17. Mind Over Matter
17
Mind Over Matter
I t’s been two days since that goddamn video. Two days of nothing but empty leads, wasted time, a gnawing pit in my gut, and me pacing back and forth with endless nights with my fingernails bitten down to the damn nubs.
My crew is still trying to find out anything they can about the whereabouts of my girls—nothing. Every buzz my phone makes, I pray it’s a lead on them. And I’m not a religious man—never have been. But these last forty-eight hours, I find myself chanting, “I’m coming, just be strong,” like some sort of broken prayer, hoping they can hear me.
I don’t know how the fuck I let it get this bad.
As I pace the room back and forth my hands shake–not from just this mess but fear of what is happening to the girls. The pain in my leg has now become a friend of mine. Something that is here now and probably won’t ever leave; my muscle has permanent damage, but that won’t stop me from doing what I need to do.
“Ghost” Lanas voice pulls me from my thoughts. I glance up at her. She is standing in the doorway holding a tablet with hope etched all over her face.
“What is it? Did you find something?”
I rush over to her, my walk becoming more normal, but exhaustion covers me from head to toe, making me drag a little bit.
“No, not something…” She lets out, and my head falls in lost hope. “But someone.” My eyes dart to hers as she tilts the tablet upwards. The screen glows with an image.
It’s a man. I’ll admit, he’s massive, with broad shoulders that strain against the fabric of his shirt. His body is a canvas of ink, every tattoo adding to the air of intimidation he exudes. His eyes, darker than polished obsidian, hold a sharp intensity that makes it impossible to look away. He’s the kind of person you’d instinctively cross the street to avoid, the kind who radiates danger without even trying.
“What does he have to do with any of this?” My mind is already spiraling, questions firing off relentlessly, each one more desperate than the last. My pulse quickens, and I can’t stop the edge creeping into my voice.
“He is our hope,” Lana says quietly, her tone too steady for my liking, as if she’s holding something back.
“Hope?” I snap. “Elaborate.”
She hesitates, her lips pressing into a thin line, and then she sighs. “This man reached out to us through a mutual friend…” Her voice trails off as her brows rise, a silent signal that there’s more.
I narrow my eyes. “Go on. Spit it the fuck out!” My patience is razor-thin, fraying with every second she stalls. My frustration simmers, threatening to boil over. The longer she dances around the point, the stronger the urge grows to rip the words straight out of her.
Lana flinches at my tone but quickly composes herself. “He’s a security guard for Marklov,” she says, her voice low but steady. “A rookie at that.”
Marklov. Just hearing that name makes me want to burn like it sparks a fire in the darkest part of me.
Her eyes light up as she starts fidgeting with her hands, an old nervous habit of hers. “He wants to meet with you. He has information, something big. But…” She pauses for effect, clearly trying to brace herself. “He’ll only discuss it with you. He made that very clear.”
My stomach tightens, a mix of unease and eagerness. “When and where?” I demand, my voice sharp and solid. “I’m free now. Get me what I need to know.”
Lana blinks, caught off guard by my urgency, but she quickly nods. “I’ll set it up,” she says, already turning toward her tablet.
This is it. Our only damn shot. Every lead so far has been a dead end, nothing but smoke and mirrors, wasting time we don’t have. We’ve been chasing a ghost, but maybe—just maybe—this man is the key to finally catching it.
The hours drag like years. The silence in the room is unbearable, broken only by the occasional creak of the chair as I shift uncomfortably. My hands itch to grab a drink, to numb the ache that’s settled deep in my chest. But I force myself to focus, clenching my fists until my nails bite into my palms.
Where the fuck is this guy? The thought repeats in my head, gnawing at my already frayed patience. I need to get this over with, to hear what he has to say and figure out if this lead is worth anything. The uncertainty is a heavy weight pressing down on me, threatening to crush what little resolve I have left.
The pain in my body flares—a dull throb that creeps up my legs and settles in my lower back. I grit my teeth, pushing the discomfort to the back of my mind. No use sitting here like a damn statue. I force myself to stand, wincing as the stiffness in my muscles protests.
My doctor’s words echo in my mind. “Stay consistent with the therapy. It’ll help you heal faster.” At the time, I’d rolled my eyes, but they weren’t wrong. Reluctantly, I start moving, stretching out my legs and arms in slow, deliberate motions. The exercises are basic but effective, little routines that seem almost trivial but work wonders when the pain gets too much to bear.
I focus on the rhythm of my movements, letting the steady repetition calm my racing thoughts. For a brief moment, the frustration eases, replaced by a sense of control. Small victories, I remind myself. It’s all about the small victories.
