Page 117 of Theirs to Hunt

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I spotted Bobbie already in motion. Scrubs on. Phone in hand.

I should have called her. I didn’t.

No time for anyone but Reagan.

I pulled into the fire lane and didn’t stop moving.

Didn’t care about protocols.

Didn’t care about security.

Didn’t care about anything except her.

Because if I walk in and hear anything but stable,

I will level the world.

Chapter ninety

Brooks, Tuesday 09:37 a.m.

The vinyl chair beneath me groans as I shift, elbows braced on my knees, hands buried in my hair.

I cannot stop seeing it.

Her.

Crushed behind that bulletproof glass.

Slumped like a ragdoll while I screamed her name and clawed at doors that would not open.

I knew she was alive.

I had to believe she was alive.

But for too many seconds, I could not get to her.

And that will haunt me longer than any battlefield.

I exhale through my teeth. The scent of antiseptic clings to my clothes.

Regret.

Regret I let her drive.

Regret I was not in the car with her.

So many regrets.

And those are just the start.

Somewhere behind the doubledoors, she is being scanned. Stitched. Monitored.

Not dead. Not dying.

Just... not in my arms.

Which feels wrong.

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