Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
Seneca
The day started, as most of my days did lately, with a sharp edge of regret.
I woke before the sun, every muscle tensed, but the body next to me was a shock to the system.
For a few seconds, I forgot what I was, forgot about the blood on my hands and the ghosts lining the walls of my head, and just watched Catherine.
She looked nothing like herself with her hair loose, no makeup, and her face sunk in the pillow crease.
No mask, no armor, no judge. Just a woman, her chest rising and falling like maybe, for once, she trusted someone in her bed.
If you ignored the bandaged scrape on her cheek and the bruises around her wrists, you could almost pretend it was just another quiet morning in suburbia.
The curtain was half open. The desert light slipped through, gold and slicing, painting her bare shoulder. I let my fingers drift over her collarbone, tracing the angry line of a healing scratch. She didn’t stir, but I felt her breath change. Even asleep, Bellini was always listening.
I was trying to memorize the way she looked, peaceful, maybe even happy. Then, the world reset itself, the only way it ever really did in my life.
A glass pane shattered with controlled violence.
Catherine came awake before my hand even left her skin. Her eyes opened wide, pupils blown, and for a split second, I saw the kid she must’ve been before anyone told her that family was a blood type, not a choice. She didn’t ask what happened. She just looked at me, waiting for instructions.
I slid out of the bed, naked, and grabbed the Sig from the nightstand where I’d stashed it the night before. Chambered, full mag, nothing fancy. I didn’t bother with pants. If they were here for a show, I’d give them one.
I signaled her to stay. She nodded, the sheet still clutched to her chest, jaw clenched so hard I thought it might shatter. The scar on her hand was white against the fabric. I wondered, as I always did, what she’d do if I left her alone with a problem like this.
We waited. Below, there was a pause, then the measured tread of boots on tile.
They were heavy and unhurried, like they’d paid for this address and wanted to get their money’s worth.
I counted the steps. Three men, maybe four, moving in formation.
There was the low bark of a voice, too muffled to make out, and then the soft thump of something hitting the wall. Not random. Not amateurs.
I turned to Catherine. Her knuckles were bone white against the sheet, but her eyes hadn’t left me. I mouthed, “Bathroom.” She nodded, no hesitation.
We moved as a unit. I took the lead, Sig high, slicing the air with each step. At the bathroom threshold, I motioned her in and swept the space behind us. Clear. I eased the door shut, slow, and reset the lock. It wouldn’t hold, but it would buy us seconds.
Inside, the light was still off. The only illumination came from the crack under the door, a thin line of amber that trembled every time someone moved below. I could hear them now, clear as if they were in the next room. They weren’t searching. They were setting up.
Catherine pressed her back to the tile, the sheet abandoned. She was naked, but you wouldn’t know it from the way she held herself. She was rigid, eyes locked on mine, waiting for the next move. I gestured for silence, then pressed my ear to the drywall.
There was the clatter of furniture being moved, the creak of a cabinet, and the wet sound of glass being swept from the floor.
“She’s up here. Hallway, right side.”
“Copy that.”
I counted six steps on the stairs, the weight of each footfall telegraphing how much time we had left. We grabbed clothes and quickly dressed.
I raised the Sig, checked the line of sight on the door. “Stay behind me,” I whispered. “Move when I move.”
She didn’t answer. She just crouched, arms crossed tight, lips bloodless.
The first shot was a test, a single round through the bedroom door. It punched clean, ricocheted off the vanity, and embedded in the shower tile. I tracked the angle. Not meant to kill. Meant to herd.
I took the opportunity to move to the corner beside the door and waited. The footsteps advanced, then paused. I heard the metallic snick of a slide being racked, the brief hush as a glove adjusted its grip.
They were close now. Close enough that I could smell them. They were professional, but not military. Too noisy. Probably ex-cops or private security. But not from around here. These were New York shoes, not New Mexico.
I signaled Catherine again. She moved to my side, silent, one hand braced on the towel rack. We waited, breaths shallow, as the steps reached the threshold. The doorknob turned, slow and steady. They wanted to clear the room, see if we’d panic.
I put two rounds through the center of the door, then ducked left.
The wood splintered, and I heard a grunt, then the heavy thud of a body hitting the wall.
