by Callie Hart
I try not to think at all.
I wait another two minutes before I hear the approaching ambulance. If six-year-old Millie Reeves isn’t seizing anymore, there’s no real need for the wailing Doppler shift of the sirens, or the frantic flash of the red and blue lights on top of the vehicle that I see speeding into the St Peter’s parking lot, but sometimes the EMTs will leave them blaring in order to get their patient to us in good time.
I barely register who’s driving the ambo or who’s climbing out of the back with the patient. All I care about is the child, and what I can do to fix her. I’m faced with the little girl on the gurney. She’s so, so small. Smaller than any six-year-old should be. It would be less surprising if her chart showed she was four years old instead, but no, the paper I’m handed on a clipboard confirms her age as six. I check her vitals, all of which are weak and stressed but within acceptable ranges, and then I take hold of her hand, squeezing it in my own. That’s when I look up. That’s when I see the tall guy hovering beside the gurney, anxiety vibrating off him in spiky waves.
He doesn’t say anything. He looks me dead in the eye and challenges me to say something. I get the impression he’ll implode if I utter words he doesn’t like, however, and that makes me uneasy. I thank the EMTs, noting vaguely that the ambulance was dispatched from Alex Massey’s firehouse, and then I turn to the young guy in front of me. “You’re Millie’s father?” I don’t wait for him to respond. I begin pushing the gurney inside. I need to get Millie up to pediatrics and hooked up to an IV as soon as possible.
“No. Brother. I’m her legal guardian, though. Our parents are dead. I’ve taken care of Millie since she was born, pretty much.”
“I see.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You don’t see. Unless you’ve been caring for a seriously ill little girl for the past six years, how can you?” His attitude is really shitty—shitty enough that I stop pushing the gurney and spin on him. I’m not pissed at him. He’s too young to be dealing with this responsibility. He’s barely an adult himself, but he’s clearly not thinking straight right now.
“Look around you, Mr. Reeves. Look at where you are. No, I haven’t been caring for one sick little girl for the past six years. I’ve been caring for twenty of them. Thirty. I’ve been caring for seriously ill one-day-olds right along side seriously ill eighty-year-olds. For a decade.”
He has the humility to look away. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m just…”
“Stressed out and scared?”
“Yeah. Exactly.”
“It’s okay. I know what that feels like, too. Come on. Let’s get your sister comfortable and we can talk about where we go from here.”
Chapter Two
ZETH
Violence isn’t a choice. It’s a state of being. It’s simply your nature. There’s no running from it. No fucking hiding. And even if there was a way to shake the coding of your DNA and hide from your truth, what would be the point? Being violent feels good. Roaring as you smash your fists over and over into some weak piece of shit’s torso feels good. Watching the blood spray from people’s noses and mouths as your knuckles connect with their faces? Guess what? That feels good, too.
Only a certain few people in this world understand how liberating it feels to pound on someone’s head until they lose consciousness. Likewise, it’s just as liberating to have your head pounded on. At least you know you’re alive. At least you know you’re experiencing everything you can, ‘cause you can feel it no matter what. And that’s what life is, right? Experiencing? Feeling? Bleeding?
My phone’s ringing on the other side of the gym, but I can’t answer it right now. It’s probably Michael, checking in to see if I need him for anything today. I’m midway through handing a Brazilian dude’s ass to him, so the call is gonna have to wait.
Blood hits the canvas. Could be mine. Could be his. Who fucking cares? We are both savages, and we’re both giving in to our most primal urges to dominate. The only difference between me and the guy I’m matched against right now is that I won’t quit. I won’t give in. It’ll be a chilly day in the underworld before that happens. I don’t give a fuck who he is, how big he is, how bad the odds are. I’ll die before I submit.
The Brazilian guy I’ve just tossed against the metal links of the cage I’ve had constructed in the gym spits on the boards and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He jerks his head toward my phone, frowning, sweat running down his face.
