiling back.
    Faith asked, “Did Will fill you in?”
    “He told me everything.”
    Faith raised an eyebrow.
    “Everything that’s happened in Macon,” Sara amended. Will had started talking the minute they’d left the hotel room. She’d never heard him speak for such an extended period of time. He’d told her about Lena’s emailed tip, the rednecks, the boy found in the basement and Denise Branson’s part in protecting him. The only detail Sara could’ve done without was the fact that Will had been riding a motorcycle, but even her shocked gasp did not stop him from talking. She’d actually slowed the car at one point, relishing his sudden candor, wishing he would extend it to the rest of his life. His childhood. His family. His bad marriage.
    There weren’t enough miles in the road.
    Faith said, “Remember when you told me a while ago that you had to be on Will’s side?”
    Sara remembered the conversation well. Faith had asked her for details about Will’s background. Sara hadn’t felt right about sharing what little she knew. “I get it. You need to be on his side, too.”
    Faith smiled, obviously relieved.
    Sara asked, “Did the doctor give you any treatment information?”
    “The first few days, he gave the boy fluids, a round ofantibiotics, but that was it. He’s mostly been dropping by to give him a sense of routine and make sure nothing new pops up.”
    “That probably helped more than anything else. Kids always need structure.”
    “He’s still in survival mode. Denise thinks his food might’ve been drugged while they held him. He won’t drink Coke, but he’ll drink bottled water. He tears everything apart like he’s looking for a pill. He’ll eat a bite, then wait to see if it makes him sick or sleepy, then he’ll eat another bite. They’ve tried feeding him stuff that isn’t easily tampered with, like fruit roll-ups and deli meats. He still breaks it apart before he eats it.”
    Sara nodded because there was nothing to say. She felt overwhelmed by the knowledge of the terrible things that happened to children. Faith must’ve been feeling the same. She was quiet until they reached the house.
    The door opened and a petite African American woman came out. She was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, but she had a gun on her hip and looked capable of using it. Her toned arms indicated she was no stranger to farm work. She spoke in a surprisingly soft voice. “Are you the doctor?”
    “Yes,” Sara told her.
    The woman rested her hand on the butt of her gun as she stepped aside, letting them enter the house.
    The kitchen was warm and cheerful. Obviously, the owner wasn’t into decorating, but she’d managed to create a welcoming space with lots of soft wood tones. Sara guessed Denise Branson was the woman sitting at the table. She had the look of someone who’d lost everything that mattered. She slumped at the table. A mug of tea was in