Resistance Rising
11
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LENA'S POV
Morning breaks through the thin lace curtains in my grandmother’s kitchen, painting the worn wooden floor in a warm, golden glow. The journal sits in front of me, its pages weathered but filled with her steady, deliberate handwriting. Each word feels like a tether, a lifeline pulling me back to her. I run my fingers over the embossed initials on the cover—M.T.—and close my eyes for a moment, as if I could summon her strength by touch alone.
The house is quiet, but my mind is a storm. Last night’s discoveries at the docks replay over and over, each revelation darker than the last. Reyes isn’t just a threat to the clinic—he’s a threat to the entire town. I can feel the weight of his shadow in every corner of Portside Bay, as if the air itself is heavier.
I rub my temple, exhaustion setting in. I didn’t sleep, and it shows in the hollow ache behind my eyes. But how could I rest with everything hanging in the balance? The clinic, this town, my grandmother’s legacy—it’s all at stake, and I refuse to let it slip through my fingers.
A knock at the door startles me from my thoughts.
Noah stands on the porch, his hair slightly damp from the morning mist, his expression equal parts concern and determination. He’s holding two paper cups, steam curling up from the lids.
“You look like you need this,” he says, stepping inside and handing me one.
“Thanks,” I say, taking the cup and feeling the warmth seep into my hands.
“I didn’t want to wait too long,” he says, settling into the chair across from me. “I’ve been thinking about last night—about what we found.”
“Me too,” I admit, staring into the dark liquid. “Reyes’s network is bigger than we thought. If we’re going to stop him, we need more than just us.”
He nods slowly, his sharp blue eyes scanning my face. “You’re talking about the people here. The town.”
“Yes,” I say, leaning forward. “They’re scared, and I don’t blame them. But they deserve to know the truth. If they understand what’s happening, I think some of them will stand with us. My grandmother believed in this town, Noah. She believed in its people. I have to trust that they’ll do the right thing.”
He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “You’re asking a lot of them, Lena. If they get involved, they’ll be risking everything.”
“I know,” I say, my voice soft but firm. “But what choice do we have? Reyes is already destroying this place. We can’t fight him alone.”
For a moment, he studies me, his expression unreadable. Then he leans back in his chair, his gaze steady. “Alright. Let’s make a list. But we have to be smart about who we approach. The wrong person could tip him off.”
I nod, relief flooding through me. Together, we jot down the names of people my grandmother trusted, people she helped, people who owe their livelihoods—or even their lives—to the clinic.
My first stop is Gloria’s café. The familiar hum of conversation and the scent of freshly brewed coffee greet me as I step inside. Gloria spots me from behind the counter, her warm smile lighting up her face.
“Lena! It’s been too long,” she calls, wiping her hands on her apron and stepping out to meet me.
“Hi, Gloria,” I say, returning her smile. “Do you have a minute?”
“For you? Always,” she says, guiding me to a quiet corner table.
We sit, and I explain as much as I can without overwhelming her. I tell her about the shipments at the docks, about the corruption weaving its way through the town. I keep it simple, but the weight of my words lands heavily between us.
“You think this Reyes is behind it all?” Gloria asks, her brow furrowed.
“I do,” I say. “And if we don’t stop him, I’m afraid of what will happen to the clinic—to this town.”
Gloria takes a deep breath, her hands clasped tightly around her mug. “Lena, your grandmother saved my Maria’s life when the doctors in the city told us there was nothing they could do. If she were here, she’d be the first one fighting. And if you’re asking me to help, then I will.”
Her words bring a lump to my throat, and I reach across the table to squeeze her hand. “Thank you, Gloria. That means everything.”
By late afternoon, I’ve spoken to several of the names on my list. Frank, the retired fisherman, offered his unwavering support, promising to speak to others who might help. Clara, the librarian, agreed to quietly gather records from the town’s archives. Each conversation strengthens my resolve, even as it drains me emotionally.
