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ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-SEVEN

Derrick clenched his teeth at the pain wracking his body. He’d been put through the ringer since he’d been bought into the hospital: X-rays, a CAT scan, MRI.

He fought off the numbing drugs so he could find out what happened to Ellie. And if the kids had been found alive.

“Agent Fox,” the doctor said, his expression grave. “We have your test results.”

Derrick braced himself. He’d heard hints from the nurses that he had a spinal injury. How serious no one would say. He was not a negative person, but the thought of possible paralysis had entered his mind.

What the hell would he do if he couldn’t walk or chase criminals? He was not a behind-the- desk kind of man.

Clenching the edge of the thin hospital blanket, he sucked up his courage and studied the doctor’s poker face. “Give it to me,” he said bluntly.

A tiny smile twitched at the young man’s mouth. “All right. Bad news is that you have a compound fracture of the T-9 vertebrae.” He displayed an X-ray and pointed to the middle part of his back. “For now, it appears to be stable and should eventually heal on its own. But it will take up to six months and you’ll be limited physically. That means no heavy lifting or weights, no jogging or high impact workouts, just walking. I’m afraid you’ll experience pain the entire time as well so you may need pain medications.”

Derrick fisted his hands around the sheets. “And the good news?”

“Surgery isn’t required at this time, but if you don’t restrict your activities, that could change.”

Derrick forced himself not to react. Six months seemed like an eternity.

But he couldn’t totally give up his work.

He needed to check in on Ellie. No one had told him anything about her. Or Huller.