“Get the fuck off me!” Eric pulled himself free from his brother’s grasp.
The move disrupted his balance, and he damn near faceplanted on the bathroom tile.
“Enough!” Derek’s angry face filled Eric’s vision. Looking like he was ready to kill him, himself, the pissed off man said, “I’m done fuckin’ playin’, brother. Riley’s already been gone almost five goddamn hours, and every second you spend fightin’ me on this is that much longer she has to spend in that bastard’s clutches. So you’re gonna go to the hospital. And you’re gonna get checked out by a fuckin’ doctor. I don’t care if I have to knock your ass out again and carry you there my fuckin’ self. Understood?”
By the time D was finished with his rant, his face was red, his voice was booming, and the vein in his forehead looked like it was about to pop.
“H-he has her, D.” Eric’s face started to crumble as the reality of the situation sank in. “He fucking h-has her.”
“I know, brother. And we’re gonna get her back. But we’ve gotta make sure you’re okay, first.”
Eric could actually feel himself shutting down. It was like he was on some sort of sadistic emotional roller coaster, and the cart he was in had flown completely off the rails.
With a wooden nod, he allowed Derek and the others to take control of the situation. He got dressed in some jeans and a clean t-shirt like they told him. He pulled on his boots and then let his brother lace them up.
He was a puppet, and everyone else was pulling his strings. Because in that moment—in that heartbreaking, soul-crushing moment—Eric couldn’t get it together enough to pull them himself.
An hour and a half later, he had five staples in his head and just enough pain killers to ease the nauseating headache enough he could still function.
With a disapproving frown, the local E.R. doctor handed him the papers to sign.
“I strongly urge you to stay, Mr. West,” the older man tried for the millionth time to get him to agree to being admitted for the night. “Concussions can be very dangerous if not properly monitored and treated.”
“It’s Detective, and thanks. I’ve got it covered.”
“Detective West, please.”
“Is that it?” Eric scribbled a half-assed signature on the required line and gave him back the paper. “I’m good to go?”
“Yes, but—”
“Thanks, Doc.” He slid off the exam table.
Schooling his expression so the man didn’t see that he’d just about tipped the fuck over, Eric left the room in search of the others. He didn’t have to go far, since they were all huddled in the hallway right outside his door.
“Ready?” He looked to Derek.
“You sure you’re good to go?” Jake McQueen—Derek’s boss—intervened. “You took a pretty nasty hit to the head.”
“I’m fine. Now can everyone please stop looking at me like I’m going to fucking break? We’ve all been in worse shape than this and pushed through it.” Each member of R.I.S.C. was former military, as was he. “Riley’s out there, somewhere.” Jesus, it was taking a huge effort not to break down. “That bastard has her, and if we don’t find her soon...”
They all knew how that sentence ended. If they didn’t find her soon, she was as good as dead.
If she isn’t, already.
No. Fuckingno.
He wasnotgoing to start thinking like that. The minute he let himself go there was the minute he gave up on her.
I won’t give up on you, baby. I’ll never stop looking. Never.
“We’ll find her, Eric.” Jake’s natural leadership qualities took over. “I promise you, that.”
The problem was, they didn’t know where to start looking.
“I’ve got Ryker on the phone.” Trevor talked as they walked. “He’s got every cop and available Homeland agent in Dallas looking for Hayes and Riley.”
“Dallas?” Eric’s gaze slid to Jake’s SIC, or second in charge. “That’s four hours away. Why not here?”
