After Platt left, Ray returned to Freddy’s bedside. His son’s eyes were open again, more alert this time. The nurse mentioned they might try removing the ventilator tomorrow if he continued to improve.
«Hey, champ,» Ray said softly. «You’re going to be okay. I promise.»
Freddy’s eyes darted to Ray’s face. There was something in them. Recognition. Fear. A silent question.
Ray squeezed his hand gently. «Don’t worry about anything. Just focus on getting better. Everything else is handled.»
That night, 72 hours after the attack, the first of the seven players ended up in the hospital. Darren Foster was found unconscious in his car at 11:00 p.m., parked behind the abandoned strip mall on Highway 9.
Both of his hands were broken, the small bones shattered with calculated precision. His right knee had been hyperextended until the ligaments tore. No weapon had been used.
The damage was systematic, professional—the kind of trauma that spoke of extensive hand-to-hand combat training. The police found no witnesses, no security footage, and no forensic evidence.
Foster would recover, but his football career was over. His scholarship offers were rescinded within hours of the medical report.
Six hours later, Eric Orozco was discovered in similar condition at the public park. Unconscious. Same injuries: hands, knee. Precise trauma that would heal but leave him permanently unable to play contact sports.
By noon the next day, Benny Gray was found. Then Gary Gaines. Then Everett Patrick, Ivan Christensen, and Colin Marsh.
All within a 72-hour window. All with identical injuries. All unable to remember exactly what happened. They reported being approached by a shadow, then nothing until they woke up in agony.
None of them could identify their attacker. The police had no leads. The boys were terrified, their parents were outraged, and the entire town was buzzing with wild theories.
Ray spent those three days entirely at the hospital with Freddy, who was improving steadily. The ventilator came out. Freddy could speak, though his head still throbbed. The doctors were optimistic now; no permanent brain damage, though recovery would be a long road.
Detective Platt visited Ray on the morning of day six.
«Where were you for the past 72 hours?»
«Here,» Ray said calmly. «With my son. Ask any nurse on the floor.»
«I have. They confirm you barely left his side.» Platt studied him closely. «Seven boys hospitalized with identical injuries. Professional work. Military-grade combat training.»
«And you have been here the whole time. In front of witnesses. Sounds like a mystery, Mr. Cooper.»
«My son nearly died because seven teenagers decided to beat him unconscious for fun,» Ray replied. «Now those same teenagers are injured, and suddenly everyone cares about justice. Interesting.»
Platt said nothing for a long moment. «The parents are pushing hard for an investigation. They want answers.»
«I hope they get them,» Ray said. «Nobody should get away with violence.»
After Platt left, Ray checked his phone. Multiple news alerts about the «Riverside Seven,» as the media had dubbed them. Speculation ran rampant about gang activity, targeted revenge, or vigilante justice.
The story was spreading beyond the small town boundaries. More importantly, seven angry fathers were organizing. Ray had expected this. In fact, he had counted on it.
The trap was almost set.
On day seven, Freddy was moved out of the ICU. His skull fracture was healing, and the swelling had gone down significantly. While he would need physical therapy and monitoring, the doctors declared him out of immediate danger.
Ray helped him into a regular room, watching his son move carefully. He was still in pain, but he was alive.
«Dad,» Freddy said that evening, his voice still raspy. «I heard the nurses talking. Those boys who hurt me… Don’t worry about them.»
«They are saying you did it. But you’ve been here. I saw you.»
Ray smiled. «Exactly. I’ve been here. Taking care of you. That is all that matters.»
Freddy studied his father’s face, something like understanding dawning in his eyes. «When I was unconscious… I could hear you sometimes. You promised everything would be okay.»
«It will be.»
«Those guys… they’ve done this before, Dad. To other kids. Everyone is too scared to say anything because their families run everything. Darren Foster held me down while the others…» Freddy’s voice cracked.
«They were laughing. They said I was a nobody. That they could do whatever they wanted.»
Ray felt that cold clarity wash over him again. «They were wrong.»
«The school won’t do anything,» Freddy said bitterly. «Principal Lowe called Mom yesterday. Said we should consider accepting a settlement to help with medical bills. Like we are the ones who should be grateful.»
«Your mother is coming back tomorrow.» Ray’s ex-wife, Allison Ryan, lived two states away. She had remarried and visited twice a year. They had divorced when Freddy was ten, keeping things civil but distant.
«Yeah. She’s worried. Angry too. But at the wrong people. She said we should take the money and move on. Not cause trouble.»
«That isn’t happening,» Ray said firmly.
Freddy managed a small, crooked smile. «I didn’t think so.»
That night, while Freddy slept, Ray received a text from a different unknown number: We know it was you. Tomorrow night, 9pm, your address. Come alone.
Ray texted back: I’ll be there.
He spent the next day preparing. First, he visited a storage unit across town that he had rented under a false name. Inside were items he had kept from his service days—equipment that technically should have been turned in but had mysteriously remained in his possession.
Medical supplies, secure communications gear, surveillance tools. And weapons. Though he doubted he would need those.
The fathers coming to his house weren’t trained operators. They were angry, entitled men who had never faced real danger. They were coming to intimidate someone they thought was a threat. They had no idea what a real threat looked like.
Next, he stopped by his house—a modest three-bedroom in an older neighborhood. He checked the security cameras he had installed years ago. He verified they were recording to the cloud, backed up to three separate secure servers. He checked angles, lighting, and audio quality.
Then, he visited Erica Pace. She lived alone in a small apartment complex. When she opened the door, her eyes widened with recognition and a touch of fear.
«Mr. Cooper. I… How is Freddy?»
«Getting better. I wanted to thank you for calling me that day. For caring enough to make sure I knew.»
She nodded slowly. «He is a good kid. What happened to him was…» She trailed off, glancing behind Ray as if expecting to see someone else.
«Are you okay?» Ray asked.
«I heard about those boys,» she whispered. «And people are saying…»
«I have been at the hospital the entire time,» Ray cut in. «Witnesses can confirm.»
«Right. Of course.» She hesitated. «Mr. Cooper… Freddy talked to me sometimes about the bullying. I tried to report it, but Principal Lowe said ‘boys will be boys.’ That Freddy needed to toughen up.»
«I should have done more,» she whispered, tears filling her eyes. «I should have…»
«You did what you could in a corrupt system,» Ray said gently. «That is not on you.»
«Those boys have tormented half the school,» she said, her voice shaking. «Everyone is too scared to speak up. Their families have too much power.»
«Had,» Ray corrected quietly. «Past tense.»