Chapter 25
Twenty-Five
T he darkness pressed in on Ruth. She lay still, her breath uneven as she fought to calm the chaos in her mind. Noah’s hand, warm and strong, had returned to hers, pushing the storm of her fear away. But something gnawed at her—a truth she couldn’t ignore, even in her blindness. She could sense it in the way his hand occasionally trembled, the way his breathing hitched with every movement.
“Noah?” she whispered, her voice breaking through the silence.
“I’m here,” he said softly, squeezing her hand.
Ruth did her best to tilt her head toward him, the darkness amplifying her other senses. His voice was unsteady, and she could feel the exhaustion radiating off him. She didn’t need to see his face to know the lines of strain etched into it or the pain hidden in his quiet groans every time he shifted in his chair.
“You’re hurting,” she said, her words more of a statement than a question.
“I’m fine,” he replied quickly, brushing it off. But she knew better.
Before she could press him further, the sound of footsteps entered the room. Ruth recognized the familiar tone of Tristan’s voice as he addressed the nurses. A moment later, he spoke gently to her, “Ruth, it’s Tristan. The nurses told me about the fall. How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine,” she slurred, though the ache in her side from hitting the floor told a different story.
“You’ve been through a lot,” Tristan said calmly, his voice always a source of quiet reassurance. “We’re all here to help you. I need to check you over to make sure nothing else is hurt, okay?”
Ruth nodded reluctantly. As Tristan examined her, he continued speaking in that calm, measured tone. “Noah’s been by your side nonstop, hasn’t he?”
“Yes,” she whispered, clutching Noah’s hand. “He needs to rest. He won’t listen to me.”
Tristan’s chuckle was soft but knowing. “That sounds about right. Ruth, would you let your mom and Izzy sit with you for a while if Noah needs a break? They’ve been waiting outside, wanting to see you. You need some rest too.”
Ruth hesitated, her lips trembling. She didn’t want to let go of Noah, not when the darkness felt so absolute. But Tristan’s voice was soothing, and deep down, she knew he was right.
“Okay,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “But only if he’s going to rest.”
Tristan patted her shoulder. “Good. Let me bring them in.”
A few moments later, the soft scent of her mother’s familiar perfume filled the room. Her mother’s hand took hers, warm and gentle, and Ruth’s tight grip on Noah loosened.
“I’ll be back soon,” Noah murmured, his voice low and reluctant. He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. And then he was gone.
* * *
Noah followed Tristan out of Ruth’s room, his chest tight and every step sending a dull ache through his side. Tristan’s hand was firm on his shoulder as he guided him down the hallway to the elevator.
“Come on,” Tristan said in a no-nonsense tone. “I need to take a look at you.”
“I’m fine,” Noah muttered, though the stabbing pain with each breath told a different story.
“Don’t start with me, Noah,” Tristan said. “You can’t help Ruth if you collapse. Let’s go.”
Noah sighed heavily but didn’t argue. A floor below, in the ER, Tristan led him to an exam room and gestured for him to sit on the gurney. “Shirt off,” he instructed, grabbing gloves and his stethoscope.
Reluctantly, Noah peeled off his shirt, wincing as the motion pulled at his chest. Tristan’s expression darkened as he inspected the mottled bruising along Noah’s ribs.
“Three broken ribs, at least,” Tristan said after palpating carefully. “You’ve been walking around like this? No wonder you’re wincing every five seconds.”
“It’s not a big deal,” Noah replied gruffly. “Rae?—”
“Ruth needs you at your best,” Tristan interrupted, his tone firm. “If you don’t take care of this, you’ll be no good to her.”
After an x-ray that confirmed his suspicions, Tristan grabbed a roll of medical tape and began wrapping Noah’s chest. “You’re lucky you didn’t puncture a lung. This will help stabilize them, but you need to get some rest. I’m going to give something for the pain. And, no, it won’t make you groggy. I’ll let you go back to stay with her on one condition—you sleep when she does. Got it?”
“Fine,” Noah said begrudgingly, though his jaw tightened.
“Stay put. I’ll be back with the pain meds.” Tristan stepped out.