When I meet Noah back at the clinic, the exhaustion in his eyes mirrors my own. There’s something about the way he looks at me, like he’s been carrying the same weight I’ve been shouldering, like he understands more than he’s letting on. It’s hard to focus on anything else when he’s standing there, leaning against the counter, his broad shoulders relaxed but still carrying that quiet intensity. His dark shirt stretches across his chest, every muscle in his body perfectly defined under the fabric. I can’t help but notice the way the shirt clings to him, the sharp cut of his jaw, the way his lips move when he speaks. Everything about him is magnetic, drawing me in even though I know I should be thinking about something else.
“How’d it go?” he asks, his voice low, slightly rough from the long day. It makes my pulse hitch, and I swallow hard, trying to push the thoughts of him out of my head. But they keep slipping in, the image of his body, his presence filling the space between us. I can almost feel the heat from his body, even though we’re standing several feet apart.
“Better than I expected,” I admit, taking a step closer without even realizing it. The air between us shifts, and I can feel the tension grow. It’s like I can’t get close enough, can’t escape the pull between us. “Most of them want to help. They’re scared, but they care about this place.”
His eyes hold mine, and for a moment, the words disappear. The way he’s looking at me makes my skin feel too tight, like he sees right through me, like he knows exactly what’s running through my mind. And it’s not just about the clinic anymore. It’s about him. The heat building between us, the unspoken attraction that’s been simmering since the first time we met, is undeniable now. I want to be closer to him, feel the warmth of his body next to mine, the thrum of his heartbeat under my fingertips.
I can feel the ache growing, and it’s getting harder to ignore.
He nods, his expression thoughtful. “People like your grandmother have a way of leaving behind something bigger than themselves. They see you, Lena. They see her in you.”
His words catch me off guard, but before I can respond, he pushes off the counter and grabs his jacket. “I’ll talk to a few more people tonight,” he says. “The more allies we have, the better.”
I watch him leave, the door swinging shut behind him. His confidence feels like an anchor, something solid to hold onto in the chaos.
As the sun dips below the horizon, casting the town in deep shades of gold and crimson, I stare out the window, my chest tight with a mix of hope and trepidation. We’ve started something—something that feels fragile but vital.
And now, all I can do is hope it’s enough.
The moon casts a soft glow over the small park nestled in the center of Portside Bay. It’s a quiet spot, surrounded by towering oaks that have stood here longer than most of the town’s buildings. Tonight, the stillness feels charged, the air heavy with anticipation as I wait for the others to arrive.
Gloria is the first to step into the clearing, her sturdy frame outlined by the faint glow of the streetlamp behind her. She carries a thermos in one hand and a determined expression on her face.
“Didn’t want to come empty-handed,” she says, holding up the thermos with a smile. “Coffee always helps in a fight.”
I laugh softly, though my nerves tighten as Frank appears next, his weathered features creased with worry. He nods to me, then to Gloria, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his windbreaker. Clara, the librarian, isn’t far behind him, clutching a small notebook to her chest like it’s a shield.
One by one, the others file in—shopkeepers, teachers, retirees—all faces my grandmother knew and trusted. Some offer hesitant smiles, others grim nods. They all carry a shared look of resolve.
“This is everyone?” Frank asks, his voice low as he surveys the group.
“For now,” I reply, my own voice steadier than I feel. “I wanted to keep it small until we knew exactly what we’re up against.”
“Smart,” Gloria says, crossing her arms. “So, what’s the plan?”
I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of their expectation pressing down on me. “Reyes has been using the clinic as part of a much larger scheme. We’ve found evidence at the docks— shipping records, altered manifests—but it’s not enough to take him down. Not yet.”
Clara tilts her head, her sharp gaze fixed on me. “What do you need from us?”
“Information,” I say. “Anything you can find about the shipments coming through the port or the companies funding the hospital project. We need to connect the dots—find the pattern that ties it all back to Reyes.”
Frank scratches his chin, his weathered hand lingering for a moment. “I know a guy who works the night shift at the port. He’s a good kid—honest, but green. I’ll see if he’s noticed anything off.”
