Gerald Lyselle stepped out of the hospital with a storm cloud in his eyes, his usually calm composure stretched taut over an anger simmering beneath the surface. He'd seen Amara injured before scrapes, bruises, the occasional reckless stunt but nothing like this. The thought that anyone dared to lay a hand on his daughter left him cold with fury. As he walked toward the black sedan waiting at the curb, his phone vibrated. He didn't need to look at the screen; he knew exactly who it was.
"Any news?" he barked into the phone, not bothering with a greeting. The man on the other end, one of his most trusted contacts, answered immediately.
"Yes, sir. We've managed to locate the group responsible. Let's just say they were… encouraged to be cooperative." There was a dark humor in the voice, a subtle hint that the encouragement was anything but gentle.
