by Elle Gray
We both get to our feet, facing each other. A balaclava conceals her face, which only allows me to see her eyes. And as my gaze bores into hers, I’m overcome by a wave of familiarity. I recognize those eyes, though I couldn’t say from where. Nor do I have time to think about it as she presses forward, moving with the practiced, graceful ease of a highly trained martial artist. She feints to the left, making me bite on it, but comes through with a right that smashes into the side of my face.
Pain radiating through every nerve ending in my face, I stagger but keep my feet. I dart back out of the hallway to grab my firearm, and she lopes after me. It’s all I can do to avoid her swift fists. She’s on my tail, but I manage to make it back to the table, grab my gun, and whip around. I lift my arm to fire—but before I can even squeeze the trigger, her foot is on me in a rapid blur. She knocks the gun out of my hand with an incredible spin kick. It flies out of my grip, banging against the wall and clattering onto the floor with a loud bang as the round I had chambered goes off.
I take advantage of the distraction and launch myself forward, throwing a dizzying array of punches. I’m fast but she’s faster. She parries my every punch, deftly turning them aside, then delivers a vicious hook to my side, driving the air from my lungs. I grunt and fall to a knee, gasping for air. My attacker turns to run, but I hook her ankle with my hand and send her sprawling again as I lunge forward and deliver a series of body blows to her sides and back that makes her cry out.
She arches her body and throws me off. I land on my butt and hit the couch with my back but ignore the pain and struggle to my feet. She’s already back up, closing in on me and blocking my path to the gun. I block her first punch, realizing too late that it was a distraction—a point driven home when her fist crashes into my side. Stars burst behind my eyes as if a sledgehammer just rammed me. I manage to land an uppercut that connects with the bottom of her chin. I hear the satisfying sound of her teeth clacking together as her head snaps back.
The satisfaction is short-lived, though, as my attacker lunges forward again and drives her foot into my exposed midsection. I double over, then feel something hard and blunt smashed into the back of my head. I collapse onto my stomach, my entire body a live wire of pain. I feel something warm and viscous spilling down the back of my neck and realize that I’m bleeding. My thoughts are fuzzy and I can see the darkness creeping in at the edges of my vision.
Before it claims me though, I see my attacker lingering around me. I hear her as she walks into the kitchen and vaguely wonder what she’s doing. Then I hear her voice. It’s low and muffled, as if she’s trying to disguise it somehow. Her words sound mumbled to me. I’m stupidly reminded of the way Charlie Brown’s teacher sounded in those cartoons. I might laugh if I didn’t think it would be agonizing to do so.
Then my attacker’s feet come into my field of vision. She stands in front of me—hovers over me—and I wonder if this is it. If this is how I go out. Strangely enough, I’m not scared of death. I don’t welcome it, but I’m not scared of it. My only regret is that I didn’t find the monster who killed my parents and abducted my sister. If not for that, I wouldn’t have a single regret about dying before my time.
As I stare at the tips of her shoes, the darkness crashes down and pulls me under, and I know no more.
Twenty-Nine
Seattle Community Medical Center; Downtown Seattle
The first thing I’m aware of is the searing pain in my body. I’m not sure there’s a square inch that doesn’t hurt. The second thing I realize is that if I’m in this much pain, then I’m not dead. But with the amount and intensity of the pain ravaging my body right now, I kind of wish I was.
“Well, look who’s rejoined the land of the living.”
I hear Astra’s voice but cringe when I open my eyes. The light in the room hurts my eyes and makes my head start to throb.
“Lights,” I croak.
“Crap. Sorry.”
I hear her rushing around the room and the rattling of the window blinds for a moment before she speaks again.
“Sorry about that. You should be clear now,” Astra says.
I cautiously open my eyes and find her standing at the foot of my bed, her smile wide, her face twisted into a mask of relief.
“I never thought I’d live to see the day when the great and unbreakable Blake Wilder got her ass handed to her,” Astra teases.