“Important? You need to get that?” he gasps.
Why can’t people go three full rounds without trying to come up with an excuse to call a time out? There’s always something: my wraps are coming loose. My eyes are stinging. I can’t remember if I left the oven on at home. These motherfuckers all know what they’re getting into when they step into the cage with me. They’ve all stood by and laughed as I’ve knocked people out cold, broken noses and stripped countless guys of their dignity. But no, they’re convinced they’re going to be the one to put me down. Has to happen sometime, after all, I hear them whispering to each other. Pretty difficult to hear them whispering later, when they’re faces are swollen and bloody like freshly ground meat and their jaws are wired shut. Still, they come back and train. Still, they’re on the doorstep every morning, wanting to spar, to receive more punishment, because they’re intrigued.
I don’t pause to get my phone. My opponent throws up his hands and defends himself at the last second, as if he’s hoping I’ll change my mind and turn my back on the fight after all. I rain down a succession of jabs on him that probably don’t hurt all that much but are hard enough to daze him. He can’t know which way is up. When I pause, bringing my own clenched fist back up into a guard position, my opponent straightens, relieved the assault is over from the look on his face, only to drop like a sack of shit to the floor when I power my right knee up and drive it into his side.
Suck on that, asshole.
He makes a gasping, sucking noise, wheezing helplessly on the ground as I stalk around him, considering my options. He probably has at least two broken ribs right now. Do I give him chance to tap out on the fight, or should I be merciless? I could get down and grapple with him, easily getting him in a chokehold while he’s vulnerable. It would be lights out for Mr. Brazil in less than eight seconds if he doesn’t do something beside flop around like a fish out of water.
My phone is still ringing.
If I don’t choke him out, I could always get him in an arm bar. Break that shit, too. I pace around him like a lion, looking for other possibilities.
My phone begs for attention.
I could get him in mount. Lean on his chest. Make him gasp some more. I could straddle the fucker and have done with him once and for all. Nothing like some ground and pound to finish a fight quickly. The guy rolls onto his good side, curling his knees into his chest, his eyes rolling, the whites visible. He must be in a shitload of pain.
My phone grows louder somehow.
“Fuck’s sake.” It’s impossible to fucking concentrate like this. Mr. Brazil is going to have to wait a moment. I plan on grabbing my phone and silencing the damn thing, but when I drop down out of the cage, the soles of my sneakers scuffing on the dusty concrete floor, and I make it over to my cell, I see a number on the screen that won’t bear ignoring. Or rather, I’d be smart not to ignore in the least.
It’s a New Mexico number.
I shoot a glance back toward the cage where my opponent is now on his knees, right arm braced across his stomach, head hanging low as he tries to figure out his shit. I doubt he’s going anywhere any time soon. I’ll head back to help him in a second—Sloane will crucify me if I hurt a gym member and then didn’t give them medical attention afterward—but I’m undoubtedly about to have a conversation that shouldn’t be conducted out in the open.
I head up to my office, running up the stairs, taking them three at a time, and I slam the door closed behind me. “Yeah?”
“Didn’t think I’d hear from you any time soon,” I tell him. “How’s life in the dust bowl?”
“Dusty,” Rebel agrees. “Hot.” He pauses, and then says, “Busy.”
His ‘busy’ is most people’s ‘dangerous.’ I’d like to argue that it would be closer to my own ‘status quo’ but hey. Who’s got time for a dick-measuring contest when they have injured foreigners trying to catch their breath twenty feet away? “Sounds ominous. Care to elaborate?” I ask.
Rebel laughs softly. “A mutual friend of ours has left town. I had one of my guys check up on her whereabouts. Seems like she’s headed your way.”
I know perfectly well who this mutual friend is. For the past year or so, ever since I got involved with Sloane and her reckless mission to find her missing sister come hell or high water, DEA Agent Denise Lowell has been sticking her nose into our business, generally making a nuisance of herself and pissing me off in the process. It can only be her.
