Ryker

It may be nothing.

It may be something bad by the way I’m feeling.

Fortunately for me, Gray lives on the outskirts of the city, and the route between her house and the grocery store is nothing but a two-lane road with only one four-way stop in between. I take the road at nearly sixty-five in a forty-five-mile-per-hour zone, do the fastest rolling stop through the intersection in the history of mankind, and pull up in her driveway in under five minutes.

The front door is open and my dread morphs into the realization that something is definitely wrong. My heart slams inside my chest as I quickly pull out my phone and dial 911. When the dispatcher comes on, I’m straight and to the point. “This is Ryker Evans. I need to report a break-in in progress at 3706 Carriage Lane. I’m not staying on the line but I’m keeping the line open so you know this isn’t a joke. I’m going inside, so let the police know that.”

I hear her say, “Sir, please don’t—” but the voice recedes as I lay the phone on the hood of my car.

Jogging up to the porch, I creep up the steps silently, listening to any sounds that can help me figure out what’s going on. When I look down, I see several drops of blood and I actually go dizzy for a moment because I know in my heart that it’s Gray’s. My adrenaline spikes and I throw out any caution I was operating on, barreling into the house. I hear Gray immediately from her bedroom say, “Claude…go fuck yourself.”

Murderous rage takes my body hostage.

I seem to fly on the wind and I’m at her bedroom door almost instantaneously. I take the scene in and it fuels my fury.

Gray on her knees, cradling her forearm to her chest, glaring up at Claude who stands above her.

With a knife.

His belt and top pants button undone.

I never even stop my trajectory, running straight at Claude. He hears me before he sees me, but I’m on him just as he’s turning his body. My left hand clamps on his right wrist to secure the knife and I steamroll him backward. Never in my life have I been filled with such power. It’s almost like a hot knife cutting through butter it’s so easy to move him.

I drive him back, back, back right into Gray’s bedroom wall, where he hits it so hard the plaster cracks.

Not hard enough in my opinion. While still holding his wrist now pinned to the wall, I bring my right hand up into an uppercut punch to his gut, right below his sternum. The air gushes out of him and he starts to sag. I pull my arm back, let it fly right to his throat. I’m satisfied when he gags and then gasps for air, and I’m hopeful I crushed his airway.

The knife drops from his grasp as he sags to the floor. I let him go and watch as his hands scrabble at his throat, as if that’s going to help give him oxygen. He goes to his knees, one hand on the floor, the other at his throat while he tries to suck air in. He still has good color in his face, which means he must be getting a little oxygen, which just won’t do at all.

Not at all.

I draw my leg back and kick his ribs, feeling the satisfying crunch. If I’m lucky, a rib will pierce the lung and he’ll suffocate in no time at all. He grunts, flips over onto his back, and his eyes roll into the back of his head. His chest moves shallowly, which is too much movement in my opinion and I pull my leg back for another kick.

A soft hand on my arm and Gray says, “Don’t.”

I drop my foot to the floor and turn to look at her. She smiles at me in gratitude and then walks into my arms. My fury immediately dies and I pull her in close to me, one arm around her waist, the other wrapping securely around her upper back. She puts her cheek on my chest and murmurs, “I knew you’d save me.”

My legs almost buckle as I realize just how close I came to maybe not making it in time. Just how close I may have come to losing her.

“I saw blood on the porch,” I say, and she pulls back from me, pressing her fingers gingerly to the back of her head. She winces, and when her hand clears free, I see red staining it.

Spinning her around, I gently pull her hair away. “You got a pretty nasty gash. It’s going to need stitches.”

The wail of sirens in the distance has me on alert again and I quickly turn back to Claude. His chest is moving and his eyes are closed. I don’t know if he’s dying or just unconscious and I don’t care. The police can take care of him while I take care of Gray.

I turn back to her. “I think we should call your father. This is going to hit the media pretty quickly.”

She nods with a grimace. “I know. He’ll figure out a way to contain it.”

—
“All right,” the police officer says. “I think that’s all. If I need anything more, I’ll be in contact, Mr. Evans.”

“Okay, thanks,” I say before turning around to look for Gray. Her front yard has turned into a three-ring circus. The sun has set but everything is aglow with flashing lights from four police cars and an ambulance.

Another ambulance has already left, carting Claude to the hospital. The police officer that took my statement told me that it didn’t look like the damage was too bad—pity—and that they had to take him as a precaution to have him checked out.

Brian Brannon stands in the middle of the yard, talking to two police officers. A few neighbors are loitering.

And there’s Gray…sitting on her front porch step with a large white bandage around her head and her arm in a sling. As I walk toward her, I notice an EMT closing the back doors of the other ambulance and then it’s pulling away.