Clara nods. “The town archives might have something useful. Contracts, meeting minutes, land purchases. I’ll dig through what I can.”
“And I’ll keep ears open at the café,” Gloria adds. “You’d be surprised what people are willing to talk about over a cup of coffee.”
Their willingness to jump in without hesitation sends a swell of gratitude through me, but it’s tempered by the enormity of what we’re taking on.
“This won’t be easy,” I warn, meeting each of their gazes in turn. “Reyes is dangerous. If he finds out what we’re doing—”
“We’ll handle it,” Gloria interrupts, her voice firm. “This town has faced worse, Lena. Your grandmother never backed down, and neither will we.”
Her words strike something deep within me, a reminder of the strength my grandmother carried even in the face of impossible odds.
“Alright,” I say, my voice steadier now. “Then let’s get to work.”
We huddle closer, the circle tightening as ideas and strategies flow freely. Frank offers to map out shifts at the docks, noting when security is lightest. Clara scribbles furiously in her notebook, listing potential leads buried in the town’s bureaucratic maze. Gloria outlines a network of trusted locals who might be willing to help when the time comes.
“We’ll need someone to keep an eye on the hospital project,” Clara says, looking pointedly at me. “Anything unusual with construction or supply deliveries could be a lead.”
“I’ll take it,” I say, though the thought of getting close to the project sends a chill through me.
Frank gives me a sharp look. “Be careful. They’re bound to have eyes everywhere.”
I nod, though his warning settles uncomfortably in my chest. “I will.”
As the conversation tapers off, Gloria unscrews the lid of her thermos and pours steaming coffee into a line of mismatched mugs. The gesture feels oddly ceremonial, as though this simple act of sharing solidifies our alliance.
“To Maria,” Gloria says, raising her mug. “And to the fight ahead.”
The group echoes her words, the moment heavy with shared determination.
By the time the meeting ends, the park is cloaked in darkness, the moon obscured by heavy clouds. One by one, the others disperse, their footsteps fading into the quiet of the night.
I linger for a moment, staring at the empty clearing. The weight of responsibility feels heavier now, but it’s accompanied by a flicker of hope. These people are here because they believe in the clinic, in the town, in me.
As I turn to leave, the sound of footsteps behind me makes me pause. I glance over my shoulder to see Noah approaching, his expression unreadable.
“Everything okay?” he asks, his voice low.
I nod, though my chest tightens at the sight of him. “Yeah. We’ve got a plan, or at least the start of one.”
“Good,” he says, falling into step beside me as we make our way back to the clinic.
The silence between us feels charged, the weight of the night hanging heavily in the air. But for the first time in days, I feel like we’re not just reacting. We’re fighting back.
The night is eerily quiet as Noah and I sit in the clinic’s kitchen, the soft hum of the rain outside filling the silence. It’s a small reprieve after the whirlwind of the past few days, but the weight of what we’re uncovering lingers, thick and oppressive, like a storm cloud refusing to break. Every word, every discovery feels heavier than the last, the air between us thick with unspoken thoughts. Noah’s laptop hums softly on the table, its screen glowing in the dim light, the map filled with red markers—locations where Reyes’s name has appeared, communities ruined by his schemes.
I watch him, trying to focus on the details, but it’s impossible to ignore the way he fills the space. The way his broad shoulders stretch the fabric of his shirt, the subtle flex of his biceps as he leans forward, his hand gripping the edge of the table. There’s a tension in his body that’s impossible to miss, and I’m drawn to it, the quiet power of him like an unspoken invitation. The faint stubble along his jaw, the way his dark hair falls just a little too long, everything about him pulls at me, making it harder to think about anything other than the man sitting across from me.
“I’ve been digging into some of my contacts,” Noah says, his voice low but steady, sending a shiver down my spine. His eyes stay fixed on the screen, but I catch the tension in his jaw, in the way his shoulders tighten. It’s clear this fight is eating at him, and I can’t help but feel like it’s taking a toll on him in ways I’m not sure I’m ready to understand.