Just as I’m starting to feel like I’ve regained some semblance of sanity, there’s a knock at the door. It’s sharp and deliberate, cutting through the silence.
I straighten up, forcing myself to shove the frustration and pain aside. When I open the door, Lana is standing there, her expression tense but determined.
“We’ve got a time,” she says, her voice steady. “He can come here if you’d prefer.”
My body tightens at her words, the weight of anticipation settling heavily on my chest. “When?”
“In about an hour,” she replies, glancing down at her tablet. “I just need to send him the okay. But I wanted to check with you first.”
I nod sharply, my movements brisk. “That’s fine. Just let him know I’ll be waiting.”
Her lips pursed together in a small smile, and she turned to leave, already typing out the message.
The door closes behind her, and I take a deep breath, the air feels thick. Things are finally moving, and the thought of action sends a spark of energy through my weary body. But if this turns out to be a waste of time… I swear on Esmé, this man will regret ever stepping into my orbit.
The knock comes again, heavier this time. I expect it to be Lana with more updates, but when I open the door, it’s Raph, his face a mask of focus and a couple of bruises.
“Got something for you,” he says, brushing past me and heading straight to the table. He drops a folder with a thud, flipping it open. “Name, family tree, work history, criminal record—everything you need to know about this guy.”
I follow him to the table, glancing at the documents as he spreads them out. Photos, reports, even a couple of mugshots. It’s a full record of this guy.
“What’s his name?” I ask, my voice low.
“Adrian Vega,” Raph says, pointing to a sheet with bold letters across the top. “Born and raised in Darrow Heights. Parents deceased. No siblings. Spent most of his twenties bouncing between jobs—construction, a couple of jobs in private security, and a lot of time off the grid. He’s got a record, too. Assault charges, mostly. The guy’s no saint, but he’s no hardened criminal either.”
I scan the photos again, my eyes lingering on his face. Something stirs in the back of my mind, a flicker of recognition I can’t quite place. The tattoos covering his arms, neck, and hands make him look like someone new, someone dangerous, but… there’s something familiar about him that I didn’t notice at first glance.
I pick up one of the older photos, the one where his skin is untouched by ink, smooth and unmarked. My breath hitches in my throat, and a wave of realization crashes over me like a freight train, leaving me momentarily stunned. Memories flood back, each one more vivid than the last, painting a picture of a time long gone. The stark contrast between the past and present is overwhelming, and I struggle to reconcile the person in the photo with the one I know now.
“Holy shit,” I mutter, my grip on the paper tightening.
Raph looks up from his notes, frowning. “What?”
“I know him,” I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “Adrian Vega… I knew him. We grew up together. He used to live a couple blocks down from my house.”
Raph raises an eyebrow, his surprise quickly morphing into curiosity. “Didn’t recognize him, huh?”
I shake my head, still staring at the photo. “Not with all that ink. Back then, he was just a skinny kid who wouldn’t shut up about wanting to build cars for a living. We used to hang out after school, ride bikes, get into dumb trouble, you know kid shit.”
I put the photo down, a heavy weight settling in my chest. Memories I haven’t thought about in years come rushing back—days spent laughing, the occasional fight, the stupid bond only kids can form.
“But that was a lifetime ago,” I say, more to myself than Raph. “I don’t know who he is now.”
Raph leans back in his chair, watching me closely. “Well, you’ll get your chance to find out. He’s not the kid you remember, Ghost. He’s got his own reasons for coming to us. Let’s hope they’re good ones.”
I nod, still staring at the photo of a boy I used to know, now buried under layers of ink and time. Whoever Adrian Vega is now, he’s not the kid I grew up with. And that fact alone makes me skeptical as hell.
The hour drags on, each minute feeling like an eternity as the night seems to stretch endlessly. My crew is relentless, doing everything in their power to track down Marklov, their focus unbroken despite the late hour. The room is filled with the quiet hum of technology and the soft murmurs of strategy.
Then, a knock breaks the monotony. It’s not just any knock; it’s distinct, deliberate, and unlike anyone else’s. My heart skips a beat, and I turn towards the door, a sense of anticipation and unease washing over me as I prepare for whatever news, or whoever Adrian is now, awaits on the other side.
“It’s open!” I shout.
When the door opens, the man I have been waiting for stands before me.
“Adrian Vega,” I utter, my voice laced with an emotion I can’t quite identify. There’s a hint of familiarity, perhaps, or maybe something deeper. The name feels both foreign and intimate on my tongue, stirring a mix of memories and feelings that I can’t fully grasp.
“Gabriel Ríos,” his voice tinged with the same sound.
