Page 71 of Fatal Pattern

“Stryker saved us both.”

Who had he saved? When?

The voice registered now—deep, steady.

Blade.

He remembered. Blade who came and prayed over his broken body. Blade who read that ridiculous book of dad jokes while Stryker fought to move even a finger. The kid who’d become a man, who’d become a brother.

The fog rolled back in, thick and suffocating, dragging him under. Consciousness slipped away like sand through his fingers.

Then he was listening again. How long had he been gone this time? Minutes? Hours? Days? He had no anchor to time anymore, no way to measure the spaces between awareness. He was so tired. Bone-deep, soul-crushing exhaustion that made even thinking feel like lifting concrete blocks.

The woman’s voice again. Tori. “Did he know I have a brother? Why wouldn’t he tell me?”

The question was a lightning strike in the dark. It didn’t just register; it detonated. The gray fog shattered like glass. The beeping monitor vanished. The antiseptic smell, the weight of the blanket, the tube in his throat, all of it dissolved.

A little boy, Tori’s mirror image, cowered under the bed. Dark hair, same delicate features. His eyes locked on Stryker, wide and unblinking, carrying more than terror. Not the hollow stare his sister wore. This gaze carried blame, as if the blood on the knife had glued shame to his skin.

The boy gripped the kitchen knife with both hands. Blood slicked the steel, smeared down his wrists. His pajama top sagged heavy, dark patches spreading from the collar all the way to the cuffs, the same cartoon print as his sister’s gown, only his drowned in red.

Stryker froze, the scene locking into place. A kid with a bloody knife, him with a drawn Glock. Wrong picture.

He shoved the pistol back into the holster and dragged both hands up, palms open, nothing to threaten.

“Easy,” he said. “You’re safe now.”

The boy pressed himself deeper into the shadows, the knife trembling in his grip. A whimper escaped his throat, high and broken.

Stryker lowered himself to his stomach so he was at eye level with the child under the bed. The hardwood floor was cold against his chest, sticky in places where blood had pooled and begun to congeal.

“Are you okay? Where are you hurt?”

The boy’s lips moved, but no sound came out. His eyes darted between Stryker’s face and the doorway behind him, as if calculating escape routes. The knife never wavered.

“My name’s Stryker. What’s your name?”

“Nikos.” The word was barely a whisper.

“Nikos. That’s a good name. A strong name.” Stryker kept his voice gentle. “Can you tell me what happened?”

The boy’s face crumpled. “They wouldn’t stop screaming.”

A shadow fell across the room. Heavy footsteps thudded in the hallway.

“King!”

Stryker tipped his head toward the doorway. Commander Barclay filled it, shoulders squared, eyes cutting across the room. They tracked the sprawled bodies, the overturned chair, Stryker on his belly. No recoil. No startle. Just a quick read, like he’d walked into exactly what he expected.

Stryker got to his feet, instinctively creating a barrier between Barclay and the hidden child. A thin cut ran down the left side of Barclay’s face from ear to jaw. He’d seen similar scratches on the commander’s hands and neck before. Occupational hazards from the German shepherds he raised at home for police training. But this one seemed deeper. Fresher.

“Sir, we have another survivor. A male child. He’s under the bed.”

Barclay stepped inside, and his gaze flicked past Stryker, locking on the shadow beneath the bed. His jaw shifted, tightened. The faintest flicker crossed his face. Like he’d just settled on a verdict.

“Good work, King.” His voice boomed loud enough to announce himself to whoever lingered in the hall. “Looks like you found our perpetrator.”

Stryker’s gut bucked hard, his breath catching before he could haul it steady. “Sir?”