“It’s worse than I thought.”
I swallow hard, my stomach twisting as I feel the weight of his words. It’s not just the danger of what we’re facing, but the way it feels like we’re both sinking deeper into it. The air between us thickens with the same electricity I’ve been feeling since the moment we met. There’s something about him, about the way he carries himself, that makes it impossible to ignore the pull. I want to reach out, to touch him, to feel the heat of his skin beneath my fingertips. But instead, I keep my focus, forcing myself to breathe evenly.
“What did you find?” I ask, my voice quieter than I intended, betraying the knot in my stomach.
He leans back in his chair, scrubbing a hand through his hair, the movement drawing my attention to the flex of his forearm. I watch the muscles in his back shift beneath his shirt, the way his chest rises and falls with every deep breath. It’s a simple gesture, but everything about it feels impossibly intimate, like I’m seeing a side of him I shouldn’t be privy to.
“Reyes’s network isn’t just here or in South America. It’s global. I’ve found reports of failed clinics in rural areas, medical centers that suddenly went under after being bought out. In each case, there’s a pattern: promises of funding and resources, followed by a collapse that leaves the community worse off than before.”
His words fade into the background as my attention drifts back to him. There’s a heat building between us, not from the conversation, but from the quiet tension that fills the room. I’m hyperaware of him, the way he shifts in his seat, the subtle tension in his posture, the way his hand brushes his hair away from his face.
I’m losing track of what we’re talking about because all I can think about is how badly I want to close the space between us. To feel the warmth of his body, to taste the words he’s not saying. I can’t remember the last time I wanted someone this badly, this desperately. But Noah is different—everything about him is magnetic, drawing me in, making it impossible to think about anything else.
I lean forward, the pit in my stomach deepening. “And no one’s done anything to stop it?”
Noah shakes his head, his frustration evident. “He operates in the shadows, using shell companies and intermediaries. By the time people realize what’s happened, he’s already moved on. It’s like chasing smoke.”
I glance at the map, my gaze settling on one of the red markers. “These places… what happens to the people left behind?”
His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he doesn’t answer. Then, with a heavy exhale, he says, “They’re left to fend for themselves. Many of them lose access to medical care entirely. In some cases, there are reports of increased mortality rates, outbreaks of preventable diseases. It’s devastating.”
The weight of his words presses down on me, the enormity of Reyes’s actions stealing the air from my lungs. “And now he’s here,” I whisper. “Using the clinic my grandmother built to do the same thing.”
Noah’s eyes meet mine, and for a moment, the resolve in his gaze feels like a lifeline. “Not this time,” he says firmly. “We won’t let him.”
As the night deepens, we pour over the data Noah has collected, cross-referencing it with the shipping records and journal entries we’ve uncovered. The pieces of the puzzle begin to take shape, though the full picture remains just out of reach.
“There’s a pattern,” Noah says, tracing a line across the map with his finger. “He targets places with vulnerable populations—towns where the need for medical care outweighs the resources available. He swoops in as the savior, offering solutions, but it’s all a front.”
I nod, my mind racing. “And the pharmaceutical shipments? The ones we found at the docks?”
“They’re part of it,” Noah replies. “I think he’s using these shipments to funnel illegal or substandard drugs into these communities. It’s a way to maximize profit while minimizing costs. And when things inevitably fall apart, he disappears without a trace.”
The anger bubbling in my chest threatens to boil over. “And now he’s using my grandmother’s clinic to do it,” I say, my voice shaking. “How many more lives have to be ruined before someone stops him?”
Noah reaches across the table, his hand brushing mine in a gesture that’s both grounding and electric. “We’re going to stop him,” he says, his voice steady. “But we have to be smart about this. We can’t let him see us coming.”
His words settle some of the storm inside me, though the fire remains. Together, we continue piecing together the trail of destruction Reyes has left behind, each new discovery adding to the fuel for our fight.
It’s well past midnight when we finally step outside the clinic, the cool night air a sharp contrast to the tension that’s built inside. The rain has stopped, leaving the streets slick and glistening under the soft glow of the streetlights.
