Page 77 of Catcher

My heart starts hammering so hard it drowns out the monitor. “Ruby.” Her name tears out of me, rough and broken.

Riggs’ expression changes. Not much, but enough that I see it, and something cold opens inside me, the kind of cold that makes a man dangerous. I try to sit up again, but Riggs plants a hand in the center of my chest, stopping me before I rip something loose. “She’s alive.”

The words hit first.

I drag in a breath that hurts like hell.

“Where?”

“Transported to the hospital.”

My swollen eyes cut to him as much as they can. One side of my face feels thick, tight, already closing in from the beating. My head pounds as if someone is still swinging that metal pipe against my skull. “What happened?”

Riggs’ jaw tightens. “Ruby was roughed up pretty bad.”

The inside of me goes still. The kind of still that comes right before something gets killed.

“Could’ve been worse,” he continues, voice clipped. “Whoever hit you took off when the school security officer rushed out. He called the law. Didn’t see you right away. Found Ruby first.”

My hands curl into fists against the stretcher. I didn’t stop them, and she walked into the violence because I didn’t stay awake long enough to keep myself between her and it.

Riggs doesn’t look away from me. “Don’t let this shit cloud your head,” he says. “Not right now.”

I stare at him through blood, pain, and the kind of rage that doesn’t have a place to go. “I didn’t stop it.”

“You got blindsided,” he says, voice sharpening. “And still managed to drop one of them.”

“All I care about…” I growl, “… is getting to Ruby.”

Riggs holds my stare. “That’s where we’re going, brother.”

The ambulance slows hard as we turn, and my stomach lurches.

The paramedic curses when I shift again. “Sir, you need to remain still.”

I ignore him.

The second the ambulance stops, and the back doors swing open, bright hospital lights flood in, and all I can think is that Ruby is somewhere inside. I’m already moving before common sense gets a vote.

“Shit,” the paramedic snaps.

I tear at the strap across my chest. Riggs says my name like a warning, but I’m past hearing anything when I swing my legs off the stretcher. The world spins hard, and the pavement jumps under me when my boots hit. For one bad second, my knees threaten to fold. Pain detonates in my skull, throbbing so deep my vision goes black at the edges. I lock my jaw and ride it out because dropping is not an option.

“Catcher,” Riggs snaps.

I stagger one step, then another, forcing my body to remember what it’s built for, moving, fighting, getting to her.

“Sir, you cannot walk in like this,” the EMT argues behind me. “You need an evaluation. You have a possible concussion, lacerations…”

I don’t stop, but I do stop listening.

The ER doors slide open, and the noise hits me—phones ringing, shoes squeaking over polished floors, a kid crying somewhere, nurses talking too fast, the antiseptic bite of hospital air crawling up my nose. Air conditioning skims over sweat and blood, turning my skin cold in all the wrong places. I hate hospitals. They reek of fear people try to clean up with bleach.

Security sees me the second I come in. Probably because I look like hell dragged itself through a windshield and kept walking with blood down my face, one eye swollen shut, and my shirt torn. My gun is gone, probably taken by law or medics, but I don’t need a weapon for what I’m carrying in my chest.

“Sir,” the guard says, stepping in front of me. “You need to check in.”

“Move.”