Page 103 of Corrupt

His eyes were unfocused, glassy. Breath coming in short, wheezing pulls. I’d been careful. Done just enough, kept it controlled. But that didn’t account for what Cormac and Doyle might have done before I arrived. Anything could be going on inside him. And those cuts needed proper looking at.

“Tyler.” I tapped his cheek. “Look at me.”

He groaned, then spat blood onto the concrete.

Good. Conscious.

“Can you move?”

“Fuck… you,” he rasped.

I huffed out a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “If you can insult me, you’re not dead yet.”

I reached into my boot, pulled the blade free, and sliced through the zip ties at his wrists. As soon as they snapped, he pitched forward, catching himself on his knees.

“Easy.” I hauled him up.

He tried to straighten but folded in half instead, a strangled gasp tearing out of him as he clutched his side.

Shit.

That wasn’t shock. That was damage.

I didn’t think anymore after that. Thinking was hesitation. I got him to his fee and half-dragged, half-carried him out into the boiling heat, shoving him into the passenger seat of the Audi. He sagged into the door, pressing his forehead on the glass, breath rattling. I slid behind the wheel and started the engine. Normally, we’d handle this with no need for a hospital. But looking at him, I didn’t know what internal damage there was. And I wasn’t about to let the man die on my watch. Nor could I call an ambulance and take myself out of the equation. Not with a dead man inside that warehouse.

But walking into A&E with Tyler like this…that would alert the feds.

What choice did I have?

I pulled out hard, tyres squealing as I headed north. Tyler shook, sweat breaking out across his forehead.

“You’re fine.” I wasn’t sure who I was trying to convince. “Just keep breathing.”

Tyler said nothing.

By the time I screeched into St Thomas’ car park, he was barely upright.

I didn’t bother waiting for a space. I slung the car anywhere, got him out, threw his arm around my shoulders and limped him through to A&E. Everything was noise and light and organised chaos. I kept my arm locked around Tyler’s shoulders, steering him to the desk.

“What happened?” the triage nurse asked.

“Found him,” I said without missing a beat. “Been beaten. Didn’t see what happened.”

The nurse’s eyes dragged over him. Blood. Swelling. The way he couldn’t quite stand straight. Then she clocked my hands. But she just tapped at the keyboard.

“Take a seat. Someone will see you.”

I dumped him into a chair and stood in front of him like a wall, daring anyone to stare too long. My hands were still sticky. I shoved them into my pockets and tried to steady my breathing. Time went strange in A&E. Tyler slumped deeper into the chair, sweat slicking his hairline, breath shallow and wrong. Every so often he shifted with a sharp sound that hooked under my ribs. Eventually, after triage and a nurse giving me a look that said don’t even try it, we were taken to a cubicle. Curtain drawn. Plastic chair scraping on lino. Antiseptic and stale coffee.

We stuck to the story.

At least, I did.

The less Tyler said the better. Short answers. Nods. A mumbled “men” when prompted. I stayed close enough to feel him shaking. Then the curtain snapped back and a doctor stepped in, flipping a stethoscope around his neck.

“Tyler, is it?” the doctor said.

And my world tilted.