13. Havoc #2
“It is. In organizations like that, usefulness matters more than titles. Titles are for people who need to feel important.”
“And Knox?”
I keep my eyes ahead. “Why do you care?”
“Because he acts like he hates you.”
I laugh again. “He probably does.”
“That didn’t answer the question.”
“No,” I say. “It didn’t.” I know she’s trying to look for weak spots, and I probably just gave her one. But I don’t care.
She shifts in her seat, restless now. Curious in that way she gets when she thinks she’s close to something.
I let her sit with it for a moment.
Then I say, “Knox and I do different jobs.”
“What jobs?”
“I make messes.”
“And he cleans them up?”
“Something like that.”
That one she actually smiles at, small and unwilling, like it slipped out before she could stop it.
I catch it.
And just like that, that weird pull is back again, low and unpleasant and impossible to ignore.
“So you’re with these people because they gave you a license to kill?” she asks.
I look at her. Just for a second.
Too long, maybe.
Because she’s closer than she realizes. Or maybe she realizes exactly how close she is and keeps pushing anyway. That’s the thing about her. She looks small, quiet, harmless, but every now and then she says something that lands a little too near the bone.
Streetlights wash over the windshield in pale bands.
Outside, the city is thinning out into quieter roads, older buildings, shuttered storefronts, the occasional tea stall still lit up like a lonely ember in the dark.
A scooter rattles past us. Somewhere farther off, a dog barks. The whole night feels bruised.
I should answer. I know I should. Instead I let the silence sit there for a beat, one hand on the wheel, the other loose against my thigh.
“That’s a dramatic way of putting it,” I say at last.
“But not wrong.”
I smile faintly. “You do love pushing.”
“You do love dodging.”
Fair.
She turns a little in her seat and looks out at the road ahead. “Take the next left.”
I do.
We pass a row of low apartment blocks, paint fading off the walls, balconies cluttered with drying clothes, plants in chipped plastic pots, old satellite dishes angled at the sky.
One building has a neon pharmacy sign still glowing green.
Another has a watchman asleep on a chair by the gate, head tipped back, mouth open.
She clears her throat. “Then straight. I’m in the building after the small temple.”
I glance at her. “You’re giving me your address very easily.”
“I live with two other people,” she says at once, too fast, too casual. “Just in case you get any ideas.”
That gets a laugh out of me.
Not a nice one.
I turn my head just enough for her to see my face. “I can turn this car around and take you back.”
She goes quiet.
Good.
“What happens to people who know too much?” she asks after a few beats.
That wipes the humor right out of me.
I take a second before answering. “Depends who they know it from.”
“And me?”
I turn to look at her fully.
She holds my gaze, trying very hard not to look nervous. She almost manages it.
“That,” I say, “is still being decided.”
She swallows hard and looks away first.
Good.
I need her to understand this isn’t a game, even if I make it sound like one.
A few beats pass before she speaks again. “You could just let me go.”
I smile at the road. “I could.”
“But you won’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
That’s the question, isn’t it? Why her? Why this weird, irritating pull toward a girl who looks like she should belong in a library and somehow keeps ending up in the worst rooms with the worst men?
Why did I notice her at all? Why am I still noticing her now?
I don’t give her the real answer, mostly because I don’t have one.
“The Brotherhood isn’t done with you,” I say. I’m not done with you.
After a moment, she mutters, “Second building on the right.”
We roll to a stop in front of it.
It’s a narrow apartment building wedged between two older ones, four floors, with peeling cream paint and rust marks under the balconies.
A fluorescent tube light flickers above the entrance, making the front step look tired and washed out.
There’s a dented letterbox unit by the gate, a scooter parked half on the pavement, and someone’s sandals left by the stairwell door.
A window on the first floor is lit, curtains moving slightly in the fan breeze inside.
Ordinary. Forgettable. The kind of place that tries very hard to mind its own business.
She reaches for the handle, then hesitates. For a second I think she’s going to say something else. Another question. Another jab. Something snarky to reclaim a little ground before she goes.
Instead she just says, “You really are going to let me leave.”
I look at her. “Tonight.”
She doesn’t like that answer. I can see it in the way her mouth tightens. But she opens the door anyway and steps out, shutting it more gently than I expected.
Then she walks toward the entrance without looking back.
I stay where I am. Watching.
She knows I’m watching. I can tell from the way her shoulders hold, a little too straight, a little too aware. She fumbles once in her pocket for her keys, finds them, glances over her shoulder at last.
Our eyes meet through the windshield. Only for a second.
Then she turns, unlocks the door, and slips inside the building.
I keep looking at the entrance even after she disappears. The fluorescent light keeps flickering. Somewhere above, a tap drips steadily onto concrete. The watchman in the next building shifts in his sleep. Life goes on around it, dull and ordinary, like tonight didn’t happen at all.
My hands are still on the wheel.
An hour passes that way. Maybe more. Long enough for the tea stall down the lane to shut. Long enough for the stray dogs to settle. Long enough for me to admit I’m not here by accident.
She’s already in it now, whether she understands that or not. The Brotherhood won’t leave her alone. Not after tonight. Not after the dead man. Not after the questions that are already starting to circle.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
Knox: Where are you?
I stare at the message for a second, then look back at the building one last time.
The little lamb has no idea what’s coming. But I do.
And I’ve made up my mind.
If the Brotherhood comes for her, they’ll have to go through me first.