Page 11 of Rio (Redcars #3)

EIGHT

Rio

Jamie strode out first, Killian on his heels, both moving as if this weren’t a man half-dead in front of them. Enzo tugged Robbie back, one hand tight on his arm, not giving him a choice.

I stayed.

Lyric was shaking—small tremors running through his shoulders—and I didn’t miss the way his fingers scrabbled at the sheets, gripping them as if he were trying to hold on. He was pale beneath the sweat clinging to his skin, eyes half-lidded and glassy.

“What about Doc?” I called after Jamie’s retreating back. “He’s burning up.”

Jamie didn’t even turn.

The door slammed, Killian’s voice chasing Jamie down the hall. Robbie shot me a wide-eyed glance, but Enzo steered him away.

I stared at Lyric. Whatever the hell this was… I wasn’t walking.

Why?

I grabbed my phone off the side table, typed in burning up, fever , and skimmed through the kind of shit Google spat back. Sepsis, infection, flu, dehydration—none of it was helpful. I checked his wounds. They all appeared okay. Clean. Healing. No fresh blood, no pus, nothing out of place.

I went through the checklist of medications Doc had left us, mentally checking them off one by one. Antibiotics. Painkillers. Fluids. And still…

None of it made sense.

I thumbed out a message to Doc.

Rio: Fever. Shaking. Wounds clean. Meds taken. No drip left. Now what?

Doc replied almost instantly.

Doc: Fever breaks or doesn’t. Five grand upfront, plus expenses, for a visit.

Anger flared, hot and immediate, a gut-deep fury I couldn’t shove down.

That was Doc—blunt, mercenary—but tonight it felt personal.

As if the fucker couldn’t be bothered to care.

I ground my teeth, shoving the phone back into my pocket with a force that sent a sharp jolt up my arm, then swallowed the bitter tang of resentment—and the craving riding up the back of my throat.

I’d been clean since we killed Mitchell, or near enough, but stress made addiction hum in my blood.

The hollow pull for kickers was always there, waiting.

Easier than this, easier than anger. Easier than watching someone die when I’d played a part in hurting them.

Yes, in the grand scheme of things, all I’d done was choke him, but…

All I did was choke him? Jesus, I could have killed him!

But if he’s one of the bad guys, I’ll kill him anyway.

Lyric shifted, a soft sound escaping him, more a breath than a word.

His eyes were shut now, lashes dark against the sickly pale skin of his face.

He looked… small. Fragile in a way that twisted something in my chest. Curled on his side, hands loose on the sheets as if he’d fought and lost. Vulnerable in a way I hadn’t seen in a long time.

He reminded me of Danny. And that nearly wrecked me.

Lyric wasn’t dying on my shift.

It wasn’t just about him. It was about me—about this crack in my armor I couldn’t seem to fix.

I’d swapped one addiction for another. The pills had dulled everything; now the obsession sharpened it all to a blade’s edge.

If I couldn’t save him, what did that make me?

I needed him alive because walking away felt too much like losing again. Failing.

Danny.

And I wasn’t built to fail.

The door eased open with a soft creak, and Robbie slipped back inside, cradling a jug of ice as if he were sneaking contraband into a war zone. He hovered near the foot of the bed, gaze darting between me and Lyric.

“I read up on it,” Robbie whispered. “He needs fluids. If he can’t drink… maybe just rub some ice on his lips?”

He was so fucking young standing there, hope and worry tangled in his voice. I couldn’t believe Enzo had let him up here—with someone who might be here to hurt us. Someone who might have had something to do with what happened to Robbie.

I gave a nod, reaching for the jug.

“Yeah,” I muttered. “Let’s try that.”

Robbie hovered, then added quietly, “And you could try elevating his legs a little. Apply a cool compress to the back of the neck. Monitor his breathing rate… maybe tilt his head if he starts choking.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You swallow a medical directory or something?”

Robbie ducked his head, the tips of his ears flushing. “I… I read one. A while back.”

The door cracked open again, and Enzo stepped in, face tight, eyes locked on Robbie. “I don’t like you being here, sweetheart. Please come back down.”

Robbie lifted his chin. “He can’t hurt me.”

Enzo didn’t answer right away—just gave him a look. Stricken. The kind of look that said protecting Robbie wasn’t a choice for him. It was instinct. A need so deep it cut through everything else.

Robbie hesitated, then gave me a quick smile, soft and full of reassurance. “I’ll check back in a bit.”

I swear, Enzo growled.

Robbie patted his arm as he passed. “And I’ll bring my protector with me.”

I watched them start to leave, then Enzo stopped, his brow furrowing as if he’d just remembered something.

“Killian’s gone to the Cave, took Jamie with him.

And the Chevy with the fucked timing is back in, the transmission’s grinding as if it’s chewing gravel.

” He glanced at Lyric, who was mumbling in his sleep. “You got this? ”

“Sure.”

“No fight tonight?”

“Not if I don’t have to.” The fight tonight?

Some mouthy nobody I didn’t even care to remember.

Lianne could handle it—she always did. Eight hundred bucks wasn’t worth the tape on my fists.

I’d shoot her a message, take the hit when she got pissed, and promise a bigger, better fight in the future. End of story.

More frowning from Enzo. “What if you need to fight?”

I knew what he was asking. He wasn’t talking about some cash fight in a backroom ring.

He was talking about the itch under my skin—the violence in me that I didn’t know how to shut off.

