Micah stared at him.
The man holding the gun on him grabbed his collar and slammed Micah against the SUV hard enough to rattle his teeth.
“Keys,” the leader growled again.
“They’re still in the SUV,” Micah told him.
The man nodded to one of his cohorts, who then strutted to the SUV and grabbed the keys from the ignition. He handed them to the leader.
The leader took them then nodded to the others. Two of them moved—fast and coordinated—back toward their vehicle. The leader kept his gun on Micah, and he knew the man wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger.
But these men didn’t want to hurt Micah.
They only wanted Grace.
The man carrying Grace’s carrier climbed into the back seat of the SUV without looking back.
The door closed, cutting off Grace’s cries.
The leader slid into the driver’s seat. Then the engine turned over, and they were gone, leaving Micah and Naomi here without any means to follow them.
Micah crossed to Naomi in four strides and dropped to his knees beside her. She tried again to push herself upright. Her face was as white as paper.
“Don’t.” He caught her shoulders, steadying her. “Stay still. Let me look at you.”
“Grace.” The word came out wrecked. “Micah, they took Grace?—”
“I know.” He kept his voice controlled even though nothing inside him was. “I know. Stay with me. Look at me.”
He cupped her face carefully in his hands and checked her pupils.
They were even and reactive, not overly dilated.
“I’m fine—” She started to get up.
He stopped her. “You hit your head. Hard.”
The gash at her temple was bleeding but not badly. Head wounds always bled more than they should. He checked the back of her skull carefully, feeling for swelling or soft spots.
Nothing obvious.
“Were you unconscious at all?” he asked.
“No. I—” She pressed her hand to her temple. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Dizzy? Nauseous?”
“No.”
She was conscious and alert. Her pupils were good. The head wound needed attention but wasn’t life-threatening.
And Grace was in a SUV with armed men, getting farther away every second.
He looked at Naomi for one more second, making the calculation every first responder hated making—good enough to move, or too risky?
