Page 2 of Rogue Survivor
It doesn’t matter. Flash Flood Alley is in the middle of fucking nowhere, and unless those two shitheads left my phone around here—unlikely—no one’s ever going to find me.
And in a few hours or less, this area of Texas will live up to its name. Which is the better way to die? Massive concussion and internal injuries or drowning?
I don’t want to find out. But I will.
Too many noises.Beeping. Clicking. Cold, gloved hands. Pressure. Pain.
Fragments of conversation I don’t understand.
“…out in the middle of BFE…”
“…induced coma…”
“Quinton…”
Quinton? Where’s my brother?
But I can’t ask the question. I can’t say anything. My throat is clogged, lips cracked and dry. It’s dark. Or is it?
I’m vaguely aware of time passing. Long periods of silence punctuated by voices and the hiss of machines. Always unable to see. To talk. To do anything but pray.
More beeping. My head feels like it’s about to explode. My chest hurts. Everything hurts.
“Connor? Can you hear me? Open your eyes.” The man’s voice sounds like it’s coming from a mile away. Pressure—gentle at first, then firmer—squeezes my fingers, and I try to lift my lids, but I can’t even tell if they flutter.
A second attempt, then a third, and finally I can see. Sort of. Everything’s blurry. A dark head of hair. White coat. Someone else in blue. And all those damn noises. With each hard blink, the world becomes a little clearer. A little sharper.
“Welcome back. Don’t try to talk yet,” the man in the white coat says, shining a light into each of my eyes.
“Fuckin’ hell.” Goddamn do those two words hurt.
“That’s why you shouldn’t talk,” the man says with a dry chuckle. “You were intubated for almost forty-eight hours. Your throat probably feels like it’s been scraped raw, and it will for the next day or two. We had to put you into a medically-induced coma when you were brought in. Your brain was swelling. You have a severe concussion along with a whole lot of other injuries.”
My limbs feel heavy as fuck, and from what little I can see of my body? Wires and tubes and bandages everywhere.
Quinton.
“My…brother…” I whisper. He’s in trouble because of me. Because I didn’t do my fucking job and Alec got away.
A third man—one I didn’t notice before—steps out of the shadows. Tall. Built. Dark brown hair. “My name’s Jasper Blade,” he says, his accent pure Texas. “Formerly with the Texas Ranger Division. My brother, AJ, led the search for you. He had to handle some paperwork, but he’ll show up here sooner or later. Quinton’s safe. Your brother has some powerful friends, Connor. They found him. He's gonna be all right, and the piece of shit responsible for takin’ him paid for his crimes.”
Paid for his crimes? Is he dead?
“He’s…?” I can’t say the words. Not with civilians around.
“Yup.”
Thank fuck.
I have so many questions, but the overwhelming need to close my eyes is battling with my desire—and ability—to ask them. When the doctor tells me to get some rest, I listen. But the last thing I hear? Jasper’s quiet voice close to my ear.
“That asshole fucked with the wrong people. The guys who did a number on you? They won’t be talkin’—or breathin’—again. So you rest up and heal. From what I hear, your brother’s gonna want to talk to you in another day or so. Make sure you’re ready. And don’t let him down.”
Two Days Later
AJ stridesinto the hospital room with his tablet tucked under his arm. “Lookin’ a little more alive than dead today,” he says. “Ready to call your brother?”
No.