The part of me that enjoyed the hit, the rush, the control.

The part of me that needed the burn of a fist on my jaw or the weight of someone collapsing at my feet.

Fighting had been my outlet, my excuse, my high, long before the pills stopped doing the trick.

But this? Sitting here, watching a half-dead man try to stay alive? That was its own kind of addiction.

Why?

Why was I even here? Why the hell did I care? Was this about keeping him alive—or about proving something to myself? Was it about being the guy who could kill with one hand, then patch up the broken, or drag someone back from the edge because I couldn’t live with another failure?

Or maybe it was just another fight. A new rush. Trading fists for fever, and swapping knockdowns for bedside vigils. Because stepping away meant losing, and I wasn’t built to lose.

And hell, maybe I wasn’t trying to save him at all.

Maybe I was still trying to save myself.

Enzo huffed as if he had more to say, but then, he shook his head and shut the door behind him.

I crossed the room and cracked open the window.

The air that rushed in carried the bite of oil, rubber, and gas—the low hum of the garage seeping through along with the muted clang of tools, the distant whine of a drill, the bass thud of some rock song on the radio.

The normal sounds of our world, all crashing into the quiet of this room.

I dipped a cloth into the jug, grabbed a few ice chips, and brushed them over Lyric’s lips.

His skin felt dry and too hot, his breath shallow.

For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t react—but then, his lips twitched, and his tongue darted out, catching the melting ice.

It was a small thing, automatic maybe, but it felt real. Something human.

I pressed in a little closer, heart thudding way too loud in my chest. Even if he was a bad guy… Maybe, I could keep him for a while?

Lianne, as expected, lost her shit when I sent her a message saying I wasn’t fighting tonight.

I answered her call on the third ring, and her voice was strident and bristling with temper. “What the fuck, Villareal?”

“Something came up,” I said, keeping my tone even.

“Yeah? Well, unless it’s a bullet with your name on it, I don’t give a shit. You had a fight. Now, I’ll have a pissed-off crowd and no headliner.”

Lianne wasn’t only pissed—she was looking for blood. Bottle-blonde, hard as nails, with eyes that’d seen more backroom deals and bareknuckle brawls than most men alive, she was a dragon. There wasn’t a caring bone in her body, and I was another name on her roster that made her money.

“I’ll make it up to you,” I promised.

“Cortez is looking for a fight on Saturday.” She dropped it in like it was nothing.

I froze. “You want me against Cortez?” I asked.

“He’s got thirty pounds on you, undefeated. Good matchup. Big purse.”

Cortez. He was solid, dangerous, the kind of fighter people whispered about. But all I could think was how a fight might burn away the tension boiling in my blood, bleed it out of me round by round. And the purse—hell, I needed that. On a good night, I could take him. I knew I could.

Her anger at me giving up tonight’s lesser fight had flipped to interest—the scent of a payday sweeter than any apology because I knew she’d be playing both sides at the Pit.

Jamie was going to lose his damn mind when he heard what I was planning—but screw it.

I wasn’t leaving tonight, not for anyone.

Robbie popped back every so often, slipping in with quiet footsteps and sharper eyes than I gave him credit for.

After a couple of hours, he murmured that Lyric’s fever had broken—and that, apparently, was a good thing.

Not that I stopped watching him. I kept at it, pushing fluids into him when I could, keeping that barrier up between him and the rest of the guys. I wasn’t taking any chances.

It was Robbie who brought me snacks and drinks, checking in every hour like some silent shadow. So, when the door cracked open at midnight, I figured it was him again—more supplies, maybe some medical assessment to go with it.

It wasn’t.

Jamie walked in first, Killian right behind him, and trailing them both was Caleb.

I hadn’t met Caleb more than a handful of times, but I knew enough.

He worked with Killian—their own little Scooby Gang for the criminal underworld, pulling monsters apart one encrypted file or hacked server at a time.

Jamie stopped at the bed.

He gave me a long look, then said to all of us: “Here’s the deal—Lyric’s in deeper than even he knew.

We checked the server logs. The hits on him aren’t random.

Someone’s been tracking him through every system he’s ever touched.

Nine contracts have been issued since he left MIT—real contracts, not just threats—on dark web channels.

And the data on the servers he had? It’s damning for Kessler.

Logs, backdoors, coded triggers… and receipts.

Proof he’s been hunted for years, whether he meant to be or not. And the worst part?”

“What?”

Jamie glanced down at Lyric, then back at us.

“Every time Lyric thought he was covering his tracks, it wasn’t Kessler upping the bounties or tracking him down.

It’s Kessler’s AI that is always two steps ahead—found him every time in some sick, twisted game to test a system that shouldn’t even exist. He’s a walking target.

He didn’t just piss off a few bad guys. He tripped an entire network. ”

I blinked at Jamie. Some of the words made sense, but the shock in Jamie’s tone spoke volumes.

“He’s not one of the bad guys?” I asked with caution.

Jamie’s gaze locked on me. “This isn’t about whether he’s a good guy or not.

He wasn’t here to hurt Robbie; he had nothing to do with what happened to Robbie or any of the other shit we’ve uncovered.

” He took a deep breath. “The contract on him is now at fifty million. Kessler’s AI is out of control.

It wants him, knows what he’s doing, could well find out he’s here.

He’s the fuse on a powder keg. And now we’ve all got front-row seats to the explosion. ”