Chapter 28
Azalea
The highway stretched before us. I stared out the window, watching as trees and rock formations blurred past. My thoughts were a tangled mess of worry for Greg as I processed everything that had happened in the past few days.
“I hope I didn’t overstep back there,” I said finally, breaking the silence, “in saying that we’re seeing each other.”
McCrae took my hand from where it rested on my lap, then pulled it to his lips, kissing the back of it softly. The gesture sent warmth spiraling through me despite my anxiety. “You didn’t overstep,” he said, his voice low and certain.
I sighed, relieved but still worried about everything hanging over us. “I guess we’ll see how things go after all of this.”
McCrae nodded. “I can’t wait to get to know you, Azalea, but the truth is … you pretty much know me already.” He paused, vulnerability flashing across his face. “If you don’t want to pursue me, well, that’s fine.”
I scoffed, the sound turning into a small laugh. “I do … want to pursue you.” The admission felt both terrifying and right.
He smiled then, the first genuine smile I’d seen since we’d left Refuge Falls.
For a moment, we were just two people at the beginning of something special, not two people racing toward danger.
Two hours later, the Denver hospital loomed ahead, a massive structure of brick and glass.
My heart pounded against my ribs as we parked and walked through the sliding doors into the sterile hallways of Denver Memorial.
My legs felt like lead, each step requiring more effort than the last. McCrae stayed close, his hand at the small of my back.
That simple touch kept me grounded when everything else felt like it was spinning out of control.
The police escort Damon had arranged walked ahead of us, his uniform drawing curious glances from hospital staff. “Room 412,” the officer said, stopping at a closed door. “He’s in here.”
I froze, suddenly terrified of what I might find on the other side. What if it wasn’t Greg? What if it was, but he was … different somehow?
“I’m right here,” McCrae whispered, his breath warm against my ear.
I nodded, gathering my courage, and pushed open the door.
The room was dim, blinds drawn. Machines beeped steadily, monitoring vital signs. And there, in the hospital bed, lay my brother.
“Greg,” I whispered, my voice breaking.
His face was pale, and dark stubble covered his jaw. A bandage was visible beneath the thin hospital gown, wrapped around his chest. His eyes were closed, but it was him. My brother. Alive.
My knees nearly buckled with relief. I moved to his side, taking his hand in mine. His skin felt cool, but I could feel his pulse, steady and strong.
“Greg,” I said again, gently squeezing his hand. “It’s me. Azalea.”
His eyes fluttered open, confusion giving way to recognition. “Sis?”
I let out a laugh of relief. “It’s me.” I bent and kissed his head, resting my forehead against his.
“Oh my gosh, you’re safe.”
“No, you’re safe.” I sighed. “I didn’t remember. I’ve had amnesia.”
He grunted. “Oh gosh.”
I turned slightly, gesturing to McCrae, who stood just behind me. “This is McCrae,” I said. “He’s a cop too, and his family has protected me and helped me remember who I am.”
Greg’s eyes moved to McCrae, a silent assessment passing between them. “Thank you,” he said, his voice rough from disuse.
McCrae nodded. “Just doing my job.”
“Ms. Ryan?” A voice from the doorway made me turn. A doctor stood there, clipboard in hand, motioning for me to join him in the hallway. “Are you his next of kin?”
My heart raced. “Yes.”
“I need to speak with you.”
“I’ll stay with him,” McCrae said, taking the chair beside the bed.
I followed the doctor into the corridor.
“I’m Dr. Whitman,” he said, offering his hand. “Your brother is very lucky to be alive.”
“How bad is it?” I asked, my mouth dry.
“The bullet missed his heart by centimeters,” Dr. Whitman said, his voice low and serious.
“He lost a significant amount of blood before he was found. We’ve had to transfuse him twice since he arrived.
” He glanced at his chart. “The bullet fragmented and caused damage to his left lung. We were able to repair most of the damage surgically, but his recovery will take time.”
I leaned against the wall for support. “But he’ll recover?”
“Barring complications, yes.” The doctor’s face softened. “He’s young and fit. That’s in his favor.”
A monitor beeped from inside the room, followed by McCrae’s voice. “Azalea, he wants you.”
I rushed back in to find Greg more alert, his eyes clearer as they focused on me. “Azalea?” he murmured. “You’re really okay?”
Tears spilled down my cheeks as I gently embraced him, careful of the tubes and wires. “I’m okay,” I assured him. “I’m right here. You’re safe now.”
Relief flooded his features. “I thought they got you too.”
“No, I made it out.” I pulled back to look at him. “I had an accident, though. Hit my head. I couldn’t remember anything for days.”
His eyes widened with alarm. “Nothing?”
“It’s coming back now,” I said. “I remember the people, the woman being shot. I remember you telling me to run.” I squeezed his hand. “Greg, what happened? Why were you there and what happened to you after I left?”
He winced, shifting in the bed. “These guys are bad dudes, Azalea. I knew you were going there so I went before you to protect you. After you took off, I reached out to the FBI. But before anyone could get there, I found myself in a van headed toward Mexico.”
McCrae leaned forward, his expression intense. “They kidnapped you?”
Greg nodded weakly. “We stopped outside of Fort Collins, and they shot another lady.” He closed his eyes, pain crossing his features. “When I tried to stop it, they shot me.”
“What is their purpose?” I asked. “It’s not paper. It’s not guns. It’s …”
“People.” Greg’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“What?”
“Human trafficking,” he said, each word dripping with disgust. “A Mexican cartel operating in the United States.”
