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“What the hell does that mean?” Grady asked.
Jericho gestured to the killer, who was being a good boy, with his head still firmly pressed to the counter. Part of that irritated Jericho; the darkest part of him had wanted to exact more primal revenge. Legal justice was a cold, long road instead of the instant gratification he preferred. “This is your guy.”
“What is my guy? Is this blood courtesy of you?”
“He deserved it,” Jericho said flatly. Deserved that and more. If he didn’t think that Quinn would highly disapprove, Jericho would have spent a lot more time working him over until there wasn’t an inch of him that wasn’t hurting.
Grady’s eyes flared as he glanced between where the paramedics and Six were lifting Quinn carefully onto a stretcher—with Quinn protesting—and then back to the huddled figure. Grady was a smart man, and Jericho could see the cogs moving. He leaned down and slapped the cuffs on the man, yanking him to his feet none too gently. “You’re under arrest for the murder of George Brice, Dylan Hall, Benjamin Kenny, and Chris Digby. And for the assault and attempted murder of a police officer. Probably some other stuff. Give me some time to put together a nice long list for you.”
Jericho left Grady there with the killer and followed the crowd out of the house, not wanting Quinn out of his sight. Six snagged his arm and stopped him on the porch.
“The fuck are you doing?” Jericho asked. “I’m going with them.”
“Gloria refuses to leave Quinn’s side, and he’s of the same mind. She’ll be going with them in the ambulance, and there isn’t room for three. I want to make sure that you’re okay to drive before I let you go.”
Jericho frowned. “I can drive just fine.” Was this some kind of fucked-up sobriety test, or was Six just trying his patience for no good reason?
“Hold your hand up.”
Jericho clenched his hands into fists and stuffed them into his pockets. “Fuck off.” That wasn’t an admission of guilt. He simply wanted Six to get fucked.
Six sighed. “Be careful on the road. Message me when you arrive. Hunter is already on his way, might even beat you there. I’ll stay here and make sure the prisoner transfer goes smoothly. We don’t need him getting away.”
“Should have just put a bullet in his head,” Jericho muttered. Morals were stupid. The piece of shit couldn’t cause any problems if he were dead. It was the only solution that meant they never had to worry about something coming back to bite them in the ass.
“Maybe you’ll get your chance,” Six said, slapping him on the back. “I’m serious about the message. If I don’t hear from you the second you pull up, I’ll put you on your knees with Greer.”
“I’m not into your kinky shit.”
“Funny that you think I’d give you a choice.”
Jericho rolled his eyes. “Yes, sir. I’ll message when I get there. Can I leave now?”
Six tugged painfully on Jericho’s hair and then pulled him into a one-arm hug, curling his arm around his head and resting his hand to cradle the back of it. “Drive. Carefully.” He pulled a hair tie from his pocket. “Here.”
Jericho took it and quickly put his hair into a haphazard ponytail. “I always drive carefully,” he muttered as he walked away. That crash hadn’t been his fault; it had beenGreer’s, and it had been almost a decade since that stupid decision. Six’s memory was like an elephant. Fucker.
HUNTER WAS ALREADY WAITING at the entrance to the hospital when Jericho got there. He quickly flicked Six a text message that was just a middle-finger emoji—a saved favourite of his—and then locked his phone down for anything but emergencies.
They walked wordlessly to the front desk, though Jericho couldfeelthe way Hunter was looking at him. His spider senses were tingling.
“We’re here to see Quinn Hughes. Do you know if he’s out of radiology?” Jericho asked, assuming the first thing they would do is run scans. If he didn’t have a concussion, Jericho would eat his non-existent badge. Maybe his belt. A hat? It didn’t matter, because that motherfucker had hit Quinn hard enough to give him one. Six had been convinced of that as well, and Jericho trusted him without question.
Thinking about Quinn on the floor, fighting for his life, only made the anger boil back to the surface, where Jericho had to actively work to push it back down.
“And you are?” the receptionist asked, turning his nose down at Jericho.
“Jericho. Just Jericho.” Quinn didn’t know his last name, so he wouldn’t have used it. Quinn only knew him as Jericho. And he’d been Jericho for too long to ever think of himself another way. Not the real him.
“Let me check for you, Just Jericho.”
Very original. Jericho would have rolled his eyes if he could have been bothered to. He couldn’t.
“Well, Just Jericho, here you are. Your cop boyfriend is on the third floor, room 312. Elevators are through the corridor; take two lefts, and they’re in the middle.”
Did he just—Jericho gave a tight smile. “Thank you.”
He could feel Hunter staring some more as they walked through the maze of hallways, navigating effortlessly around the bustle of a busy hospital.
