31. Blake
31
BLAKE
I wake up in the hospital room, my vision slowly clearing. My tongue tastes of acid, and the rest of my mouth feels thick. As I attempt to move, I find my arms nearly unresponsive—not due to the IV line attached to me, but from a paralyzing weakness.
“Mr. Blake,” a doctor greets me. He introduces himself. After I’m more alert, he instructs me to squeeze his hand and attempt to move my legs, which I manage with great effort.
“You’re quite fortunate,” he explains. “Firstly, the dose administered was insufficient for a man of your size, as you successfully dislodged the syringe before the entire dose was delivered. Secondly, we avoided a potential complication since the needle did not break off. Such an occurrence could have led to fragments entering your bloodstream.”
“Where’s…Coco?” I manage to ask, my voice dull from the strange numbness in my mouth. I gulp, but there’s barely any saliva in my throat. “My daughter.”
“She’s safe,” the doctor reassures me.
“And Georgia-May? My…my partner?”
The doctor remains silent, not answering my question. A fire ignites within me, but my body refuses to cooperate. The doctor advises me to rest before quietly exiting the room. My throat is too parched to even call him back.
Rest is impossible now. Summoning every ounce of strength, I laboriously pull myself up. Barely able to stand, I drag my debilitated body to the doorway.
Outside, I spot Clay conversing with the doctor. Seeing me, Clay rushes over, and the doctor quickly follows, both of them supporting my faltering frame as they guide me back to my bed.
“I’ll keep an eye on him, Doc,” Clay reassures the doctor, and he leaves us alone.
“Coco?” I probe Clay, craving more details than the doctor provided.
“She’s with Isabelle and Amber. She’s unharmed. Wyatt and our other bodyguards are protecting them,” he responds.
“Georgia-May. Where is she, Clay?” I sit up.
He hesitates, his silence foreboding.
“Where is she?” I press, raising my voice, although it’s no more than a terrible rasp.
“She’s been taken,” he finally admits as I drop back onto the bed.
“And Lowe? Where the fuck was Lowe?” The thought crosses my mind that he might’ve been another of Bertram’s Trojan horses.
“They got him too, stabbed from behind and locked in the men’s room right across from where he got Georgia-May,” he sighs. “He’s critical but stable.”
I concentrate intensely, trying to push my brain past the lingering effects of the chemicals coursing through my bloodstream. Dizziness soon overwhelms me. I gag, the room violently spinning as I throw up.
Clayton tends to me. “Hey, lie down.”
Hopelessness and embarrassment hit me at once. My boss, my friend, and now, in this moment, my caretaker.
“Shit! Sorry, Clay.”
He wipes my mouth with a towel. “Take it easy, tough guy. Dealing with sick rookies was just another day on the job,” he quips, no doubt reminding me of his days in the Air Force.
After gulping a bottle of water, I muster the strength to stand.
“Blake! You were lucky the drug didn’t kill you, but if you want to keep moving, you’ve got to stay put,” Clay insists.
“If it was going to kill me, it would’ve already!” I counter.
I take deep, labored breaths. Whatever that impostor nurse injected into me is making me feel as if I’m being mummified alive. But there’s no way I’ll let this stop me—not when Georgia-May’s safety is at stake.
Propelled by a fierce determination to act, I manage to leave the bed. “We need to move,” I assert, pulling on my clothes that hang loosely from a chair.
“Jesus, Blake! Leave it to the police. Garcia is already on it,” he says, referring to Sergeant Laura Garcia. She’s the LAPD sergeant we know well, having assisted us in countless cases that inevitably come with running a billion-dollar business.
“I need to talk to her then.”
Clay stops me from getting up. “You tell us what needs to be done, then Rob and I will do the doing.”
“If it were Isabelle, wouldn’t you do the same? Come on, we need to check the hospital’s security footage.”
Clay ceases his protests and supports me as we make our way to the security room.
On the way, as I hobble away, Clay says, “We’ve flown Anne and her boyfriend over. We’re not taking any chances.”
I appreciate the effort. It’s definitely the right move, but we may be acting too late. Who would’ve thought a woman posing as a nurse was actually hired muscle? That sick fuck Abner Bertram!
Inside the hospital’s security office, the LAPD is already present.
“Mr. Blake!” Sergeant Garcia is surprised to see me. Horror paints her face, perhaps an indication of how grim I look. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Sergeant. Tell me what you know,” I say.
Together, we review the CCTV footage.
“Georgia-May was taken by this man to the parking garage on the ground floor,” Garcia says.
The suspect appears to be an orderly, but upon closer inspection… “Is he wearing a mask or something?” I question, noting the peculiar face and the familiar way he moves, his height and build. I’m certain he’s the hooded man I bumped into on the university campus. The same one Georgia-May mentioned was following her.
“Then she was transferred into this car,” the officer continues.
“Have you traced it?”
“It was found abandoned just a block from here.”
“Where was she taken then?” I press.
“We lost them.”
“Fuck!” I pivot, on the verge of lashing out at anything, anyone, within reach. Yet, even if there was something, my muscles fail to respond as I need them to. Turning to my last resort, I say, “Clay, take me to the spot where they found the car.”
By now, Clayton has no interest in opposing me. He drives me to where the nondescript car was found abandoned. The area is cordoned off, but my interest lies beyond the immediate perimeter. Despite my faltering steps and limp arms, my vision remains sharp.
I point out, “Look at this area. It’s secluded, but you can see disturbances in the dust, like someone was dragging their feet here.” The signs are subtle yet telling.
We trace the disturbances to a small dead-end street. Faint tire marks suggest a large vehicle had recently maneuvered here. And there, at the curb’s edge, I spot a strap from a gurney.
“Damn it, Clay. She’s been taken in an ambulance,” I conclude, mentally mapping that the emergency bay of the hospital is just around the block.