Chapter Five
Three weeks out from that extraction, and Ezra still couldn’t find his footing.
The outer wounds had mostly mended—no more stitches tugging at his skin, no more morphine dripping through his veins like velvet fire. The bruises had yellowed, the bandages thinned, and the IV pole no longer followed him like a second spine.
But the ache lingered. The broken and cracked ribs lingered like a bad memory.
Not just the physical throb in his side when he moved too fast or breathed too deep.
That was background noise now. What gnawed at him was the weightless, hollow feeling behind his ribs.
Like he’d lost something essential in that dark warehouse in the hills—something no antibiotics or med scans could put back.
The infirmary was quiet this morning. Clean. Clinical.
The walls painted in that generic beige that screamed we care but not too much. The windows were barred—standard for Ridge security—and sunlight filtered through them in harsh white streaks, slicing the room into stripes like a prison cell pretending to be a sanctuary.
It shouldn’t surprise him that the infirmary on Obsidian Ridge was equipped so well—nothing but the best for the Pathfinders.
And between Marsh, Hogan, and Ricky, all of whom were trained medics, and Blake who was a registered nurse, there were plenty of medical personnel on hand to help.
And when they needed a doctor, they simply brought one in.
Ezra sat on the edge of the metal-framed hospital bed, elbows on knees, fingers linked in front of him like he was praying to some god of clarity that never answered. The sheet beneath him crackled slightly when he shifted. Across from him, the closed door stared back, silent, unmoving.
Waiting. He knew what it was waiting for. Ricky didn’t come that morning. Hadn’t come the one before either.
And Ezra hated how much that mattered.
Right after the op, Ricky had barely left the room.
Ezra remembered waking up to water being held to his lips, painkillers pressed gently into his hand, whispered jokes rasped into his ear when nightmares threatened to drag him under again.
Once, when the meds they had given him had spiked wrong, Ezra had thrashed, crying out, not knowing where he was, and Ricky had climbed into the narrow bed behind him, pulled him close and held on until the tremors stopped.
He had lain there, talking to Ezra in low calm tones, telling him about what had happened during that day, keeping him tethered to the now. He was most thankful for that. He was often pulled back into his past, and it sucked when that happened.
And now? Now, he barely showed.
Ricky came by in the early hours—checked vitals, asked the med techs for updates, maybe dropped off a protein bar if he was feeling generous—but he never stayed.
Never sat and talked with him.
Never looked Ezra in the eye for longer than a second. The space he left behind in the room felt colder than the concrete under Ezra’s bare feet.
He stood up abruptly, pacing with restless energy that left his bandaged side screaming. The ankle monitor that the med techs had rigged to track his physical therapy clicked faintly against the tile floor with each step, marking time like a metronome in a funeral dirge.
That was how Marsh found him.
Boots in the hallway. A knock. Then the medic stepped inside, a thin manila folder tucked under one arm and a faint sheen of sweat on his brow.
“Got some decent news,” Marsh said without preamble.
“We decrypted a good chunk of the file. One of the relay nodes linked to a Bratya-affiliated transport shell in Sofia. Some of the girls have already been tracked to safehouses—we’re working on coordinated recovery now.
DEA’s working the case with Interpol and Greek authorities. Multiple teams are active.”
Ezra turned slowly. His voice cracked through the dryness in his throat. “Van’s girl?”
Marsh’s eyes dropped to the file for a second.
“Sophia. Age five and a half. It’s her, Ezra.
She’s on the list. No confirmed location yet—but one of the handlers, a mid-level operative named Fabritsius, handled placements through Albania and into Serbia.
Kai’s got an eye on his financials. Something’s moving. ”
Ezra exhaled, long and shaky. “Then, we’re close.”
Marsh nodded. “Closer than ever.”
Ezra rubbed at his face with both hands, feeling suddenly drained. “What about Ricky?”
Marsh hesitated, then moved to the window, looking out. “He asks how you’re doing. Every shift. Checks logs. Checked with me yesterday about your recovery metrics—said you’ll be walking the south field next week if your stats hold.”
Ezra blinked. “He said that?”
“He did.” Marsh turned and leaned back against the frame. “He’s keeping his distance, yeah. But he’s not checked out. He’s actually here every night after your sedative kicks in and you’re asleep. He’s just ... cautious. You know Ricky. He doesn’t play casual with emotion.”
He’s here every night? Of course he is.
Ezra’s voice was brittle. “He thinks I left him.”
