Page 3 of Rio (Redcars #3)

“I grab one potential asshole by the throat, and you pretend I’m different to you or Enzo?

” I barked a humorless laugh. “You’re a fine one to talk, Jamie.

How many times have you lit shit up without thinking it through?

How many times have you burned first and dealt with the consequences later?

Don’t throw self-control at me as if you’re some fucking saint. ”

“Not on our fucking doorstep,” Killian said.

I pointed at Killian. “Ours? You left Redcars a long time ago, asshole.” Killian raised a hand, trying to defuse the heat rising between us, but I wasn’t done.

I jabbed a finger toward Lyric, still unconscious on the bed. “And if this guy has anything to do with what Lassiter was involved with, he’s dead anyway. You know that, right? Perhaps we shouldn’t bother calling Doc again. Maybe we just let him go and see how long he lasts.”

The room went silent for a beat, and Jamie’s fists curled at his sides .

“If he’s RootNightJar, from back when I was hacking, then I think I know him, and if he’s in trouble?—”

I snarled at my friend. “You think you know him? What if he’s trouble?”

“His hacker handle?—”

“And if we end up having to kill him? You gonna do that?”

“We need to talk to him,” Jamie said, “and yeah, if he hurts one hair on anyone’s head, I’ll kill him in an instant.”

I was vibrating with unspent energy and needed to get to The Pit as soon as possible before I did something stupid.

Maybe a fight would fix this gnawing, restless violence clinging to me like a second skin.

It always had. Big men who thought they could challenge me, who figured size or attitude gave them a shot—they were the best kind.

I could take them apart piece by piece, burn out my temper, let the blood and sweat scrape the anger out of me until I felt centered again.

In that cage, I had the power. No one beat me.

No one dared. And for a little while, I got to decide who walked away—and who didn’t.

We braced at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. The weight of each step struck against the old wooden boards, the shift in the air hinting at movement before the creaks even reached my ears. My eyes narrowed, my body tightening, ready for whatever was coming.

“I’m here,” Doc announced as he stormed into the room. No one answered, and I knew Doc wasn’t expecting it as he took one look at the unconscious man, the blood, and didn’t spare him a glance. “Ten.” He typed something into his phone and raised an eyebrow at us.

What? Who the hell was paying? I wasn’t handing over my cash—every cent I had went to keeping my family at Redcars safe, not covering some half-dead stranger who’d stumbled out of the shadows.

“Look at the millionaire.” I gestured at Killian, who already had his phone out. Only when Doc’s phone pinged to say he’d received money did he circle the bed, his expression focused.

He lifted Lyric’s arm, checked his pulse, then tilted his head, shining a penlight into his eyes. The small beam flicked back and forth, catching the thin layer of sweat on Lyric’s pale skin.

“Bullet wound,” Doc announced flatly. His hands were efficient, turning Lyric to expose his side. Lyric groaned in pain, a weak, broken sound that made me stiffen. Where was my guilt over hurting him? I should be worried about my lack of empathy, but I was in a state of fight-or-flight .

“Shot. Through and through,” Doc continued. “Looks as if someone tried to…” He paused, scowling at the crude stitching. “Fuck… this is a shitty job. Amateur field work.”

He glanced back at Jamie and Killian, his eyes narrowing. “Did you do this?”

Jamie shook his head fast, but it was Killian who answered. “No.”

Doc shifted his gaze to me, his stare sharp. “You?”

I met his eyes and shook my head firmly. “Wasn’t me.”

Doc exhaled through his nose, frustrated. “Then, whoever stitched this shit wasn’t trying to keep him alive for long. Fuck. Five more for stitches.”

“Fuck you, asshole,” Jamie snarled.

Doc remained impassive, unfazed by the outburst. Without a word, he extended his phone again, eyes watching the screen expectantly. The faint beep confirmed the payment as Killian stepped forward and tapped again, then slipped his phone back into his pocket.

“Done,” Killian said, then gestured at the bed.

Doc exhaled and returned his attention to Lyric, cold professionalism replacing any hint of emotion. He lifted Lyric’s head, inspecting injuries. “Did he get the head wound when he was shot?” he asked, glancing back at us.

Jamie hesitated, then turned his head toward me, waiting.

I could tell the truth or not—no one here would talk about what happened unless I did. My stomach churned. “He had a cut on his forehead,” I said slowly, my voice steady. “But the head thing? Yeah… I dropped him.”

After nearly choking him out , I added in my head, my gaze falling to the bruises already blooming around Lyric’s throat.

If someone comes at my family, they’ll regret it.

I wished that the unwelcome guilt didn’t gnaw at me over the damage I’d done—the bruises, the blood, the way I’d nearly lost control again.

But right alongside it burned something fierce and unyielding—protectiveness.

For my Redcars family, for Jamie, for all of us.

I couldn’t shake it, couldn’t let it go.

That instinct to shield them from anyone or anything that might crawl out of the shadows burned hotter than the guilt.

And right now, Lyric—whether he was a victim or a threat—was still an unknown.

I didn’t give a shit about all that dark web crap Jamie was explaining to Killian, but I knew this nearly dead man was a fighter, and that was dangerous .

I was on guard.

Protecting them.

Doc didn’t waste time. His movements were brusque, almost careless, as he prepped the site.

He uncapped a syringe, injecting the skin around the wound without so much as a warning, making Lyric flinch even in his unconscious state.

The astringent smell of antiseptic hit my nose as Doc worked swiftly, snapping on fresh gloves.

He reached for a small surgical stapler and began clipping away the old, ragged stitches with forceps and scissors.

The discarded threads dropped into a shallow metal tray with a series of tiny metallic clinks.

Every cut of the scissors, every faint clang of the tray made me wince, though I kept my face blank, unwilling to let anyone see how tightly wound I was.

“Probable concussion,” Doc said while working, his voice flat as if he were reciting a grocery list. “Can’t tell without an MRI, which I’m guessing isn’t an option.

” He didn’t wait for a reply, just kept working, pressing the stapler to Lyric’s skin.

Each heavy metallic thunk of the stapler rang louder than it should have, the noise jagged enough to make my jaw clench.

Doc finally finished, applying a thin layer of antibiotic cream before taping fresh gauze over the wound.

He grabbed a bottle of pills from his bag and tossed them toward Killian.

“Watch for nausea, vomiting, pupils going weird, dizziness, loss of coordination—any of that shit, call me. Call me in a week if you need more meds. That’ll cost you five a visit.

” He paused, tilting his head, eyes flicking to the wound before adding coldly, “Ten if there’s infection. ”

Jamie stepped close, his posture wound tight like a spring, his voice dangerous as he flicked his lighter. “You keep adding numbers, Doc. Maybe I’ll start adding a fire charge to your visits.”

Doc didn’t flinch. His expression didn’t even twitch.

There was a deadness behind his eyes, as if nothing Jamie could say would make a dent.

He held Jamie’s glare, silent, unmoved. No one knew his story—where he came from, what had hollowed him out—but whatever it was, it had stripped him of empathy.

Cold. Vicious. Uncaring. A man who worked like a machine, with all clinical precision and no heart.

Then he left.

Gone.

And all that was left was blood, bullet wounds, and an unconscious man in the bed who we may or may not kill as soon as he got better.