Page 73 of Fatal Pattern

He looked at his own hands now covered in blood. The same hands that had just tried to save a man’s life and comfort a child. Hands that could KO a man with a single hit but had no power in this situation.

Not if he could help it.

He couldn’t stop what had already happened. But he could watch. He could wait. And when those children got chewed up and spit out of whatever system they were being sent to, he would be there.

21

Blade leaned against the wall, the green spike ball rotating between his palms. The soft rubber spikes pressed into his skin, giving his restless fingers something to focus on while questions without answers cycled through his head.

Tori stood beside the hospital bed, working the tangles from Stryker’s salt-and-pepper hair and giving him an update that Blade was 90 percent sure he couldn’t hear. “Luna’s doing great with the evening classes. You’d be so proud of how she’s stepped up. The kids listen to her, you know? She’s got that same way you do of making them believe they’re worth something.”

Two nights ago, Blade had found her huddled in her closet, shaking so hard she couldn’t speak and eyes wide with terror that went bone-deep.

The spike ball stilled between his palms. People didn’t just bounce back from trauma like that. Not without serious work. Not without someone believing in them enough to make the healing possible. Stryker had done that for her. Given her a place to rebuild, a purpose that mattered, kids who needed what she had to offer. Plenty of survivors never made it past the wreckage. Tori had done more than survive. She’d become someone who could anchor others. Anchor him.

His fingers tightened around the spike ball until the rubber points bit into his palm.

“The man who saved Tori can find it.”

The words had been circling his head for hours, wearing grooves in his thoughts like the spike grooves in his hand. Stryker was the key. But what good was a key when the lock was trapped behind closed eyes?

He studied Stryker’s profile. The weight had melted off him. Muscle mass gone. Oxygen tube under his nose. IV needle taped to his hand. A pale blue hospital gown. All of it had taken his friend, his mentor, and made him into something fragile.

Stryker would hate this. The man had never worn anything that showed weakness. Not even a Band-Aid when he’d split his knuckles on the heavy bag.

“Scars tell stories,” he’d always said.

This wasn’t a story. This was a nightmare.

They needed Stryker to wake up. They needed his strength. His wisdom. His guidance. Instead, they had Damien Sullivan’s riddles and a mentor who looked like he was sleeping but wouldn’t wake up, no matter how loud they called his name.

“Why now?” Blade spoke the question that had been gnawing at him. “Why is Damien bringing this up now?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Tori glanced up. “Fear. Damien’s a coward, and self-preservation has always been stronger than his conscience. He’s kept his mouth shut because he knows Barclay’s reach is long.”

“You’re not buying his ‘new man’ thing?” He made air quotes.

“Damien’s seen Corbin become the man he never was. A good agent. Honorable. Maybe it’s eating at him.”

“Yeah.”

Tori set the hairbrush on the nightstand and arranged Stryker’s hair around his shoulders.

“It’d be hard for Damien to ignore how he wrecked his own legacy while Corbin built something honorable in spite of it,” Blade said.

“Damien’s probably worried about Corbin. He shined a light on some dark people and could be in danger.”

But still, Blade thought, he’s a coward.

His phone buzzed against his hip, and he glanced at the screen. Larry Kobilinsky. He answered on the second ring.

“St. James.”

“We’ve got three high-confidence matches for your geometric staging query.” Larry’s words came rapid-fire, the excitement of a breakthrough. “Tampa PD 2023, Orlando PD 2024, and a weird one from St. Johns County Sheriff’s Office from earlier this year.”

The spike ball dropped from his hand, bouncing once on the linoleum before rolling under Stryker’s bed. The ball stayed where it landed. He’d get it later. Three more victims. Three more crime scenes staged like mathematical art.

“Email me everything you’ve got.” Blade pushed off the wall. “Photos, reports, witness statements. The works.”