Chapter 8: Blood & Blowtorches
The fluorescent lights of the emergency room buzzed like trapped insects, casting a sickly greenish hue over everything. The smell—antiseptic, stale coffee, and underlying fear—was a new layer over the scent of blood and dust still clinging to Nova’s clothes. Her split lip had been cleaned and glued, a tiny, stinging monument to the man’s backhand. Every muscle in her body ached with a deep, trembling fatigue.
Garrett sat rigidly in the chair beside her, a fresh bandage taped to his temple where Leo’s pistol had connected. A nurse had cleaned and dressed the bullet graze on his side, her hands efficient and impersonal. He’d refused anything stronger than ibuprofen, his eyes fixed on the closed door of the treatment room where an officer was taking Nova’s statement first.
Henderson had made that happen. The retired cop looked even more rumpled under the hospital lights, a granite presence in the chaotic hallway. He’d spoken in low, authoritative tones to the responding detectives, cutting through protocol. He’d looked at Garrett not with sympathy, but with a grim recognition. You’re still breathing. That’s step one.
The door opened. A detective with a tired face nodded at Garrett. “Your turn.”
Garrett stood, but didn’t move toward the door. He looked down at Nova. She was staring at her hands, trying to scrub the phantom feel of the knife handle from her palm. “You okay?” he asked, his voice rough.
She nodded, not trusting her own voice. The adrenaline was gone, leaving a hollow, shaking cold. She kept seeing the flash of the gun, the way Leo’s head had jerked.
“Don’t leave this spot,” he said. It wasn’t a request.
He was in the room for twenty-seven minutes. Nova counted. She watched orderlies push gurneys, heard a drunk man yelling three curtains down. The reality of what she’d done began to seep in, cold and slow. She’d recorded a crime boss. She’d lied about a live feed. She’d stabbed a man in the shoulder. The knife had gone in with a terrible, rubbery resistance.
When Garrett emerged, his expression was carved from stone. Henderson was with him, talking quietly. “They’ll call it self-defense. Justifiable. The audio recording is… compelling. But Marcus is in the wind. He’s a ghost now, which makes him more dangerous.”
“He’ll come for her,” Garrett said, the words flat and final.
“He might. Or he might cut his losses and run. But you can’t go back to your place. Either of you.” Henderson handed Garrett a card. “That’s a friend who runs a safehouse. It’s clean. Go there tonight.”
Garrett took the card, looked at it, then shoved it in his pocket. He walked over to Nova and held out a hand. “We’re leaving.”
“Sir, you really should—” a nurse began.
“We’re done,” Garrett said, not looking at her. His grip on Nova’s hand was firm, anchoring. He pulled her to her feet and led her down a back corridor, away from the main waiting area, moving with a purpose that brooked no argument. They pushed through a heavy fire door and into the cool, damp night of the staff parking lot.
“The safehouse—” Nova started.
“Is the first place anyone would look,” Garrett finished, unlocking his truck. “Henderson’s a good cop, but he thinks like a cop. Marcus doesn’t.”
“Then where?”
He didn’t answer until they were both inside, the engine growling to life. “Somewhere he’d never think to go. Somewhere nobody thinks about at all.”
He drove across town, his eyes constantly checking the mirrors. The neighborhoods shifted from downtown medical district to the grungy, vibrant streets of the art quarter. He pulled into an alley behind a row of shops and killed the lights.
The back of Will’s tattoo studio was dark except for a single bulb burning above the steel door. A faded, peeling poster for a band called ‘Rusted Gears’ was taped to it.
Garrett knocked. A sharp, coded rhythm. Knock-knock. Pause. Knock.
Silence.
Then the sound of multiple locks disengaging. The door opened a crack, revealing a slice of Will’s face, her eyes narrowed. She took in Garrett’s battered appearance, Nova beside him, the tension humming in the alley air. Her expression, usually so open and warm, closed like a vault.
“Fuck no,” she said, her voice a low snarl. She started to shut the door.
Garrett slammed his palm against it. “Will. Please.”
“Please? Are you kidding me?” She kept the pressure on the door, her voice rising. “You drag your warzone bullshit to my shop? After last time? I told you, Garrett. I told you never to bring that life to my door again.”
“There was nowhere else.”
“There’s always somewhere else! A motel! A bridge! Hell!” She looked past him at Nova, and the anger in her eyes flickered with something else—pity, or maybe recognition. It didn’t soften her. “She’s in it now, huh? You just can’t help it, can you? You’re a black hole. You pull everyone in.”