“You should see the other guy,” I manage.
“I would but he apparently left after kicking your ass.”
I shake my head and wince, silently cursing myself for being stupid enough to move. My throat is dry, and my mouth feels gummy and gross. I try to sit up but groan, and then Astra’s there beside me, gently pushing me back down onto my pillows.
“No moving,” she admonishes me. “Doctor’s orders.”
“Water,” I rasp.
She picks up the cup from the table and holds the straw to my lips. I drink deeply, relishing the sensation of the cool liquid as it spills down my throat. My eyes closed, I pull back and nod to her. Astra takes the cup away and I hear her set it back down on the table. I take a moment to gather myself—focusing on not moving in any way that’s going to hurt—then lean forward again and open my eyes.
A weak smile crosses my face and I look up at her. She looks as though she’s been here all night. There are dark circles under her eyes, her hair isn’t fashionably styled, and she’s got no makeup on. She’s dressed in a green sweatshirt and yoga pants—and Astra is never seen outside of the house in yoga pants. Unless of course, she’s going to yoga. But it’s as if she rolled out of bed and got here.
“Have you been here all night?” I ask.
“All night? Babe, you’ve been here a day and a half,” she says. “Everybody’s already come by at least twice—I had to use a crowbar to get Rosie out of here. Even Fish stopped by. That guy’s a character.”
“You don’t even know the half of it,” I say.
“He’s definitely got a style all his own, and damn if it’s not kind of sexy,” she says with a giggle as I roll my eyes. “Anyway, he brought you those.”
I sit up and immediately regret it. My body screams in agony and I slump back against the pillows again. I look over to where she’s pointing and see a large vase holding an assortment of sunflowers. I have to admit, the bright colors make me smile. But then the reality of my situation settles down over me again and I frown.
“What’s wrong with me?” I ask, certain that I’ve got internal bleeding, a broken spine, or some other life-threatening condition.
“Wrong? Nothing, other than you’re really milking this ass-whoopin' you got,” she laughs.
“What?” I ask. “I feel like hell. Everything hurts. Surely something has to be wrong.”
She shakes her head. “You were brought in and had a concussion. You have a cracked rib and of course—that,” she says, gesturing to my face.
“What’s wrong with my face?”
She goes to her bag and pulls out a compact. Walking back over, she opens it and thrusts the mirror toward me. I take it in trembling hands and groan. I look like a monster. My eyes are black and still swollen, I’ve got abrasions on my forehead and cheeks, and my nose is red and puffy. Probably broken. Though it looks as if they might have reset it.
“I look horrible,” I mutter.
“That you do,” she replies as she takes her compact back. “But the important thing is that you’re alive. You’re going to be alright and make a full recovery.”
“Why was I out for a day and a half?”
“The nurse said you were exhausted and apparently needed the sleep,” she shrugs. “As I said, you were milking it for a little extra sleep.”
I laugh softly and grimace as the pain grips me. Astra is staring at me. She’s obviously being flippant, but I can see the worry in her eyes. I reach out—slowly—and take her hand, giving it as firm a squeeze as I can.
“What happened, Blake?”
“I do
n’t know. I came home and flipped on the light and she was just there. Right in front of me. Sucker-punched me before I was even ready,” I say.
“Wait—she?”
“Yeah, it was a woman,” I nod. “And even though she was hitting me plenty hard, I got the impression she was pulling her punches a bit. I remember thinking that she’s got so much more fighting skill than I do that she was toying with me. Either that or she didn’t want to actually hurt me. Girl did some sort of jumping tornado spin kick move that took my gun out of my hand. Definitely highly trained.”
“You got banged up plenty, so don’t think she went easy on you.”
“Maybe not. But she didn’t go as hard as she could have. I’m sure of it,” I say. “But that doesn’t make sense. If Torres sent somebody to kill me, why would she not do the job?”
