Chapter 11
Seth
Three Days Earlier
Iopen my eyes slowly and find Brooke beside me in our bed. Morning light filters through the curtains behind her, soft enough to blur everything except her. She smiles, her smile always eases every part of me I never knew how to quiet.
I lift my hand and rest it against her stomach.
Her skin is warm beneath my palm, and the gentle swell beneath it makes my heart stutter.
Her fingers brush along my jaw, like she is trying to memorize me.
She shifts closer and presses her mouth to mine with the quiet confidence that we have all the time in the world. For a moment, I believe it completely.
The dream scattered instantly.
A sudden jolt lifts my body, tearing the warmth away like the bed is ripped out from under me. Harsh light slams into my eyes. Cold air hits my chest. Hands press down on me, pinning me against a surface that isn’t soft or familiar anymore.
Voices rise around me in frantic bursts.
“We’re losing him—keep pressure there—move!”
Pain shoots through my chest as someone presses down. Another hand forces my head to the side. My breath catches behind a mask I didn’t even realize was there until it’s already over my face. The world shifts hard, and I realize I’m being lifted onto a stretcher.
A voice right above me shouts,
“Pulse is faint—he’s hypovolemic—get the line in now!”
I gasp like I’ve been drowning. I try to focus as the ceiling of the hotel blurs above me. Sirens wail outside. Medics crowd around me. Blood covers my chest and soaks the sheets beneath me. Every movement sends another wave of heat tearing through my side.
The memories of what just happened slam into me.
Grant yanking that black bag over Brooke’s head. Her screaming my name until her voice gave out. I tried to move, but my body wouldn’t cooperate. I was on the ground, forced to watch as they dragged her through the service door.
Another image cuts in.
John turned and looked straight at me. He tossed the engagement ring I bought for Brooke into the blood pooling beneath me like it meant nothing.
The same man I trusted enough to ask for his blessing to marry his niece.
My stomach twists as medics push me through the hallway. One of them shouts something about my pulse. Another demands more pressure on the wound. My vision narrows until everything shrinks to a thin strip of light.
Cold metal rattles beneath me as the ambulance sways down the road. Red lights flash against the walls, throwing everything into rapid pulses. Each bump jars my body, sending pain from my shoulder down my ribs in heavy, suffocating waves.
Two medics work over me, one adjusting the mask on my face while the other pushes fluid through the IV in my arm. Their voices cut through the noise in tight, urgent bursts.
“I want another unit of blood ready,” one says. “He’s not stabilizing.”
The other shakes his head. “He lost too much on scene. If he crashes again, I need you on compressions.”
Neither of them looks at me. They talk around me like I’m already dead. Then their voices shift.
“Do you know who he is?” the medic near my shoulder says quietly.
“Yeah,” the other answers. “Kincaid. He’s the one they think did all of this.”
My pulse pounds louder than the siren.
“They’re saying he killed everyone. Hotel guests, officers. Even that snowplow driver on 38.”
“They think he killed the Rangers too?” the other asks.
“That’s what the lieutenant said. The FBI wanted him alive for questioning. Looks like he tried to shoot his way out.”
They think I did it.
The poisoning.
The massacre.
The chaos.
All of it pinned on me.
I try to speak, but the mask presses tight against my mouth. Pain surges through my ribs when I try to sit up. The medic shoves me back down.
“Let the sedatives work. You’re lucky to be breathing.”
I ignore him.
None of this matters. None of these accusations matter. Only one question cuts through the pain like broken glass.
Where is Brooke?
I try to force myself up again, but my body won’t move the way I need it to. Every instinct in me screams to fight, to claw, to rip out the IV line, to break the restraints on the stretcher, to get out of this ambulance before they take me farther away from her.
If I stay here, I’ll lose her. If I stay here, she dies alone.
I push against the straps again. The medic curses under his breath and forces me back down.
“Hold still, you’re making this worse.”
I don’t care about the bleeding. I don’t care about passing out again. I don’t care about the charges they’re stacking on me.
Brooke is out there, and I’m wasting time strapped to a bed in an ambulance.
I need to get out. I need to get to her. I need to kill every single person standing between us.
The thought settles in my head with complete clarity. I will burn through anyone who tries to keep me from her. I will tear apart every agent, every guard, every piece of shit between me and the woman they took.
If this ambulance somehow gets me to a hospital alive, I’m not staying there. Not for one second longer than it takes to stand up and walk out.
