Page 68 of Blind Justice

Noah’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together as he fought the urge to lash out. Every fiber of his being rebelled against the idea of running, of hiding. He wanted to fight. He needed to fight. But the truth in Luke’s words was undeniable, even as it twisted like a knife in his gut.

“And why the hell should we trust you?” Brad’s voice cut through the tension like a blade, sharp and cold. His gun was lowered now, but his stance was still rigid, distrust written in every hard line of his face. “For all we know, you’re part of this.”

Noah shot Brad a glare, his patience fraying. He had to trust Brad. Luke knew who Brad was. He’d been the telegenic poster child for the highway patrol. He had to out Luke. “This is Luke Andrews. He’s ATF,” he said, the words firm despite the chaos in his mind. “If he’s here, it’s because he knows more about this than we do.”

Brad hesitated, his eyes narrowing as he regarded Luke with renewed suspicion. “ATF,” he muttered, the word dripping with grudging respect. “That explains the intel. But why risk blowing your cover for this?”

Luke didn’t flinch. He looked directly at Brad, then back to Noah, his expression unyielding. “Because it’s the right thing to do. This isn’t just about you, Noah. Or Ruth. It’s bigger than both of you. I’ve seen what Fairchild and his people are capable of, and if you want to keep her alive, you have to stay ahead of them. We can stop the guns coming in, but I think Hilton’s records are the only thing that will take Fairchild and others down.”

Noah’s thoughts spiraled, a chaotic mix of anger, fear, and grim resolve. He wanted to protect Ruth, to shield her from every shadow and threat, but Luke’s warning pressed heavily on him. Staying ahead meant more than fighting—it meant being smart. It meant surviving.

He exhaled slowly, his voice quieter now but no less firm. “We owe you, Luke.”

But Luke shook his head. “You don’t owe me a damn thing,” he said simply. “Just stay alive. Both of you. That’s all I ask.”

The words hung in the air, thick with unspoken truths. Brad finally exhaled, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he ran a hand over his face. “Alright,” he said, the fight draining from his tone. “I’m not happy about being blindsided, but I’ll take the help. We’re going to need every resource we can get.”

Luke nodded once, his jaw set. “Good. Then stop questioning me and start moving. Time’s not on your side.”

As Luke turned to leave, Noah watched him, the tension in the room still thrumming like a live wire. His ribs ached with every breath, but the pain only fueled his resolve. Whatever it took, whatever the cost, he wasn’t going to let Ruth become another casualty.

He exchanged a glance with Brad, a silent understanding passing between them. The stakes had never been higher. And failure wasn’t an option.

Twenty-Six

The ICU room was steeped in tension, the faint hum of monitors the only consistent sound. Charlotte Everhart sat by her daughter’s bedside, her fingers curled protectively around Ruth’s. She had spent a lifetime as a deputy police chief, trained to assess threats, to act without hesitation.

Tonight, though, she was only a mother—a mother who had nearly lost a daughter again.

Ruth lay motionless, her blind eyes fluttering beneath bruised lids. She had been drifting in and out of consciousness, but her breathing remained steady, even as confusion colored her expression.

Charlotte stayed close, her instincts razor-sharp. The attempt on Ruth’s life was too close, too deliberate. If she didn’t double back when she did…

Charlotte exhaled, forcing the thought away.

A few hours earlier, Charlotte had stepped into the hallway to use the bathroom, her instincts already on edge. She saw the nurse—the too-crisp uniform, the careful avoidance of eye contact. Her pulse had quickened as the woman took a watchful seat beside Ruth. Something was wrong.

Charlotte had turned on her heel, her shoes silent but fast against the linoleum as she strode back into the room. She saw the woman at Ruth’s bedside, fingers on the IV line.

“Excuse me,” Charlotte said, her voice sharp. “What are you doing?”

The woman had stiffened, turning too slowly. Her smile was wrong—forced, too smooth. “Just checking her lines. Standard protocol.”

Charlotte’s sharp gaze dropped to the badge, which was clipped inward—hiding her identity. Her hands—clean nails but callused palms. Not the hands of a nurse. The hands of a killer.

Charlotte’s stomach twisted. “Step away from my daughter,” she ordered, voice low, deadly.

And then—the woman lunged.

Charlotte barely had time to react before the nurse’s hand darted for the IV port.

She was injecting something.

Charlotte roared, grabbing the woman’s wrist with all her strength.

They struggled. The cart tipped over, crashing to the floor.

Ruth gasped, jerking awake. “Mom? What’s happening?”

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