“Why the change in location? Any idea?”
“None, I’m afraid. Her files have been sealed. Even our hacker can’t break into that shit without setting off a few alarm bells.”
Frustrating, but not the end of the world. I have hackers of my own who don’t give a shit about alarm bells. “Appreciate the heads up.”
“No problem. Figured you might like warning before she showed up on your doorstep.”
I pull at my hand wraps, tightening them as I lean against the wall of the office. “I doubt she’s here for me. I’m not involved in drugs.”
Rebel makes a bemused sound, the line crackling loudly as he laughs. “Dude. If I remember correctly, you stole the woman’s dog. And you professionally embarrassed her. Repeatedly. Doesn’t matter if you have five keys of coke jammed up your asshole or you’re a poster boy for Narcotics Anonymous. You can bet good money on her coming for you if she gets the opportunity.”
I grunt, scratching at my jaw. “True. That bitch needs to develop a new hobby. This shit is getting really old, really fast.”
“Couldn’t agree more, man. Still…forewarned is forearmed, right?”
I smile a grim smile. “Oh, I’ll be armed alright.”
I say no more. I don’t tell him about the fact that I’ve known Lowell is in town for a while now. I don’t tell him that I’ve been going against everything I stand for, keeping it from Sloane. I don’t tell him I’ve been keeping my eye on Mason, the kid I’ve been training with every morning, ever since I saw him talking to the DEA agent outside Macs a few weeks ago, either. I keep my mouth shut, and Rebel hangs up the phone.
******
I bundle Mr. Brazil up and send him on his merry way—he insisted he didn’t want to go to the hospital, so what the fuck could I do but let him go?—and then I wait for Michael to show up. The gym is empty. Mason, the spy in our midst, was supposed to be here training first thing this morning before he started work across the road at the auto mechanics’ place, but he never showed, so I have the whole place to myself. The fees at Blood & Roses fighting gym are astronomically high, so only the most serious people come and train here. Means the place isn’t overrun with teenagers whose balls have just dropped and don’t have a fucking clue what they’re doing. Also means Seattle’s criminal element tends to stay away, which is exactly what I was hoping for. Whenever a guy wants to apply for membership, I have Michael perform a very in-depth background search on them, making sure they’re not going to bring trouble to our doorstep. The faintest whiff of underground bullshit, and their applications are rejected with no explanation as to why.
Michael arrives at the gym around midday and drops his workout bag on the ground by the roller doors, sagging against the metal frame. He looks like shit. I tell him this, which doesn’t seem to help in any way but entertains me greatly.
“Screw you, man. I haven’t slept in thirty-six hours,” he informs me, pressing the tips of his fingers into his eye sockets. “I’m getting old. I can’t do this shit anymore.”
“Why the fuck haven’t you slept? Better not be moonlighting for someone else,” I growl.
“Of course not. I’m just…it’s personal.”
“Personal?” I want to smirk, but I manage to rein in the urge. Personal means fucking. No, scratch that. Personal means hard-core fucking. Michael’s always been a bit of a closed book when it comes to his life outside of my employ, and that’s never bothered me. Too many guys don’t shut up about where they’re sticking their dicks, and I’d rather Michael kept his cards close to his chest over him incessantly talking about the chicks he’s seeing. I’ll admit to being faintly curious right now, though. Only faintly.
Michael rolls his eyes. “It’s not what you’re thinking,” he informs me.
“I’m thinking you’ve been awake for thirty-six hours because you’ve been entertaining someone.”
“Okay, so you’re not completely wrong. But it’s…it’s more complicated than that.”