“Five minutes,” Garrett said, the plea stark in his tone. “Then we disappear. You’ll never see us again.”
Will’s jaw worked. She looked up and down the alley, a quick, paranoid sweep. With a sound of pure frustration, she yanked the door open. “Get in. Now.”
They stepped into the back room, a cluttered space of filing cabinets, a small sink, and shelves laden with ink bottles and sterile supplies. The familiar scent of green soap and incense was overwhelmingly normal. Will locked the door behind them, throwing three heavy deadbolts.
She turned, crossing her arms over her chest. She was wearing a tank top, her own sleeves of tattoos on full display. “Talk. Fast.”
“Marcus,” Garrett said. “We had a confrontation. At the Grayson Mill. Leo’s dead. Marcus ran. He’ll be looking for us.”
Will stared at him. A strange, humorless smile touched her lips. “Leo. The spiderweb neck piece?”
Garrett nodded.
“Good,” Will said, the word chilling in its simplicity. “One less piece of shit breathing my air.” She leaned back against a cabinet, studying Nova. “You were there.”
It wasn’t a question. Nova nodded, her throat tight.
“And you?” Will’s eyes cut back to Garrett. “You were supposed to be out. Clean. You promised me you were just squaring the old debt.”
“It wasn’t that simple.”
“It never is with you.” She pushed off the cabinet and walked to a small, battered fridge. She pulled out three bottles of water, tossed one to each of them. The gesture was automatic, hospitable, at odds with the fury in her posture. “So you came here. Why? You think I’m hiding a superhero cape under my apron?”
“You know things,” Garrett said, twisting the cap off his water. “You hear things. You always have. From your… clients.”
Will’s network was legendary. Bikers, musicians, cops, ex-cons—they all ended up under her needle, and they all talked. She collected secrets like other people collected vinyl.
She took a long drink, watching them over the bottle. “I know Marcus has a buyer coming in two days. A big one. From out of state. The kind of deal that makes or breaks a year. He was consolidating inventory, liquidating anything that could tie him to the old operations. That’s why he was so pissed about you skimming from the warehouses. It wasn’t just the money. It was the timing.”
Garrett went very still. “How do you know that?”
Will set her bottle down with a sharp click. She walked to a locked metal drawer beneath her workstation, spun a combination, and pulled it open. She didn’t take anything out. She just let them see.
Inside, neatly arranged, were photographs. Grainy, long-lens shots of Marcus meeting with men in parking garages. Photocopies of shipping manifests with certain lines highlighted. A handwritten list of license plate numbers. And a map of the city with three locations marked in red.
Nova felt the floor tilt. “Will… what is this?”
Will’s face was a mask of cold fury. “What does it look like? It’s a paper trail. It’s a fucking hunt.” She looked directly at Garrett, her eyes blazing. “You think you’re the only one he wronged? You think you’re the only one carrying a debt? He took someone from me, too. A long time ago. Before you ever set foot in his shitty world.”
The room was dead silent. The hum of the refrigerator was suddenly loud.
“You’ve been tracking him,” Garrett breathed, understanding dawning. “This whole time.”
“I’ve been waiting,” Will corrected, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “For him to make a mistake. For him to get sloppy. Or for someone like you to finally shake the tree hard enough that the rotten fruit falls.” She gestured to the drawer. “The buyer is named Karl Vasser. He’s flying in Thursday at ten PM. Marcus is meeting him at the private airfield hangar, B-17. He’s bringing a sample case to show good faith. The rest of the shipment is in a bonded warehouse by the docks, but he won’t take Vasser there until the deal is struck.”
Garrett was looking at her like he’d never seen her before. “Why are you telling us this?”
“Because you blew up my careful, patient plan!” Will snapped, slamming the drawer shut. “Now he’s spooked. He might run, or he might accelerate the timeline. And if he vanishes, it’s over. I lose my shot. Forever.” She took a step closer, into Garrett’s space. “You dragged this to my door. So you’re going to help me finish it. You’re going to be the bait that draws him out one last time.”
Nova found her voice. “It’s a trap. The police, Henderson—”
“Henderson can’t touch a deal this clean,” Will interrupted. “Marcus will have layers of insulation. Lawyers, legit businessmen as fronts. By the time warrants get signed, the deal is done and the money is in the Caymans. This has to happen at the exchange. When the product and the money are in the same room.”
Garrett’s eyes were locked on Will’s. The weight of her secret, the depth of her vengeance, hung between them. He gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. “What’s the play?”
Will finally smiled. It didn’t reach her eyes. “We give him what he wants. We give him you. And then we turn his perfect deal into a fire.”