As he pulled his shirt back on, the door opened, and Brad Killian stepped in. Despite no sleep, he remained a sharply dressed man with an air of authority. His expression was serious. “Noah, we need to talk.”
Noah straightened, ignoring the ache in his ribs. “What is it?”
Brad didn’t waste time with pleasantries. His tone was clipped, professional. “My team is tracing the source of the explosive. We’re already sweeping Ruth’s apartment and your home for any signs of tampering.”
Noah’s jaw tightened, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “Why Ruth’s place?”
Brad met his glare head-on, his expression calm but steely. “We’re treating her involvement as a serious possibility. Alex notified Evan Shipley; he’s on his way. Shipley notified the U.S. attorney, Tom Calloway, who is out of town. I also notified Blake Ellison and Dylan Grant.”
Noah’s eyes darkened, his temper boiling over. He stepped closer, his voice low and sharp with anger. “You’re spreading this around? If Ruth is the target, the more people who know she’s alive, the more danger you’re putting her in.”
Brad didn’t flinch, holding Noah’s gaze with unshakable authority. “You think I haven’t considered that? Every name I’ve involved is vetted or need-to-know. Shipley is not a political hack, as most people suspect. Before he became your boss, he actually used to specialize in ordnance tracking. And Alex’s expertise is digital surveillance. Calloway is your big boss. Was Shipley supposed to sit on it?
“We’re not just throwing darts at a wall, Noah—we’re pulling in resources who can actually solve this. Ellison and Grant are Ruth’s employers. All I reported to them is that she was critically injured. We are going to need their cooperation in sharing her caseload.”
“And if one of them leaks something? If someone lets it slip that Ruth survived?” Noah’s voice dropped even lower, laced with a dangerous edge. “Do you even understand the risk you’re taking with her life?”
Brad took a step closer himself, the tension between the two men palpable. “I understand the risk better than you think. But I also understand the stakes. If this was a professional job, they don’t care about loose ends. They care about finishing what they started. Ruth’s safest option is for us to stay ahead of them—and we don’t do that by burying our heads in the sand.”
Noah’s fists clenched, his shoulders taut. “Stay ahead without putting her in the spotlight. You don’t need half the world involved. I want her out of this.”
“Out?” Brad’s voice hardened, his calm facade slipping just enough to reveal his frustration. “She was almost killed, Noah. You both were. Pretending she isn’t part of this equation doesn’t make her any less of a target. I don’t like this any more than you do, but I’m not about to play it safe and get someone killed because we didn’t act fast enough.”
Noah’s glare didn’t waver, but the conviction in Brad’s voice gave him pause. “And what if your ‘all hands on deck’ approach makes her a bigger target? What if the wrong person finds out she’s still breathing?”
Brad’s eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a low, measured tone. “You think I’d risk that? Every move we’re making is calculated. Every person involved knows what’s at stake and what they’re protecting. If Ruth’s alive right now, it’s because of quick decisions and smart thinking, not because we tiptoed around the issue.” He blew out a hard breath. “The explosion is all over the news—no names, and we are calling it a gas leak.”
The silence stretched between them, taut with tension. Finally, Brad continued, his tone resolute, “I understand your instinct to protect her. But understand this: my job is to ensure she doesn’t need protecting because we’ve already neutralized the threat. That’s the only way this ends. So, unless you’re planning to solve this yourself, you’re going to have to trust me to do my job.”
Noah’s jaw worked as if he were biting back another retort, his fists unclenching just slightly. “Fine. But keep her name out of your reports. No leaks, no chatter.”
Brad gave a curt nod. “Understood. But you need to prepare yourself, Noah. If this was intentional, they’re not finished yet. And neither are we.”
Noah didn’t reply, but the fire in his gaze burned hotter. He turned his head abruptly, throwing his arm across his eyes as tension radiated off him in waves. Brad leaned against the wall in the room. Both knew the threat could loom even larger than they currently fathomed.
* * *
Luke Andrews' knuckles whitened as he gripped the steering wheel, weaving through the late-night traffic of Pierre. The city lights blurred, streaking past like the thoughts racing through his mind. His heart pounded in rhythm with the ticking of his watch—time was slipping away, and every second mattered.