“Whoa. What makes you think it was Torres?”
“Who else could it have been?” I ask.
She scoffs. “Let’s see, there are the Kings, the Playboys, and let’s not forget the Armenian mob. There’s a long list of people who might want to put a hurtin’ on you.”
“It wasn’t the Kings or the Playboys. Neither gang has any reason to want to hurt me,” I tell her. “Speaking of which, how did your meeting go with them?”
“It was fine. We’ll talk about it when you’re back on your feet,” she brushes em off. “My point is that there is a list of people who might not mind knocking you around a bit. It might not have been Torres at all.”
“Occam’s razor,” I mutter.
“What about it?”
“Simplest explanation is usually the right—”
“Yeah, I’m familiar with the theory. How does it apply here?”
“Torres is the only one who’s truly motivated to want to hurt and/or kill me,” I point out.
Astra shakes her head. “You’re forgetting about the mob boss whose daughter you tried to convince to flip on him.”
“Hey, you were there, too.”
“Yeah, but you’re the boss. You get all the credit and all the beatdowns,” she offers. “And I’m suddenly feeling very okay with that.”
I chuckle, it’s a dry raspy sound. “Gee, thanks.”
“Where did you go that night?” she asks.
“I went to see Fish. I wanted him to dig into Petrosyan.”
“Then there’s your answer,” she says. “It had to be Petrosyan.”
“No. Too fast,” I say. “There’s no way he would have known I asked Fish to dig into him that quickly. Which means it was Torres.”
Astra frowns and folds her arms over her chest. “It’s possible. But I’m questioning it because Torres is a sexist pig. Why would he send a woman to do a job he believes a man can do better?”
That’s an angle I hadn’t considered. And I have to admit that she has a point. Torres is a sexist pig. He only puts men in certain positions while shoehorning women into other less dangerous and less important positions. I seem to recall that Mo has a grudge against him, which tells me she was one of those women who got shoehorned. Astra’s right: Torres would never trust a woman to put a beating on me. Never in a thousand years. So, who, then?
I push those thoughts aside to focus on something more practical and immediate. I look up at Astra.
“How did I get here?” I ask. “The last thing I remember is blacking out. My attacker was standing over me. I thought for sure she was going to kill me.”
“Somebody called 9-1-1,” she tells me. “I heard the tape. It was a woman and she said you required medical assistance. Hung up right after giving your address. But after doing that, she called me and left the line open. I knew something was wrong.”
“A woman?”
She nods. “We assumed it was one of your neighbors who came across you—your door was standing wide open when we got there. But the fact that you were attacked by a woman puts a new spin on this.”
“That makes zero sense. Why would she beat me half to death—”
“More like a quarter to death. Let’s not be dramatic,” Astra interrupts with a smile.
A quiet laugh escapes me. “Fine. But why would she beat me and then call for help?”
“That’s a good question. And one we can answer once you’re back up on your feet,” she tells me. “The doctors say you can go home in the next day or so and then back to work in about a week.”
“A week? That’s crap,” I sigh. “If I was only beat a quarter to death then that means I can come back as soon as I get out of this bed.”
“Yeah, not going to happen,” she shakes her head. “Rosie’s putting orders in at the door that you’re to be turned away if you show up.”
I groan and press my head back against the pillows. But then the door to my room opens and when I look up, I see Mark standing in the doorway. Astra immediately stiffens—as do I. He looks at me with mournful eyes and worry on his face.
“This might not be the best time for you to be here,” Astra tells him.
He nods. “I know. Probably not. But I was worried and needed to make sure you were okay. I just needed to see you.”
“Okay, you see her and see that she’s alright,” Astra says. “Thanks for stopping by, but you can go now.”
“Actually, I was hoping we could talk,” he says then turns to Astra. “Alone. I’d like to have a word with her in private.”
Astra looks down at me and I can see that with her eyes, she’s telling me to stand firm. But I give her a small nod.