It always is. Especially where women are concerned. I don’t push him to spill any further information. If he wants to share, he will. In the meantime, we have a DEA agent to track down. Michael’s up to speed on the Lowell fiasco already. Well, he knows as much as I do—that the woman’s back in town and looking to make trouble. He seems unsurprised when I fill him in on the fact that Rebel called and confirmed this, though. He keeps quiet as we close up the gym and climb into the Camaro. He’s extra fucking quiet as we head across town toward the warehouse, where I used to spend at least seventy percent of my time before I met Sloane and ended up moving into her secluded spot on the hill. Not a word passes between us in over thirty minutes. Michael sits motionless in the seat next to me, carved out of rock as I gun the Camaro’s engine, sliding a little too quickly through the corners. He finally protests when I run a stop sign three blocks from the docklands.
“What the hell, man? You drive the most ostentatious, over the top car ever sold. You’re speeding, and now you’re running stop signs? If a cop pulls you over, they’re gonna think they’ve won the motherfucking lottery. You want to spend the rest of the day locked up while five-oh figures out what they can pin on you besides reckless driving?”
I shrug, taking another hair-raising right hand turn. “Just thought you might like waking up,” I tell him.
Michael growls. “I’m perfectly awake, boss.”
This is flame retardant bullshit and he knows it. I let him off, though, because he’s earned it. “Just tell me one thing. Is this bizarre, edgy Michael because the bitch is back in our lives? Or is there something else I should know about?” I don’t have a clue what could possibly be more inconvenient than Denise Lowell entering the Seattle city limits, but shit. Things have been quiet. Too quiet. It’d be grand to believe that this is just how life will be now—predictable and safe, because that’s what Sloane deserves. But I’m not that stupid. It’s my experience that life will pitch you a curve ball or five when you’re least expecting it, and they’re always the ones that fuck you up the most. And when it rains, it motherfucking pours.
Michael presses his fingertips against his mouth, elbow propped up against the window of the Camaro. He stares up at the warehouse as we pull up outside, a grimace twisting his features. “I don’t know,” he says quietly. “I just…I have a bad feeling is all.”
Chapter Three
SLOANE
Millie Reeves doesn’t cry when she wakes up. She vomits and complains that she’s cold, but that’s it. All things considered, she’s relatively lucky. She was breathing when she was having the violent seizure that brought her here to St Peter’s, but the oxygen supply to her brain could easily have been compromised. She could have woken u
p with altered brain function or damage to numerous aspects of her nervous system, and yet she seems as though she’s coping admirably. Unfortunately the same can’t be said for her brother.
“I don’t care what the doctor said. I want to take her home!” Mason Reeves is hot headed and reactive right now, as he leans across the reception desk, growing redder and redder as he tries to brow beat Gracie. Little does he know that his efforts are completely pointless.
I see Gracie raise her do-not-fuck-with-me-family-member-of-a-patient shield. “And I don’t care what you want, Mr. Reeves. Your sister is in recovery. That means she is re-cov-er-ing. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I understand that she can recover at home, ma’am. Now, please. Let me sign the paperwork so I can get her out of here.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir. Now please step away from this desk before I call security.” Gracie’s jaw is fixed and locked, raised. She’s just waiting for him to argue some more. Of course, what she’s doing is highly illegal. Mason is Millie’s legal guardian. She doesn’t specifically require urgent care, so he’s well within his rights to take her whenever he wants. Gracie’s just one of those women who will push and push in order to get her own way, and to hell with the consequences.
I quicken my pace as I head toward them, grinding my teeth. “Is everything okay here, Mason? Are you looking for an update on Millie?”
He barely casts his eyes in my direction as he acknowledges what I’ve said. “Millie Reeves. Six-years-old. Diagnosed with LSG at aged three years, three months. Suffered a major grand mal seizure in the last twelve hours. Now showing positive signs of improvement, despite continuous vomiting and diarrhoea. Blood pressure is normal. All cognitive signs reported normal. Will require constant monitoring for the next forty-eight hours to ensure no long term damage has occurred as a result of potential oxygen deprivation.” Mason stops there. He swivels his head so he’s looking right at me now. “Is there anything else, Dr. Romera, or have I got everything?”