The medics keep talking over me. My vision blurs again, but I hold on to one thing with everything I have left.
Brooke needs me.
And I’m coming for her.
My eyes snap open.
Cold fluorescent light floods my vision, and the sterile hum of machines fills the room. Plastic tubing tugs at my arm, and a monitor beside the bed marks time with slow, uneven beeps. The air smells like antiseptic and dried blood.
I lie flat on my back in a hospital bed, my chest wrapped tight, my shoulder burning deep beneath the bandages. Oxygen feeds into my nose, and an IV line runs into my arm.
I try to move, and something pulls hard at my wrist.
A restraint.
Someone shifts near the bed.
A nurse leans into view, her expression changing the moment she realizes I’m awake. “Mr. Kincaid. You’re conscious.”
Her voice stays calm. She checks the monitor, makes a note on the chart, then carefully lifts the edge of the bandage near my shoulder.
“You were very lucky,” she says. “The bullet passed close to your subclavian artery. A couple of centimeters difference, and you wouldn’t have survived.”
I say nothing.
“You lost a significant amount of blood,” she continues. “Do you remember anything about what happened?”
Still nothing.
She studies my face for a moment, then nods as if she expected silence. She lowers the bandage and steps back.
I look down at myself. Bandages wrap my chest. Lines snake across my skin. My shoulder throbs with a deep, pulsing pain.
Something is wrong.
My hand goes to my neck.
Nothing.
The necklace is gone.
The room tilts.
No. No. No.
Panic surges hot and fast. I pull against the cuff and try to sit up, and pain tears through my side hard enough to steal my breath. The IV rips partway out of my arm, blood welling immediately.
“Where is it?” I rasp. My voice sounds shredded. “Where is my necklace?”
The nurse rushes back in, alarm flashing across her face before she forces it down. “Sir, you need to stop. You’re going to injure yourself.”
“Where is it?” I shout, clawing at the monitor leads. Adhesive tears from my skin. “The necklace around my neck. Where did you put it?”
“You need to calm down.”
“Don’t fucking tell me to calm down!” My vision tunnels. “Where is it? What did you do with it?!”
Two agents push in behind her without knocking, eyes already hard. One looks me up and down with open contempt. The other stays near the door like he expects me to lunge.
“My necklace. The vial, where the fuck is it?” I snap.
The agent closest to the bed gives a humorless smile. “You mean the creepy little blood chain you were wearing? Was it one of your victim’s?”
I lunge forward against the restraint. The cuff bites deep.
He doesn’t flinch. “Yeah. We took it. Standard procedure when we bring in a homicide suspect.”
The nurse glances between them, then back at me. “All personal items are collected during trauma intake. It’s probably been logged with—”
“Probably?” I bite out. “If it’s gone, I swear to god—”
“You’ll what?” the first agent cuts in, stepping closer to the bed. “Add another body to your list?”
Rage burns through the pain. “We’ll look into it,” the second agent says tightly. “Right now you need to answer some questions.”
“I’m not saying shit until I get it back.”
He tilts his head. “You’re not in a position to make demands.”
They exchange a look that isn’t uncertainty. It’s calculation.
Brooke is out there, and I don’t even have the last thing I have left of her. The thought hits hard enough to make my hands shake. I yank against the strap again. Metal tears into skin. Blood slides warm down my wrist.
The nurse inhales sharply but doesn't reach for the call button this time. Instead she steps closer to the bed, eyes on the agents. “If it’s logged, I can call intake myself and confirm the item number.”
“Stay in your lane,” one of the agents says without looking at her.
She straightens anyway. “He just came out of surgery. Elevated stress can cause complications. Let me verify it.”
“Now,” I warn, voice low.
One of the agents steps forward until he is within arm’s reach. “That’s enough, Kincaid.”
My head snaps toward him. “Get me the fucking necklace!”
“It’s not lost,” the second agent says firmly. “It’s in evidence or personal effects.”
My eyes lock on his. He holds my stare like he is daring me to try something.
The necklace isn’t just some keepsake. It’s her blood. Her gift. The last thread between us. I can feel the absence of it like something torn out and left open.
“Then go find it,” I growl. “Now!”
The first agent gives the nurse an irritated look. “Fine. Get a catalog of his personal items. Make it quick.”
She nods immediately and steps toward the counter, already reaching for the phone. “I’ll call intake and security. I’ll get the item number and have it brought up.”