He steps out of the shadows like he’s been there the entire time. Calm, untouched, and in control.
York Malone. My father.
Rage hits first, hot and immediate.
I lunge for Scott again, trying to drag him the last few feet. A hand clamps around my arm. Hard, too hard. Pain shoots up to my shoulder. The grip is precise and controlling.
“Let go of me!” I twist, trying to rip free, but his hold only tightens.
“You shouldn’t have run,” he says, voice low with disappointment like I inconvenienced him.
My vision tunnels. “Get. Off.” I drive my heel back, aiming blind.
He shifts, absorbing it easily.
I reach for anything; bag, tools, something I can use but he yanks me forward. My feet stumble. I slam into the side of the ambulance. Air punches out of my lungs.
“Scott-!” I choke, twisting to look back.
He’s still on the ground, too still. Blood dark against the pavement. No- No, no-
I surge again, desperation overriding everything. My father’s grip tightens.
“Enough.” He drags me. I fight. God, I fight. Kicking, clawing, and twisting, anything to break free. My hand catches the edge of the ambulance door. For a second, just a second, I have leverage. I pull, but his other hand clamps down. Pain flares, my grip slips, and that’s it. That tiny moment is all it takes.
He hauls me up into the back of the ambulance. I slam into the bench. Equipment rattles around us. The space feels too small. Too tight and wrong. This is where I’m supposed to be in control. This is where I save people. Now it’s a cage.
I scramble back, reaching for anything but he’s already inside. The doors slam against each other behind him. The sound echoes like a gunshot.
I lunge again but he catches my wrists this time, pinning them with brutal efficiency.
“Stop.”
“Go to hell,” I spit, thrashing against him.
Chapter 45
Alex
The bullpen is loud in its usual way with phones ringing, keyboards clacking, and someone arguing two desks over about jurisdiction. None of it matters.
I’m half-listening to Mason go over a report, eyes scanning a map spread across the desk between us about warehouse routes, movement patterns, and dead zones.
“We’re missing something,” he says, tapping the paper. “They’re not just grabbing randomly. There’s a flow-”
The radio on the far desk crackles. No one pays attention at first. It’s background noise. Routine. Then-
“-Unit 12-” static cuts through the room. “-EMT down. Requesting immediate-”
Everything stops. The room shifts, chairs scrape, and heads turn.
“Repeat traffic,” dispatch snaps.
The voice comes back, broken, and strained. “-shot-” more static. “-send PD-”
Mason’s already moving.
“Address?” I demand.
