Page 20 of His to Break

In a heartbeat, the memories flooded back to him. He remembered the sudden blow to his head, the feeling of being wrenched away from consciousness.

But more importantly, he remembered Caleb's face — those wide, terrified eyes staring at him while Ryker fell into darkness.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered under his breath, struggling to sit up. Cursing, Ryker lunged for the door. But when he swung it open, the parking lot was nothing but an empty expanse of asphalt. It mocked him with its silence, taunting him with the knowledge that whoever had done this had vanished into the night, taking both Caleb and Eli with them.

"Damnit!" he growled, slamming his fist against the wall. Each throb of pain in his head mirrored the anger coursing through his veins. But beneath that fury, there was something else: a cold, gnawing fear that settled heavy in his chest.

He wasn't the only one hunting Eli.

Had Arkady sent more than one operative? Had he run out of faith in Ryker?

Or had someone else been hunting the pair right behind him…?

His mind filled with images of Caleb's slender form hunched protectively over little Eli. The vulnerability in those dark eyes haunted him, stirring something within him that he hadn't felt in a long time.

He'd been sent to kill Caleb.

He hadn't done it. Something about Caleb had stayed his hand. That infuriating smirk, the bitterness in his eyes…

Now, with the memory of the fear in Caleb's eyes, he knew why he hadn't been able to go through with it, to fulfill his mission. Every step he'd staken towards killing Caleb had felt uneasy, unpleasant,wrong. It was like following someone else's lines.

But the thought of someone else hurting Caleb? That filled him with a rage that as furious, posessive, protective — and real. How long had it been since he'd let himself feel something like that? Since he'd connected to someone else, even for such a short time as he'd spent with Caleb?

Too long.

Fuck his mission. He had to find them.

But how? He was just one man, and they could be anywhere by now. "Get a grip, Baranov," he chastised himself. "You've dealt with worse before."

His resolve steadied him, steeling his nerves for what was to come. With a deep breath, he straightened up, his eyes narrowing in determination. There was no time for doubt or hesitation; he had to act now if he wanted any chance of finding Caleb and Eli.

"Whoever you are," he thought, his jaw clenching tightly, "you've messed with the wrong goddamn people."

The silence of the empty hotel room seemed to mock him, offering no answers, no solace. How could he track them down without a lead? He hadn't caught a glimpse of his attacker before everything had gone black.

"Think, think," he urged himself, feeling the weight of despair closing in around him. Finding them would be like searching for a needle in a haystack – they could be anywhere by now.

His hand slipped into his pocket out of habit, fumbling with the loose change and lint within. But then, his fingers brushed against something unexpected: a crumpled piece of paper. Curious, he pulled it out and unfolded it, revealing a hurriedly scribbled series of numbers and letters in someone else's handwriting.

A license plate number.

"Son of a bitch..." he breathed, his heart pounding in his chest like a drum. It was Caleb – it had to be. Somehow, in the chaos of their abduction, he'd managed to leave Ryker a clue. A lifeline.

"You beautiful, resourceful bastard," he whispered, his relief manifesting as a shuddering exhale.

The thought of Caleb trusting him sent a current of electricity down Ryker's spine, his muscles tensing with an unyielding determination. He scowled, shaking off the overwhelming feeling that threatened to consume him.

With new fervor in his heart, he strode toward his car, his strides long and purposeful. The anger boiling inside him gave way to a smoldering sense of possessiveness.

They were his quarry, and no one would take them from him.

He slid into the driver's seat, leather creaking beneath him. Ryker snatched a gun from the glovebox, its cold metal weight familiar and comforting in his hands. He racked it, the sound echoing through the silent vehicle like a promise.

"Time to call in a favor," he murmured, pulling out his phone. He dialed the number with practiced ease, waiting for the ring to connect him to the voice on the other end.

"Hello, Mr. Baranov," an elderly female voice trilled. The unmistakable sounds of a bustling library hummed in the background behind her. "What can I do for you today?"

"A car, Maggie," Ryker growled, trying to keep his voice steady. "I need you to find me the location of a specific license plate number."

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