Arthur's knuckles turned white as he gripped the steering wheel, speeding toward the hospital. In the backseat, Victor held Elara's limp form, her skin nearly translucent against the dark leather.
"How is she?" I barked, catching Victor's terrified eyes in the rearview mirror.
"Not good, sir. Her pulse is weak."
I pressed harder on the accelerator, weaving between cars. The image of Elara collapsed in that cell burned in my mind. She'd looked so small, so vulnerable—nothing like the fierce woman who'd stood up to my grandmother.
"We shouldn't have done this," Victor muttered. "Breaking into a police station—taking Captain Donovan hostage—"
"Would you rather I let her die?" I snapped.
"Of course not! But there were legal channels—"
"Legal channels take time," I cut him off. "Time she doesn't have."