They fired, and we waited. The mirror above the sink shattered and sent shards cascading over us.
I let the chaos speak for itself. In the silence that followed, I heard the hiss of someone trying not to scream.
“On my count.”
She nodded, lips pressed tight. I squeezed her hand and gently pressed my lips against her forehead. I felt something for this woman, and that scared me more than the men hunting us.
“Get ready to run,” I whispered to her.
She looked up at the frosted glass above the shower. “That’s eight feet down to the porch.”
“Better than staying here.”
She nodded, checked the window, and braced herself against the ledge.
I took a last look at the door. The knob was moving again, this time with more force. I heard the shuffle of someone lining up a battering ram, or maybe just a boot.
“Now,” I said, and shoved the Sig into my waistband.
I hoisted Catherine up and into the window well, her body sliding with practiced ease.
She kicked at the glass, once, twice, then it gave with a brittle pop.
I boosted her up and through, catching a brief glimpse of bare leg and muscle before she vanished onto the porch roof.
I followed, moving fast. The first canister came through the bathroom door just as I cleared the window. The hiss of tear gas filled the room, acrid and hot, but I was already outside, the early air sharp and clean. Catherine was waiting, crouched on the shingled roof, one hand extended.
I took it, and together we edged along the side of the house, keeping low, using the eaves for cover. Below us, the voices were frantic now, realizing their quarry had slipped the noose.
We reached the edge, and I scanned the yard.
One man, pacing near the back fence, gun drawn, attention on the kitchen window.
I motioned to Catherine, then dropped the eight feet to the ground, landing hard but upright.
She followed, rolling her ankle but making no noise.
I grabbed her hand and pulled her behind the cinderblock wall.
The man in the yard turned, spotted us, but too late.
I had the Sig up before he could level his own weapon.
“Don’t,” I said, voice low and steady. He hesitated, and that was all I needed.
I closed the distance, drove the heel of my hand into his chin, and felt the satisfying crunch of cartilage. He dropped and went nighty night.
Catherine picked it up, checked the chamber, and handed it to me without a word. I tucked it into my waistband, then looked back at the house. Two men were still inside, one of them wounded.
“Where now?” she whispered.
I scanned the street. “We need the neighbors to call the cops. It’ll buy us time.”
She nodded, already moving toward the side gate. She moved like someone who’d escaped worse before.
We slipped into the alley, the sound of sirens already rising in the distance. I slowed, adrenaline peaking, and then looked at her. I didn’t say anything. There was nothing left to say. But a question hung between us. Where was all this leading?
The first cop car screamed around the corner as we reached the far end of the block. I watched the house, saw the flash of movement in the upstairs window, saw the men inside realize they’d failed.
By the time we hit the next block, my body was running on pure adrenaline. We started down the next alley and came to a halt. At the end of the alley, a car sat idling, windows dark.
The window rolled down. "Wallace, you ugly son of a bitch. Get in."
It was Nitro. He looked at Catherine, then at me. "You gonna just stand there, or you wanna live?"
I motioned for her, and we dove into the back seat. Nitro peeled out, smoke and gunfire spraying in our wake.
For the first time in two days, I let myself breathe.
Nitro grinned at me in the mirror. "Shitstorm follows you everywhere, huh?"
"Only on weekends," I said, voice rough. “What the fuck were you doing there?”
“Damron sent me to keep an eye on you.” He looked at Catherine. “You must be the judge.”
Catherine was bleeding from her side, but she kept pressure on it, eyes on the rear window. "We lose them?"
Nitro laughed. "This is our territory."
I slumped against the seat, gun in my lap, and felt the adrenaline finally start to drain. The second hit had failed, but I knew it wasn't over. Not for us. Not for anyone who made a living pissing off the world.
“Where are we going?” Catherine asked.
“Clubhouse is the safest place in town,” I said.
Nitro looked at us in the mirror. “I’ll drop you around back. We’ll skip the introductions for now.”
We passed the club’s entrance, where two police cars were pulling in. Damron stood out front, his eyes following the car as we passed.
“I can’t be caught here,” Catherine said. “A federal judge hold up in an outlaw clubhouse?”