“It’s okay. I’ll text you later,” I tell her.
“You sure?”
“Yeah. It’ll be fine.”
She nods. “Okay.”
“Thank you, Astra. For everything,” I tell her. “I owe you.”
She gives me a smile. “I’ll just put it on your tab. Love you.”
“Love you back.”
Astra walks out, eyeballing Mark the whole way. I can see the warning flashing in her eyes, and Mark stands there with his hands in his pockets, nodding as if he understands. When the door closes behind her, he steps over to the edge of the bed and takes my hand.
“Look at you,” he says softly. “This is what I was worried about.”
“She could have killed me if she wanted to,” I tell him simply. “But she didn’t.”
“She?”
I nod. “Yeah, it was a woman.”
“Any idea who it was?”
I shake my head. “No, she wore a balaclava. But if I had to guess, I’m thinking it was Torres sending a message. Thought admittedly, there are some problems with that theory,” I admit with a quiet laugh. “But that’s what I’m running with today.”
He sighs. “I just—I think it was this thing with your parents. They were sending you a message for sure,” he says. “And this might be the only warning you get, Blake. I’m scared for you. This is why.”
“I know. And as I said, your concern is appreciated,” I tell him. “But if—and I’m not convinced it was—but if this was the Thirteen sending me a message, then that means I must be getting close to something. That means I can’t back off.”
“Blake—”
“Let me rephrase that. That means I won’t back off,” I clarify, my voice firm. “This is too important to me.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “I understand that. I do. And this time apart from you—I’ve had a lot of time to think about it. I see now that I wasn’t as supportive as I could have been. Should have been, maybe,” he says. “But you have to understand, I’m a doctor. I’m not from your world. I don’t chase fugitives with guns. I never get shot at. And I certainly don’t try to run down shadowy figures who assassinate Supreme Court Justices. This is all new for me. New, and if I’m being honest, terrifying.”
“And I do understand that. But this is my life. This is who I am. And that’s something I’m not going to change. I can’t,” I tell him. “That’s why I thought it best that we go our separate ways. I know this isn’t your world. But it is mine. For good or b
ad, this is how it is. And I’d rather be alone than be with somebody who doesn’t get that. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us.”
“I’ve missed you, Blake.”
I give him a soft smile. While it’s true that in the days immediately after our split I didn’t feel much, over time I did miss him. Mark is a lot of fun to be with. We have great conversations, and we laugh a lot together. That’s something I love and something I’ve missed. In a lot of ways, he’s a fantastic partner. It’s just in that one way, perhaps the way that matters the most, he hasn’t been.
“I’ve missed you too, Mark. But I’m not going to back away from this investigation. Not for anybody. It’s too important to me, and I need it to be important to whoever I’m with, too,” I tell him. “Not to mention the fact that by being with me, you’re making yourself a target as well. If the Thirteen is going to take me out, they won’t hesitate to take anybody around me out as well.”
“Then we go down together. You’re important to me, Blake. And your finding a sense of peace and closure are important to me, too. That’s something I’ve learned during our—hiatus.”
“ Areyou telling me you want to get back together?”
“Yeah. I’m telling you I want us to get back together.” “I can’t promise I’m not going to have a freak-out now and then. But yeah, I want to be here for you. I want to help you in whatever way I can. Even if it’s just being here to listen.”
I look into his eyes and see the earnestness and sincerity there. His smile still puts a flutter through my heart, as does his touch. I appreciate his newfound support, but I worry about his ability to cope with what I’m doing. I fear it’s going to get worse before it gets better. And that makes me worry for him.
“I don’t know if you understand what you’re getting yourself into,” I say.
“I probably don’t. I mean, I know it could be dangerous.”
“It could be fatal.”
“Look, if there’s one thing I learned during our hiatus it’s that, without you, my life isn’t nearly as worth living. If they’re going to take you out, then I’d rather go out with you than live a life without you in it,” he says.