Chapter 11
Diesel
The wrench slips and my knuckles crack against the engine block. I don't feel it until I see the blood.
The garage is dark except for the work light over the Camaro's engine bay—I've been here since four, maybe earlier.
Knox did a decent job while I was gone—better than decent, actually.
Kid's got talent. But there's a rattle in the Camaro that's been bothering me since the owner dropped it off, and I need something to do with my hands that isn't putting my fist through a wall.
I couldn't stay at the cottage. Couldn't lie in that bed that smells like her. Couldn't look at the coffee cup still sitting in the sink because I can't make myself wash it.
Couldn't go to the clubhouse either. Couldn't stomach the looks on my brothers' faces after what I did.
So I came here. Did what I always do when I can't settle.
Fix something.
My hands move on autopilot—checking the timing belt, the motor mounts, listening for the source of the rattle.
It's not working.
"You called her the strongest woman you know. Then you decided she wasn't strong enough to survive you."
Crow's voice. Still grinding through my skull two days later.
"You always have a choice. You chose not to fight."
I check a bolt I've already checked twice. Wipe my hands on a rag.
She's strong. I know she's strong.
"Red didn't die because you loved him. He died because the world is cruel and people are monsters."
I hurl the wrench into the toolbox. The clang echoes through the empty garage.
The silence rushes back. And in the silence—
The way she laughed at me crammed into that tiny shower. The way she said my name in the dark. The look on her face when I called her an assignment.
I lied. She knew I was lying, but it fucking gutted her anyway.
My phone buzzes on the workbench.
Ash. Four in the morning.
"Kinda late for a debrief."
A grunt. "Nova's worried."
"Why?"
"Carver called her around midnight. Said he was on to something big—gonna dig into the safe house leak, figure out who gave up the location. Told her he'd call her back."
"Something with Eden?" The beast stirs.
"Not sure. She's been trying his cell for two hours. Nothing."
"Could be anything." I'm already moving toward my bike. "Man's gotta sleep sometimes."
There's a shuffle on the line, and then Nova's voice comes through.
"Carver doesn't sleep when he's on to something.
All he told me was it had something to do with Venetti and he'd fill me in within the hour.
That was four hours ago." A pause. "I don't know if it's connected to Eden, but I don't want to be wrong.
I tried her too, just to be sure. Straight to voicemail. "
My gut twists. If Carver's down, she's got no one.
"Send me her address and number."
Ash is back. "We're already on our way. You stay put."
"Ash—"
"I mean it. You showing up complicates shit with the DA. Rodriguez already warned us about the appeal. You being anywhere near Eden right now gives Venetti's lawyers ammunition."
He's right. I know he's right.
I grab my helmet anyway.
"Diesel." His voice hardens. "Stand down. Let us handle it."
Silence on the line. He's waiting for confirmation.
"Send me the address."
"Don't make me regret this call."
The text comes through. I'm on my bike before the screen dims.
He knows I'm going. Knew it the second he dialed. Some orders are given just so it's on the record that they were disobeyed.
Eden
Three knocks. I sit up too fast and my head spins.
Carver. Breakfast. Shit.
I grab for my phone on the nightstand before I remember—I turned it off. No alarm.
The clock on the dresser reads 6:03. Still almost dark outside, just the barest gray at the edges of the curtains.
Wait. Our breakfast isn't until nine. Why would he be here this early?
Probably couldn't sleep either. Wants to check on me after everything. That's Carver—always worrying.
The knocking comes again.
"Coming," I croak. My voice is wrecked.
I catch my reflection in the mirror and wince. Swollen eyes, tear-streaked face, hair a tangled disaster. I slept in yesterday's clothes—the ones I testified in.
I shuffle to the door and check the peephole.
Not Carver.
Daniels. Leaning on a cane, weight shifted off his bad leg.
Why would he be here at six in the morning?
My head is full of static. My eyes won't focus. I can't make myself think past the next five seconds.
A cop. He's a cop. Cops are safe.
I unlock the door. Open it.
"Officer Daniels." I glance past him, half-expecting to see Carver's car, some explanation. Nothing. "What are you doing here?"
