Ryder
Beckett and Tucker drag an unconscious Liam up the stairs to the main floor.
“Call Dr. Howard to check him out,” I order Hayden, who happened to show up at the perfect time.
“On it.” He pulls out his phone from his pocket and begins typing out the message.
I hired Dr. Beckett three years ago, after we performed a hyste and seven of my men were injured.
It was successful, nonetheless, but Dr. Howard was driving through an alley in uptown Charlotte when he jumped out and offered his help.
I was hesitant at first, but I promised a bullet through his skull if he turned us in.
I held my Glock to his head the entire drive to his house.
I didn’t ask any questions when he took us down to his basement, where he had his own operating room and private patient rooms.
I offered him a job under a non-disclosure agreement for substantial pay, and he accepted.
From there, I allowed him to hire his own nursing team as long as they were cleared by me and signed the same agreement.
Too much is at risk not to have the agreement that also states any information leaked will result in their imminent death.
We had our dirty judge sign them off, making them legally binding contracts.
When you pay the government enough, you can get away with a lot.
The only problem is, somebody’s been on my ass hot and heavy recently.
Finding that son of bitch has proven to be a pain in my ass, but I’ll find them, and when I do, they’ll beg for death to take them.
I’ve created my own version of Hell that would make Satan cry.
“He’s headed over,” Hayden confirms.
“Thanks.” I go to walk away, but Hayden goes to speak. He stops whatever he was about to say, shaking his head. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing.” He points toward the beer pong table, “I think they’re waiting for you, man.”
I nod slowly and resume my path over to the table while Hayden takes my seat on the couch. Motion gets my attention from the basement steps. I look over, finding Beckett returning from escorting Liam. He comes up to my side, “What’d I miss?” He asks, sounding winded.
“Just getting started.”
My heart skips a beat when I look out into the crowd and find a pair of bright green eyes staring right at me. Fuck! She didn’t leave. I stare back into those terrified eyes, watching as she works to swallow, and I smirk.
Beckett hands me an empty Solo cup, making me break eye contact with my birdy. “Let’s get it started, then.” He says, and I take the cup to fill it just as “Stuck In My Head,” by Sleep Theory, begins to fill the room.