“Can I see him?” I asked.
“Briefly. He’s heavily sedated.”
I walked into the recovery room. The rhythmic beep of the heart monitor was the only sound. Ryan looked small in the hospital bed, tubes snaking out of his arms, his face pale as parchment.
I stood by his side. I reached out with my good right hand and gently rested it on his arm.
“You did it, kid,” I whispered. “You saved us all.”
When I walked back out into the hallway, I saw a shadow detaching itself from the far wall.
Lucas.
He had showered and been given civilian clothes—jeans and a plain gray t-shirt. He looked remarkably like the man I had married, just weathered, worn down by six years of hell.
We stood facing each other. There was so much space between us. Six years of grief, anger, betrayal, and mourning.
“Hayes says the debriefings will take months,” Lucas said, his voice raspy. “They’re putting me in protective custody while the arrests are made.”