He gives me a warm, concerned smile. "Wanted to check on you after yesterday." He takes in my appearance—the wrecked face, the rumpled clothes, the obvious evidence that I've been falling apart. "You look like you've had a rough night."
"It's been... a lot." I step back without thinking. My eyes drop to the cane, the way he's favoring his right leg. Guilt twists in my stomach. He took that bullet for me. "Do you want to come in?"
"Just for a minute." He crosses the threshold, his gait stiff and uneven. The cane taps against the hardwood with each step. "I know you're probably exhausted."
I close the door behind him. Lock it out of habit.
"Sorry I didn't get to speak to you yesterday. They had me on a pretty short leash."
Daniels laughs. "Rodriguez is a ball buster. But she always gets her man."
"Can I get you something? Water? I don't think I have coffee that isn't expired, but—"
"I'm fine." He limps into the living room, cane clicking against the floor. Takes in the apartment—the dust, the pile of mail, the staleness of a place unlived in. His eyes sweep the space. Cataloging.
"How are you holding up?" he asks. "After yesterday?"
"I don't know." Honest answer. "It doesn't feel real yet. All those months of running, of being afraid, and now it's just... over."
"You did great on the stand." He's leaning against my counter now, arms crossed, perfectly at ease. "Venetti's going away for life because of you."
"Thanks." I try to smile. It feels wrong on my face.
"I couldn't have made it this far without people like you.
At the safe house—you took a bullet trying to protect me.
" My gaze drops to his leg, the cane propped against the counter beside him.
Three weeks and he's still limping. Still healing.
Because of me. "I never properly thanked you for that. "
His smile flickers. Just for a second. Something behind his eyes that doesn't match the friendly concern.
"Barely a flesh wound." He shifts his weight, and I catch the wince he tries to hide. "Funny how that works out."
The words land wrong.
Barely a flesh wound. Funny how that works out.
He hasn't sat down. He's standing between me and the door, hand resting near his hip.
And on his coat—small spots. Dark. Fresh.
Blood.
He's wearing gloves. Thin black leather. He never took them off.
He keeps glancing at the door, the windows, my hands.
He's not visiting.
He's assessing.
"Daniels—"
He steps closer, his limp more pronounced without the cane. His expression changes. Pained, almost.
"I didn't want to do it like this. But you made things difficult."
I back up a step. Anything I can reach that would hurt—
"You know what happens when you fuck up a job for Venetti?" He rolls his shoulder, casual. "The two guys who shot up that safe house? Dead within a week. Venetti doesn't tolerate failure."
His hand moves to his thigh. The one that was wounded. The one I've been feeling guilty about for three weeks.
"So you shot yourself. To look like a hero."
"I shot myself because you got away." His gaze goes flat. "That was my failure. Venetti was going to put me in the ground for it. But a wounded cop who tried to save the witness?" He almost smiles. "That's not failure. That's bad luck."
He takes another step toward me. Doesn't even flinch at the pain anymore.
"So I took the bullet, played the hero, and Venetti blamed the hitmen instead of me."
Another step. The limp barely slows him down now. Adrenaline, maybe. Or just the cold focus of a man finishing what he started. "You were supposed to die in that house, Eden."
"The mole." The word scrapes out. "It was you."
His hand slides under his coat and comes back with a gun.
"Give the writer a prize." He doesn't follow me. Doesn't need to. The gun is pointed at my chest and the door is behind him. "I've been Venetti's man for years. Good arrangement. He feeds me information about his rivals. I make arrests. We both benefit."
"The safe house—"
"I gave them the location. Told them exactly when to hit it. Which room you'd be in, which door to breach." He shrugs. "Should have been clean. But you had to crawl out a fucking window."
The night comes back in flashes. The gunfire. The glass. The officer who threw himself over me—
Not to protect me. To save his own skin.
I'm still backing up. The counter is close now. If I can get to the knife block—
His gaze follows mine. He shifts left, putting himself between me and the knives.
"Carver trusted me. The DA trusted me."
I trusted this man. I thanked him.
"And Carver." He sighs. "He was getting too close.
Started pulling phone records, financial records.
Started asking the wrong questions. Started looking at me.
" His mouth twists. "You know he only put up with you because he wanted to fuck you, right?