As we walk toward Noah’s car, the faint sound of footsteps echoes from somewhere nearby. I glance over my shoulder, my heart skipping a beat when I spot a figure lingering in the shadows.
"Noah," I whisper, grabbing his arm. The touch is instinctive, a need to ground myself, but the moment my fingers brush against the warm, solid muscle of his forearm, I feel something more—something electric, like my whole body recognizes the connection. It’s like an anchor, keeping me in the moment, keeping me from falling into the chaos of the situation and the chaos in my own mind. His skin is warm beneath my hand, and for a split second, I want to hold him there longer, feel the strength of him closer.
He follows my gaze, his jaw tightening, his expression hardening as the figure steps closer. I can feel the tension in Noah’s body—every muscle in him seems to coil, preparing for whatever threat is coming our way. The way his broad shoulders shift beneath the fabric of his shirt, the way his body leans into the threat, it sends a shiver through me. There’s something magnetic about him, something that makes me want to stay close, to feel his presence more than just physically. But then there’s the part of me that knows I need to focus—on the danger, on the fight, on stopping Reyes.
But it’s hard to think straight with Noah standing so close. Every time he moves, every time I feel the heat of his body just a little too near, I feel something stirring within me—something raw, something wanting. I’m caught between two worlds. One where I’m determined to fight, to stop Reyes, and the other where everything about Noah’s presence pulls at me like a magnet. I feel it in every inch of my body—the way my pulse quickens when he looks at me, when his body shifts, when he stands taller, filling the space between us with an intensity that makes everything else fade into the background.
The man ahead of us is tall, broad-shouldered, his face obscured by the brim of his hat and the high collar of his coat. His steps are deliberate, calculated, as if he’s sizing us up. But I can’t stop thinking about how Noah stands next to me, unwavering, strong—like he’s the one keeping me safe, like he’s the one I should be leaning into, letting him protect me. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? I want to, but I can’t let myself. Not when there’s so much at stake.
“Who are you?” Noah demands, his voice cutting through the night like a blade. The power in his voice, the way his body is stiff with control, only makes my body ache more. I want to reach out, to feel his hand on mine, to let him hold me together as much as he’s holding himself.
The man doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stops a few feet away, his presence menacing in the dim light. “You’re digging where you shouldn’t be,” he says finally, his voice low and gravelly.
I feel the heat of Noah’s body next to me, the tension in every line of him, and it makes everything inside me stir. There’s a part of me that wants to step closer to him, to press into him, to feel the safety of him. It’s like an internal battle, a war between the woman I need to be right now—the one focused on stopping Reyes—and the woman I want to be, the one desperate to get lost in everything that is Noah, in the safety and heat he offers without even realizing it.
Noah steps forward, his posture rigid, his body like a wall between me and the world. "If you’ve got something to say, say it." His words are firm, but I can see the slight tremble in his jaw, the way his fists clench, ready to protect, ready to fight.
And that’s when I realize—I want to feel that protection. I want to lean into it, to trust it, to let him be the one who shields me from everything else in the world, if only for a moment.
The man chuckles, the sound cold and humorless. “You think you’re the first to come after him? You don’t know what you’re up against. And you don’t know who you can trust.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, my voice trembling despite my efforts to stay calm.
The man’s gaze shifts to me, his eyes shadowed but intense. “There’s someone close to you—someone feeding him information. If you keep pushing, it won’t just be your fight anymore. It’ll be your funeral.”
Before we can respond, he steps back into the shadows, disappearing as quickly as he appeared.
The silence that follows is deafening, the weight of his words sinking in like a stone. I glance at Noah, my chest tightening at the uncertainty in his expression.
“Do you think he’s telling the truth?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Noah doesn’t answer right away, his gaze fixed on the spot where the man disappeared. “I don’t know,” he says finally. “But we can’t ignore it.”
The unease in his tone sends a chill down my spine, and for the first time, the fight ahead feels more dangerous than ever.