Page 61 of Found By You
“How bad is it?” I asked, my mouth dry.
“The bullet missed his heart by centimeters,” Dr. Whitman said, his voice low and serious. “He lost a significant amount of blood before he was found. We’ve had to transfuse him twice since he arrived.” He glanced at his chart. “The bullet fragmented and caused damage to his left lung. We were able torepair most of the damage surgically, but his recovery will take time.”
I leaned against the wall for support. “But he’ll recover?”
“Barring complications, yes.” The doctor’s face softened. “He’s young and fit. That’s in his favor.”
A monitor beeped from inside the room, followed by McCrae’s voice. “Azalea, he wants you.”
I rushed back in to find Greg more alert, his eyes clearer as they focused on me. “Azalea?” he murmured. “You’re really okay?”
Tears spilled down my cheeks as I gently embraced him, careful of the tubes and wires. “I’m okay,” I assured him. “I’m right here. You’re safe now.”
Relief flooded his features. “I thought they got you too.”
“No, I made it out.” I pulled back to look at him. “I had an accident, though. Hit my head. I couldn’t remember anything for days.”
His eyes widened with alarm. “Nothing?”
“It’s coming back now,” I said. “I remember the people, the woman being shot. I remember you telling me to run.” I squeezed his hand. “Greg, what happened? Why were you there and what happened to you after I left?”
He winced, shifting in the bed. “These guys are bad dudes, Azalea. I knew you were going there so I went before you to protect you. After you took off, I reached out to the FBI. But before anyone could get there, I found myself in a van headed toward Mexico.”
McCrae leaned forward, his expression intense. “They kidnapped you?”
Greg nodded weakly. “We stopped outside of Fort Collins, and they shot another lady.” He closed his eyes, pain crossing his features. “When I tried to stop it, they shot me.”
“What is their purpose?” I asked. “It’s not paper. It’s not guns. It’s …”
“People.” Greg’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“What?”
“Human trafficking,” he said, each word dripping with disgust. “A Mexican cartel operating in the United States.”
“No,” I breathed, horror washing over me. The puzzle pieces clicked into place; the paper company as a front, the unexplained profits, the merger with the oil company for transportation. “How deep does this go?”
Before Greg could answer, Dr. Whitman appeared in the doorway, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Excuse me,” he said, looking between Greg and me. “Do you guys have a brother?” His eyes darted nervously down the hall.
A cold feeling spread through my chest.
“No,” Greg said, attempting to sit up. “Why?”
“Someone is at the front desk asking to speak with Greg, saying he’s your brother.”
My eyes met McCrae’s, and I saw my panic mirrored in his gaze. He was already moving toward the door when a man pushed past the doctor, his hand reaching inside his jacket.
The police officer moved to intercept him, but he wasn’t fast enough. The crack of gunfire split the air, bullets spraying into the room. The officer crumpled to the floor as another shot hit the wall behind Greg’s bed.
McCrae had pulled his gun and pushed me down, shielding me with his body. The attacker turned his weapon toward McCrae, but hesitated when he saw the gun pointed back at him.
For a split second, we could see his face; cold, calculated, a thin scar running along his jawline.
McCrae was after him in an instant, his powerful stride eating up the distance between them.
The guy ran.
I scrambled to my feet, checking Greg first, he was unhurt, though shaken, then the fallen officer, whose chest rose and fell with shallow breaths.