The disguise had to be flawless. Gone was the polished veneer of the millionaire’s security detail, replaced by an everyman’s forgettable appearance. He ruffled his hair, tugged on an ill-fitting cap, and swapped his tailored jacket for a nondescript hoodie he kept stuffed in his back seat. As he drove, Luke leaned forward to check his reflection in the rearview mirror. Satisfied with his transformation, he exhaled sharply, preparing for the next phase of the plan.
The trauma center loomed ahead, a stark building glowing harshly under fluorescent lights. Luke parked two blocks away and jogged toward the entrance, frequently checking behind him. He had to find Noah Kandor—had to deliver the message that could save their lives. But most of all, he had to vanish afterward without a trace.
Inside the emergency room, chaos reigned. The smells of the hospital mixed with the sounds of frantic voices, ringing phones, and the hum of machinery. Luke kept his head low, scanning the area with quick, practiced eyes. He spotted a linen closet door ajar and slipped inside, his heart thundering against his ribs.
He worked fast. After grabbing scrubs and a lab coat from a nearby shelf, he threw them on over his clothes. An ID badge dangling from the back of a chair caught his eye. Snatching it, he slipped the lanyard over his head, running his thumb over the name. Dr. Martin Gresham, it read. It would have to do.
Luke cracked the door open, peering into the bustling ER. If Noah Kandor or Ruth Everhart were here, they’d be under police protection. Sure enough, two uniformed highway patrol officers stood like sentinels near a room at the end of the corridor. Luke ducked back, his mind spinning. He needed a way in, something that would keep the cops distracted long enough for him to slip past.
His eyes landed on a supply cart, its contents haphazardly arranged. Luke grinned despite himself as he picked up two items: an enema kit and a Foley catheter set, each clearly labeled. Most men—especially cops—found these to be tools of abject dread.
Pushing the cart with an air of comfort, he approached the officers. “Rough night, huh?” he quipped, gesturing to the kits. “Poor guy’s in for a double whammy. Hope he’s understanding.”
The officers exchanged glances, their faces contorting in visible discomfort. “Yeah, uh, good luck with that,” one muttered, stepping aside just enough for Luke to slip past.
Once inside the room, Luke’s relief was short-lived. The click of a gun safety disengaging froze him in his tracks. The muzzle of a pistol hovered inches from his temple, held steady by a tall figure with cold eyes—Brad Killian.
* * *
Noah’s ribs burned with every breath, each one a painful reminder of how close he and Ruth had come to death. The sounds of the hospital room made his head pound, but it was the sight of Luke Andrews, on his knees with hands raised, that truly set his nerves on edge.
Noah straightened as much as his battered body allowed, his eyes narrowing on the man before him. “Shit.” His voice was rough, disbelief mingling with the sharp edge of suspicion.
“It’s me,” Luke answered, his hands still raised in surrender. His voice was firm, but Noah wasn’t about to trust it—not yet.
Behind him, Brad’s stance was rock-solid, his gun steady, his expression unreadable. Noah could almost feel Brad’s judgment, his unspoken thoughts like a second voice in the room. Why now? Why here? Why him?
Luke shifted slightly, his movements deliberate. “I’ve got something you need to hear.”
“Talk,” Brad snapped, his voice a low growl.
“First, stand up. Killian, put the gun away.” Noah kept his gaze fixed on Luke, his mind racing. Every instinct screamed that something about this was off, but there was no denying the flicker of desperation in Luke’s eyes. Then the words came, and the room felt like it dropped ten degrees.
“It wasn’t Fairchild,” Luke said, his voice tight. “The bombing—it wasn’t him.”
The words hit Noah like a gut punch, driving what little air he had left from his lungs. He leaned forward, the dull ache in his ribs a distant second to the sharp spike of anger and confusion that surged through him. “What?” His voice came out sharper than he intended, raw and biting. “Then who?”
Luke’s gaze flicked to him, then to Brad, before settling back on Noah. “That’s what Fairchild wants to know. He’s been watching you. His people are watching you. If he finds out who did this—if he even suspects—it’s not just them he’ll come after. He doesn’t want you dead. He wants to leverage you.”