“You kinda did,” Marsh said gently. “I don’t know what went down between you two, but the day you disappeared, he did to. Maybe not physically, but he disappeared all the same.”
Ezra flinched. “I thought it’d be easier.”
“It never is.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then, Marsh sighed and crossed his arms. “We fought. Ricky and I. When you left. He went cold on all of us and I—I blew up. Told him if he didn’t want to be here, he should leave.
That very night he did. Disappeared for three months.
Ghosted every contact I tried to make with him.
And I—I carry the weight of guilt for that. ”
Ezra’s jaw tensed. “He ghosted the team because I left.”
Marsh shook his head. “He ghosted because he was bleeding and hurt, and he didn’t know where to put it.”
Ezra swallowed the guilt rising up his throat like bile. “That’s on me.”
Marsh studied him. “You’re right, it is. But if you want him to stop disappearing? Start showing him where to land.”
Ezra nodded once. “I will.”
Later that afternoon, Ezra stood in front of Blake’s door, his finger hovering over the final digit of his code but he didn’t have to press it.
The door hissed open mid-input, and Blake stood there with one brow raised and a crooked smile on his lips. He was barefoot, hoodie half-zipped, a toddler toy clutched in one hand.
“You didn’t mess up the drip again, did you?” he asked dryly, moving back from the doorframe.
Ezra stepped in, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “No. But I’m gonna mess something up tonight if I don’t do this right.”
Blake’s smile faded into something softer, more alert. He followed him into the living space, dropped the toy onto the counter, and turned with his arms crossed.
“Talk to me.”
So, he did.
He laid it out, stripped of charm or misdirection. No sedative tonight. A full pot of coffee—strong enough to scrape paint. He was going to stay awake. No excuses. No false starts. Just him, sitting in that infirmary bed, waiting for Ricky Bowen to walk through the door again.
He had something to say.
And he wasn’t going to miss the moment this time.
Blake blinked once. Then, pulled him in for a hug without a word.
His hug was tight and clean, all the weight of two lifetimes packed into one gesture. He held on like someone who knew exactly what broken hearts felt like—and what it meant to fight for them.
“You already nailed the hard part,” he said into his shoulder. “You survived. You got the list out. You held on and we will find Van’s girl and bring her home.”
Ezra huffed a sound, “Sophia. Her name is Sophia.”
Blake smiled. “Beautiful name. We will bring Sophia home and she will grow up with Ryan and Celia, and they will all be the very best of friends.”
Ezra swallowed. “I know. But this—this is different. I need to tell him why and there are a few things I need to say to him. I need him to sit still long enough so he will hear it.”
He leaned back and brushed the edge of his fringe off his forehead like Ezra was one of his own. “He will. You’ve got him on the hook, Ez. He’s just not sure if he’s allowed to reel you in.”
Ezra let out a shaky breath. “I don’t think that’s how fishing works.”
Blake rolled his eyes. “Don’t care, you get what I mean. Now, let’s stack the odds in your favor, then.”
Blake dug out the kettle, filled it with water from a filtered tap, clicked it on. Ezra found the French press and an old tin of coffee grounds that smelled like gunpowder and midnight. They worked in silence.
Ezra stared out the window toward the trees that marked the boundary lines between areas of the Ridge. Somewhere out there, Ricky was probably pacing the south field, burning daylight into sweat, trying to keep his edges sharp enough to hold him together.
Ezra got it. They’d both been blades for too long. Now ... he just wanted to be human again.
He turned to Blake. “Thanks for the coffee.”
Blake nudged the mug toward him. “Go fix your heart, Navarro.”
He took it, warm and full, like a promise he wasn’t going to miss this time.
Not tonight.
****
The Ridge was quiet at night, and he’d be lying if he said this wasn’t his favorite part of the day. Not silent—never silent—but still enough that Ricky could hear his own heartbeat in the spaces between his boots hitting the floor.
He walked the corridor to the infirmary like he always did now—around the same time, same route, same knot tightening in his gut.
Over three weeks post-extraction and Ezra was healing. Physically, anyway. The stitches were gone. Color back in his face. Breath no longer sounded like gravel in his lungs.
But Ricky still worried.
Internal bleeding could be subtle. Nerve trauma even worse. And then there was the deeper stuff—the stuff they didn’t scan for. What happened to a man who went after ghosts, got chained to a wall, and was dragged back through hell?
What happened when he got left alone in a place like that?