Raising my hand, I gesture to move forward. I don’t look back at my teammates. I don’t need to. I know they have my six.
This time when I move, it’s at a full-out run.
The officer is only just reaching for his weapon by the time I get to him.
But he’s too late.
Muscle memory takes over as I lunge at him, wrapping my arm around his neck and spinning him around so his back’s to my front.
He starts bucking against me. Flailing. Scrabbling for his gun. He’s strong, and if he were fighting back against an ordinary man, he’d have no trouble getting free.
I’m not an ordinary man, though. And even with one hand missing, I’m still far stronger than him.
It only takes ten seconds of pressure to knock him out, and once he slumps in my hold, I lower him to the ground. Then I flip him over and quickly zip-tie his wrists and ankles together. I don’t expect the ties to hold him for long, but they don’t need to. By the time he gets free, we should be long gone.
With the police officer neutralized, I rush into the hospital room, where Webb and Ace are already waiting.
There are two beds in the room, but only one is occupied. And I recognize the woman lying there the moment I see her.
Bea.
When I reach her side, my heart clutches.
She looks so small. Vulnerable.Hurt.
Her pale hair is stained on one side, and while I can’t tell the color with my goggles on, I’m assuming it’s blood.
Hers? Jenna’s?
A bandage covers one side of her forehead, but the bruising already extends past it.
Her eyes are shut, her lashes dark sweeps on her cheeks. Tiny lines are etched between her eyes, and her eyebrows are pinched together like she’s in pain. As I watch her, her lids flutter like she’s dreaming. A low moan sounds in the back of her throat.
Anger ignites in my chest.
Someone did this to her. Slammed her head against a locker. Gave her a concussion serious enough to knock her unconscious for hours. And if my instincts are right, they framed her for murder.
Then I spot the handcuff around her delicate wrist, and the anger shifts to rage.
No. This isn’t right.
But that’s one thing easily fixed, at least. First I gesture at Ace, then point to the handcuff. As he unlocks her handcuff—because we all carry handcuff keys, it was one of the first things Cole suggested when we started our branch of B and A—I pull out the syringe of sedative and inject it into Bea’s arm.
Though I know it’s necessary, the tiny drop of blood that appears after removing the syringe makes me feel horrible. Like I’m no better than the person who hurt her.
But I shove my regret and guilt down deep so I can focus on the next task at hand—unhooking the monitors and getting Bea out of here.
Webb and Ace close in around me while I work, and Webb murmurs, “It’s six-forty-five. We’re still good on time.”
I remove the IV from the back of Bea’s hand and place a bandage over the small wound left behind. Her hand is cool and soft in mine. Something inside me tugs.
It feels right. Even in these awful circumstances, holding her hand?—
“Six-forty-six,” Webb reports quietly.
“Okay,” I murmur. After casting a quick look at the bed and monitors to make sure I didn’t miss anything, I add, “We’re good to go.”
But just as I’m about to pick up Bea, another memory slams into me. An important one.