Noah’s hands curled into fists at his sides, his nails biting into his palms. The room felt too small, the walls pressing in with the weight of Luke’s words. “And Ruth? Does he know about her?”
Luke hesitated, and that second of silence was answer enough. “If she’s not already on his radar, she will be soon,” he said grimly. “But, as potential leverage. Dead, she’d be useless to Fairchild.”
Luke brushed off his knees. Every word he spoke was weighted with urgency. “Fairchild’s pissed. Whoever planted that bomb—I figured it wasn’t a gas leak—wasn’t working under his orders, and that’s a problem for a guy like him. He doesn’t just kill people—he leaves his mark. His hits are personal, methodical, a way of saying ‘I’m in control.’ But this? A sloppy, loud explosion? It’s an insult to the way he operates. Worse, it’s got him paranoid. He thinks Hilton’s notes went up in the blast with your briefcase, but he’s not entirely sure. And if there’s even a chance those notes survived, he’s watching to see what you or anyone else in the state’s attorney’s office does next. If he catches a whiff that you’re still holding on to them or digging for answers, he’ll come at you harder. If you don’t start playing this smart, they’ll go after Ruth next. They’ll use her to get to you.”
The notes were gone, but Noah still had the thumb drive. His pulse thundered in his ears. The thought of Ruth in more danger—of her being dragged deeper into this hell because of him—was enough to make his vision blur with fury.
“She’s safe,” he said tightly, though the words felt hollow. “For now.”
“For now isn’t good enough,” Luke countered, stepping closer. His voice lowered, but the urgency sharpened. “You need to lay low. Both of you. Figure out your next move before they corner you. If they think you’re vulnerable, they’ll strike. Can you get out of town?”
Noah’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together as he fought the urge to lash out. Every fiber of his being rebelled against the idea of running, of hiding. He wanted to fight. He needed to fight. But the truth in Luke’s words was undeniable, even as it twisted like a knife in his gut.
“And why the hell should we trust you?” Brad’s voice cut through the tension like a blade, sharp and cold. His gun was lowered now, but his stance was still rigid, distrust written in every hard line of his face. “For all we know, you’re part of this.”
Noah shot Brad a glare, his patience fraying. He had to trust Brad. Luke knew who Brad was. He’d been the telegenic poster child for the highway patrol. He had to out Luke. “This is Luke Andrews. He’s ATF,” he said, the words firm despite the chaos in his mind. “If he’s here, it’s because he knows more about this than we do.”
Brad hesitated, his eyes narrowing as he regarded Luke with renewed suspicion. “ATF,” he muttered, the word dripping with grudging respect. “That explains the intel. But why risk blowing your cover for this?”
Luke didn’t flinch. He looked directly at Brad, then back to Noah, his expression unyielding. “Because it’s the right thing to do. This isn’t just about you, Noah. Or Ruth. It’s bigger than both of you. I’ve seen what Fairchild and his people are capable of, and if you want to keep her alive, you have to stay ahead of them. We can stop the guns coming in, but I think Hilton’s records are the only thing that will take Fairchild and others down.”
Noah’s thoughts spiraled, a chaotic mix of anger, fear, and grim resolve. He wanted to protect Ruth, to shield her from every shadow and threat, but Luke’s warning pressed heavily on him. Staying ahead meant more than fighting—it meant being smart. It meant surviving.
He exhaled slowly, his voice quieter now but no less firm. “We owe you, Luke.”
But Luke shook his head. “You don’t owe me a damn thing,” he said simply. “Just stay alive. Both of you. That’s all I ask.”
The words hung in the air, thick with unspoken truths. Brad finally exhaled, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he ran a hand over his face. “Alright,” he said, the fight draining from his tone. “I’m not happy about being blindsided, but I’ll take the help. We’re going to need every resource we can get.”
Luke nodded once, his jaw set. “Good. Then stop questioning me and start moving. Time’s not on your side.”
As Luke turned to leave, Noah watched him, the tension in the room still thrumming like a live wire. His ribs ached with every breath, but the pain only fueled his resolve. Whatever it took, whatever the cost, he wasn’t going to let Ruth become another casualty.
He exchanged a glance with Brad, a silent understanding passing between them. The stakes had never been higher. And failure wasn’t an option.