“No,” I breathed, horror washing over me. The puzzle pieces clicked into place; the paper company as a front, the unexplained profits, the merger with the oil company for transportation. “How deep does this go?”
Before Greg could answer, Dr. Whitman appeared in the doorway, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Excuse me,” he said, looking between Greg and me. “Do you guys have a brother?” His eyes darted nervously down the hall.
A cold feeling spread through my chest.
“No,” Greg said, attempting to sit up. “Why?”
“Someone is at the front desk asking to speak with Greg, saying he’s your brother.”
My eyes met McCrae’s, and I saw my panic mirrored in his gaze. He was already moving toward the door when a man pushed past the doctor, his hand reaching inside his jacket.
The police officer moved to intercept him, but he wasn’t fast enough. The crack of gunfire split the air, bullets spraying into the room. The officer crumpled to the floor as another shot hit the wall behind Greg’s bed.
McCrae had pulled his gun and pushed me down, shielding me with his body. The attacker turned his weapon toward McCrae, but hesitated when he saw the gun pointed back at him.
For a split second, we could see his face; cold, calculated, a thin scar running along his jawline.
McCrae was after him in an instant, his powerful stride eating up the distance between them.
The guy ran.
I scrambled to my feet, checking Greg first, he was unhurt, though shaken, then the fallen officer, whose chest rose and fell with shallow breaths.
“Help!” I screamed. “We need help in here!”
A security alarm began wailing through the building, the harsh sound sending spikes of pain through my head.
“Stay with Greg,” the doctor said.
I moved to my brother’s side, gripping his hand tightly as chaos erupted around us. “Are you okay?” I asked, searching his face for signs of pain or distress.
“Go,” he said, squeezing my hand before releasing it. “Go find McCrae. I’ll be okay.”
I hesitated, torn between staying with my brother and finding McCrae. “I’ll be back,” I promised, then raced into the hallway.
People were scrambling everywhere, some taking cover, others running for exits. The alarm continued to blare as I pushed through the crowd, hurrying in the direction McCrae had gone.
I burst through the emergency exit doors into the parking lot. Sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer. McCrae stood in the middle of the lot, turning in a circle, his gun still drawn.
“He’s gone,” he said when he saw me, frustration etching lines around his mouth. “I lost him.”
“What are we going to do?”
McCrae pulled out his phone. “Damon,” McCrae said, his voice tight with urgency. “Call the FBI and tell them that someone tried to shoot her brother.”
I couldn’t hear Damon’s response, but the way McCrae’s face hardened told me everything.
“We’ll be back in a couple of hours,” he said. He ended the call and turned to me, his eyes fierce with determination and something else—fear.
“I can’t leave Greg,” I said, looking back at the hospital. More police cars were arriving, their lights flashing against the brick facade.
McCrae hesitated. Conflict was clear in his eyes. “But we have to keep you safe.”
“Do you think they were after me?”
He shrugged. “Not sure. Let’s go talk to your brother.”
My heart was torn, pulling me in two directions. “I can’t leave him,” I repeated, the words catching in my throat.
We returned to Greg’s room. Three police officers were now stationed there, along with Dr. Whitman. My brother looked more awake than before, pushing himself up in the bed despite the pain it clearly caused him.
“What happened?” he demanded as soon as we entered.
“We lost him,” McCrae said, immediately going over to debrief the cops.
I moved to Greg’s side, taking his hand. “I’m staying with you,” I told him.
“No,” he said, leaning back and wincing.
“I’m not leaving your side.” I lightly put my hand onto his shoulder.
With great effort, he put his hand over mine. “I can’t protect you here,” my brother insisted, his eyes clear and determined despite his condition. “Do you trust him?”
Immediately, I nodded. “Implicitly. And his family.”
My brother patted my hand, then closed his eyes. “Go with McCrae and his family; they protected you the past couple of days. I can’t rest if I think you’re not safe.”
“I can’t leave you,” I whispered, reaching for his hand again.
“Go,” Greg said firmly, “or I’ll hate you forever.”
I laughed through my tears. It was our inside joke from childhood, something we’d say when we really needed the other to listen.
Greg held my hand, his eyes softening. “But come back to me.”
His gaze was drawn to something behind me. I turned to find that McCrae had approached.
McCrae took a step back. “Sorry, I’ll let you talk.”
“No,” Greg said, still looking at McCrae. “Will you take care of her until this mess gets sorted out?”
McCrae nodded solemnly. “Yes. I just talked to the lead on this, and he’s working with my brother back in Refuge Falls and the state police there. They have called in the FBI.”
“Good.” Greg turned back to me. “I’ll be fine. Like I said, please go with McCrae, and I’ll recover here.”
I still hesitated, squeezing Greg’s hand. “It just feels wrong to leave you.”
Greg’s face was stern. “You know if you’re here fretting over me, you’ll just drive me insane and I won’t get any peace.”
I couldn’t help but let out a light laugh, working it through a lump of emotion in my throat.
Greg smiled. “I mean it, sis. We have to keep you protected until this sorts itself out.”
I sighed and knew that Greg was right; he wouldn’t rest if I was here, and the only place where I felt safe was with McCrae. “Okay.” I leaned in and kissed the top of his head. “Love you. I’ll call to check on you morning and night.”
Greg cocked a brow. “Once a day is fine. Go.” He leaned back and closed his eyes.
I stepped back, my heart racing, knowing there was nothing else to do but let him recover.
Taking my hand, McCrae began leading me out of the room; he only stopped briefly to get the lead officer’s phone number.
We walked out of the hospital together, and McCrae said, “It’s okay. Everything is going to be okay.”
“I hope so.” But I wasn’t sure.