“That’s what the evidence says,” he corrects. “No witnesses. No statements. No bodies that lead anywhere useful.”
My stomach twists. The girls. The ones from my notes. The ones no one could prove with certainty were victims of the trafficking ring. “People don’t just disappear,” I bite out.
His gaze doesn’t waver. “They do when they know better than to talk.”
Rage flares, hot and blinding. I bury it. I can’t act on it yet, not until I’m ready.
Another volley of shots, even closer. Then there’s a familiar voice somewhere in the chaos shouting commands.
My head jerks toward the doors. No, no way.
His grip tightens. “Don’t,” he warns. But it’s too late. Hope hits like a lightning strike.
Alex.
I don’t see him, not yet, but Iknow. I know the way he moves, the way he commands a scene, and the way his voice cuts through chaos.
My pulse spikes, not with fear, not anymore. It’s something sharper, something focused.
My father notices. His eyes narrow slightly. “Interesting,” he murmurs.
He shifts again, just enough to give me an opportunity.
I move quickly, not away from him, but toward the cabinet.
His hand shoots out, grabbing my arm, but I twist, using his momentum and slamming my shoulder into the side panel. Pain explodes through my side but ignore it. I have to keep moving.
My fingers hit the latch and yank, opening it.
The pouch drops into my hand. I rip it open. Syringes and pre-fills, labels flashing past. Epinephrine. Midazolam…. There.
Succinylcholine.
My breathing goes razor sharp.
He lunges again.
I don’t hesitate. I uncap it, swing my arm forward, and drive the syringe toward him, through fabric and angling down into the large muscle in his lateral thigh.
Inject.
The plunger depresses under my thumb. All of it. Every milligram.
He shoves me hard, making me slam back into the bench, air ripping from my lungs again. The syringe clatters somewhere out of reach.
For a second, nothing happens. He straightens, looks down at me, annoyed and dismissive.
“Really?” he says irritated like my action was nothing more than an inconvenience to him. Then it hits.
I see it, the flicker behind the eyes. His body locks, just for a fraction of a second, confusion flashes across his face.
His hand twitches, then doesn’t respond. His breath catches.
There it is, solid recognition. “No-” he starts. Too late.
The paralysis spreads fast. He staggers, trying to move but his legs don’t cooperate. He hits the floor hard, right beside me.
His eyes are wide now, fully aware and fully conscious. But trapped. His chest starts to hitch, shallow and ineffective.
