Page 164 of Strays
She’s here. Alive. That’s all that matters.
I hear more steps. Josh Solomon and Jordan Harris stop just short of us, silent for a beat, eyes locked on Jo.
“What do you need?” Josh asks.
I look at the zip-ties on her wrists and ankles. “A knife.”
Jordan kneels, reaching to the side of his boot and pulling a tactical blade from the sheath clipped just above his ankle. He holds it out, handle-first, toward her uncles. René takes it with a nod, crouches closer, and slices through the zip-ties in two practiced motions. The bindings fall loose like dead vines, and he passes the knife back to Jordan.
I look up at Josh. “Aranya was packing. Inside we saw papers, flash drives, laptops. A lot. He’s alive. If you get him to talk, or scan what’s in there, you might hit the rest of his operation before they find out what happened here and vanish.”
Josh nods. He turns and leaves with Jordan beside him.
Minutes blur as the packs shift into motion.
David and Sam are both on their phones, voices clipped and urgent. The other aegis pull on gloves and start moving methodically, some into the warehouse, others to the sedans. Every object becomes evidence.
We wait together, humming, breathing in Jo’s scent, watching her chest rise and fall, basking in the fact that she’s right here in our laps.
Her uncles don’t move far. They sit on the floor too, forming a wall in front of us.
Then we hear sirens, distant at first, but rising fast, before cutting out as the ambulance pulls into the lot. Two EMTs jump out and freeze.
They look at us and I know what they are seeing: three huge aegis on the ground holding someone unconscious. There’s blood on our clothes, blood on our hands. A spray caught Shane near the jaw, leaving a dark streak down his cheek.
Then they look at the two bodies by the car, eyes flickering to the armed aegis around the lot. I see the fear hitting their faces.
One of them starts reaching for a radio, probably about to call for police backup, but Sam’s already there. He flashes his badge and says something low and firm.
I can hear, but I don’t care enough to make sense of the words. Federal oversight. You’re not in danger. They’re her pack.
The younger EMT looks like he wants to argue, but the older one, gray beard and sharp eyes, gives a single nod and steps forward, unzipping his kit.
“Her name is Johane Larsen,” Shane says quietly when they reach us, lifting her just enough so they can see her face. “She’s our nyra.”
The older EMT nods, kneeling beside her.
“Mrs. Larsen?” His voice stays calm, almost soft. “Can you hear me? Can you squeeze my hand?”
He takes her hand and waits. She doesn’t move at first, but a faint breath escapes her, thin and shaky. Her lips twitch, her eyes flutter like she’s fighting to open them.
“She’s registering,” the medic says under his breath.
He clicks his penlight on, tilts her chin, and eases her eyelid open. “Sorry, sweetheart. Just checking your pupils.”
The light flashes once across each eye. “Small and sluggish. That’s a heavy sedative.”
The other medic wraps a cuff around her arm. I watch the pressure build, the machine beep, the numbers flash.
“Blood pressure’s low,” he says. “Not crashing, but we’ll need to monitor it.”
“Please don’t move her without one of us,” I say, but it’s not really a request. If they agree, my voice stays soft. If they don’t, it won’t. No one’s taking her from us now.
The older medic studies us for a moment, his expression calculating.
“Alright,” he says. “One of you rides in the back with her.”
“Me,” Shane says immediately.