“Long time no talk amigo.” I say letting a small smile tug at my upper lip.
Adrian steps into the room, letting the door close behind him with a quiet, almost imperceptible click. He moves with a deliberate grace, each step measured and purposeful. There’s no hint of haste or nervousness in his actions; instead, he radiates a calm confidence that fills the space. His eyes scan the room, taking in every detail with practiced ease as if he has done this a thousand times before. Every movement is controlled, every gesture precise, leaving no doubt that he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Yeah,” he lets out. “A very long time.”
I gesture to an empty chair in front of me “Have a seat.”
He doesn’t hesitate. He walks over, pulls out the chair, and sinks into it.
“You’ve got quite the setup here. Your crew wouldn’t even let me bring in a pen if I had one,” Adrian laughs, his voice casual, almost like it’s the old days again.
I let out a slight chuckle. “Well… can you blame me? you know how I was–always cautious.”
“Ahh, come on, it’s me!” he says, like I’m just supposed to know who he is now.
When you’re young and reckless, life feels deceptively simple, as if nothing can ever touch you. But reality is far from that illusion. I had my share of fun—probably more than I should have—but inevitably, the bad moments overshadow the good ones. The thrill of those carefree days fades, but the weight of the mistakes I made lingers, etching themselves into my memory far deeper than any fleeting joy ever could.
Mom was always there, trying to keep me grounded. She’d say I was too reckless, too quick to chase whatever thrill came my way. I was playing with fire, and this man right here in front of me was gasoline that fed that fuel. I didn’t listen, though. I thought I had it all figured out, and I thought I could handle the fallout. Spoiler alert: I was wrong.
Looking back, those “simple” times were anything but. They were a mess—a big, chaotic, beautiful mess that left scars I’m still trying to repair.
“I heard you may be able to help me with something very important to me.” I say.
“Hey I scratch your back, you scratch mine.”
There it is. I knew he wanted to pull something out of his ass to hold over me.
“I should have known. What can I do for you?” My voice filled with annoyance.
“I know it’s not my place, and I don’t want to be that guy, but… I got to do something.” He shifts in his chair. “I need help with something. Marklov has no idea that you and I have a past together. And I promise you that I didn’t know anything about who and what he was dealing with.”
He lets out a shaky breath. “When I heard your name and Esmé’s, my heart nearly dropped out of my damn chest and into my ass.” His eyebrows shoot up, and the worry is written all over his face. He looks at me, eyes wide with genuine concern, clearly trying to process everything that’s happened. The whole situation has him on edge, and it’s obvious he’s struggling to keep it together.
I take a deep breath to control my thoughts about Esmé’s name coming out of his mouth. “Calm down, I believe you. If I had other opinions, this would go a different way. Keep talking.”
His facial expressions calm, and he begins to tell me about how shit his life went after the group broke up. He was put into a gang for protection, and when he didn’t want to be a part of the shit they did, they nearly killed him and made him the tattooed monster he is today. A lesson made for life.
“I have seen the woman you’re looking for. She is alive but not in the best shape. And as for your hermana, Marklov either has her kept away somewhere else or something, but I know it’s not good either.” He pauses for a moment.
“I am new to his crew, and I usually deal with the shit end of everything, and I’m surprised he has me posted on the outside of her room’s door. I only took the security position because he was desperate and knew I had a crazy track record.”
She’s alive, and Esmé is still as good as she was when she was deemed as missing. Fuck.
“What do you need from me?” I let out in a hurried tone. The faster I help him with what he wants, the faster we can make a move.
“It’s not money, don’t worry. It’s about my family, you know, growing up we didn’t have it easy. My mom is sick… I get it; it comes with age, but I’ll do whatever I can to make the process easier; it’s hard, and I don’t want to work for a madman, but these tattoos make it impossible to get a real job.”
I linger on his words for a moment. I know what he wants, and I am going to give it to him. I need this. He came to me even with all of the power Marklov carries. He still chose to risk his life by betraying him. That is a win for me.
“So you want to work for me?”
“If you just let me, I’ll tell you everything I know about the place—where they are, the schedule they live by, everything. I swear I won’t go back to that madhouse.” His voice trembles, and he pauses, eyes wide with desperation, waiting for my response. The tension in the air is palpable, and he looks like he’s on the edge, hoping for a lifeline.
Thoughts race against time, and I have the perfect idea.
“No. You go back, and I will give you a job and help you with whatever you need, but you have to go back.” He looks at me with slight confusion. You are going to be our inside guy. We will take care of everything you need. You just lead us to the light, amigo.”
He nods in agreement and understanding. Perfect. Oh, so goddamn perfect.