All that patience, all that hand-holding—that wasn't respect. That was a man waiting for his shot."
Liar. Carver wasn't like that.
"He would've figured it out eventually. And he never would've let me get to you." Daniels shrugs. "Had to remove him from the equation."
The blood on his coat.
Carver died because of me.
The floor tilts. My stomach heaves.
And suddenly—horribly—I know exactly why Diesel let me go.
"Had to handle that this morning." Bored, almost. Like he's recounting an errand. "Caught him before dawn. He didn't even see it coming."
Carver. Carver is dead.
My knees want to buckle. I lock them.
"So now it's just you." Soft now. "The last loose end."
"You don't have to do this. Venetti's already convicted. Killing me won't change that."
"No. But it'll tie things up nicely." He reaches into his coat with his free hand. Pulls out a folded piece of paper. "You're a writer, Eden. Writers leave notes."
He unfolds it. Holds it up so I can see.
My handwriting. My exact handwriting—the loops, the slant, everything.
"Your interview notes were very helpful.
Took some practice, but I've always been good with details.
" He reads aloud. "'I can't live with what I've done.
Detective Carver tried to help me, but I couldn't take the pressure anymore.
The things he made me do to keep me safe.
The way he touched me. I told him to stop and he wouldn't. So I stopped him. Now I have to stop myself.'"
"No." The word comes out strangled. "No one will believe—"
"Traumatized witness. Months of stress. Isolated. Alone." He tucks the note back in his pocket. "Carver's body will be found in his car. Your prints on the gun that killed him—this gun." He holds it up. "Same gun that kills you. Murder-suicide. Tragic. Tidy."
"I won't—"
He moves fast. Spins me around and shoves me forward into the kitchen island. My chest hits the counter edge. My left arm is crushed between my body and the granite—pinned by his weight pressing me down.
His hands are free now. Both of them.
One grabs my right wrist. Forces my arm up, bending it toward my own head. The other shoves the gun into my palm, wrapping my fingers around the grip.
I can't breathe. My heart is slamming so hard I can hear it.
Gray light is bleeding through the curtains now. Dawn. The world waking up while I die in my own apartment.
"You have to hold it." His voice is in my ear. Calm. Patient. "Fingerprints. Has to look right."
I thrash. Kick backward—my heel connects with his shin, then higher, his knee. He grunts—weight shifting for half a second—
Not enough. He slams me harder against the counter. The gun finds my temple.
"Nice try." He forces my arm higher. The metal is cold against my skin. "Barrel to the temple. That's it. Just like that."
Bile rises in my throat.
"Please—"
"It's not going to hurt, Eden." His finger finds mine on the trigger. Presses down, holding it in place. "One second you're here, suffering, drowning in guilt. The next—" He makes a soft sound in my ear. "Pow."
I flinch. A sob tears out of me.
"You can do this. I'll help you." His voice is soft now, coaxing. "Just hold the barrel right here. That's good. You're doing so good."
Diesel said that to me once. In the kitchen. When I was learning to—
The pressure on my finger increases. His finger over mine. Ready.
I'm fighting. Pulling. Screaming. None of it matters.
"You put up a good fight." His lips brush my ear. "Now it's time to die."
I close my eyes.
I'm sorry. For all of it. For not understanding why you let me go.
"Stop moving." His voice hardens. The gun digs into my temple. "Hold still and this goes quick."
No.
Something in me snaps. Not breaks—snaps back.
I'm not dying like this. Not quiet. Not compliant. Not making it easy for him.
I thrash. Slam my head back into his face. Feel the crack of his nose against my skull. He swears—loss of control for half a second—and I scream.
Not words. Just sound. Raw and ugly and loud.
"Shut up—"
I scream again. Louder. His hand clamps over my mouth but I bite down hard, taste blood, and when his palm jerks away I fill my lungs and scream again.
Daniels wrenches my head back. The gun finds my temple.
"No one's coming." His breath is ragged now. Blood dripping from his nose onto my shoulder. "Now shut up and—"
Footsteps.
Heavy. Fast. Coming down the hallway.
Daniels goes rigid against my back.
I don't think. Don't hope. Don't let myself believe.
I just scream.
"DIESEL!"