Page 23 of My Reckless Biker

"You'll get that too. But not like this. Not alone. Not when you're about three seconds away from getting yourself killed because you're not thinking tactically, you're thinking emotionally."

He's right and I hate that he's right. Going after Dutch alone while I'm this pissed off is suicide. But the rage doesn't care about tactical reality. The rage just wants violence, wants revenge, wants Dutch on the ground not breathing.

"Go to the hospital," Clint says. "See Ray. Be there when he wakes up. We'll coordinate here. By the time you're back, we'll have a location on Dutch and a plan to take him. You'll get your chance. But you get it with backup."

I want to argue. Want to tell them all to fuck off and go after Dutch myself and deal with whatever happens after.

But Ray's at County General and being there when he wakes up matters more than immediate revenge.

And they're right. Going alone gets me killed and that doesn't help Ray and it doesn't help Vigil.

"Fine," I say, and the word tastes like ash. "But when we move, I'm the one who takes him. Not Tate, not anyone else. Me."

"Agreed," Clint says.

I head for my truck instead of the bike because I need to not be wearing the cut when I walk into that hospital, need to look like something other than what I am so they'll let me in to see Ray. The drive to County General takes twenty-three minutes and I spend all of it with my hands gripping the steering wheel hard enough that my knuckles go white, replaying Tom's voice saying there was blood all over his driveway and feeling the guilt settle deeper with every mile.

This is my fault.

I proposed the fake dating. I took her to The Anchor. I made sure the photos spread.

I wanted Crane emotional instead of strategic.

I got what I wanted.

And Ray paid for it.

The hospital parking lot is half-empty this early, mostly night shift staff heading out and day shift arriving. I park and walk through the automatic doors into the emergency department and the smell hits immediately, antiseptic and floor cleaner and something underneath that's blood and fear and suffering compressed into recycled air.

The woman at the desk looks up when I approach. Forty-something, tired eyes, name tag that says Gloria.

"I'm here for Raymond Torres," I say, and I keep my voice level even though everything in me is screaming. "Came in maybe an hour ago. Assault victim."

She types something, eyes scanning her screen. "Are you family?"

"I'm what he's got."

She studies my face for three seconds, and I can see her making the assessment, deciding whether to bend the rules or make me wait outside.

"Third floor," she says finally. "Surgical ICU. Someone will update you when there's news, but he's still in surgery now so it's going to be a while."

I take the elevator up and the surgical waiting area is exactly what I expected. Uncomfortable chairs bolted to the floor, fluorescent lights that hum, vending machines in the corner, and a TV mounted high on the wall playing morning news with the sound off. I'm the only one here.

I sit and I wait.

An hour passes. Then another. The sun comes up full outside the windows and the waiting room gets brighter but the fluorescent lights don't turn off, just keep humming their constant noise that gets inside your head. A few other people drift in, an older couple holding hands and not talking, a woman in scrubs who looks like she just finished a shift and is here for someone she knows.

At eight-fifty a surgeon comes through the double doors. Woman, maybe forty-five, still in scrubs with a surgical cap and mask pulled down around her neck. She looks tired in the way of someone who's been standing for hours.

"You're here for Raymond Torres?" she asks.

"Yeah."

"I'm Dr. Patel. I just finished his surgery." She sits in the chair across from me instead of standing, which I read immediately as bad news delivered with an attempt at compassion. "He's stable now but it was touch and go for a while. He came in with severe head trauma, multiple facial fractures, three broken ribs, and internal bleeding from a ruptured spleen. We've repaired what we could, stabilized the bleeding, set the fractures. He's going to survive."

The relief hits first, sharp and immediate, like someone released pressure I didn't know I was holding. He's alive.

"But," she continues, and the word hangs there heavy. "The head trauma was significant. We won't know the full extent of any cognitive impairment until he wakes up and we can do assessments. His right orbital bone is fractured badly enough that there may be permanent vision issues in that eye. The ribs are going to take months to heal fully and he's going to be in considerable pain during that time. This wasn't just an assault. This was someone trying to send a message by making sure the damage was visible and lasting."