Chapter 2 Digital Hunter
Chapter two
Digital Hunter
Zane
I'm sitting in Thunder Road Custom Cycles. The guy who owed us twenty grand is down to nine fingers. Could've been eight. Showed mercy. Weakness. Emma would've—no. Stop.
The texts stopped seventeen minutes ago. Wrong number. Obvious.
Humor seemed to be her defense mechanism. Emma did that. Made jokes when scared. Right before the—stop.
Count. One. Two. Three. Four.
Ghost walks in without a knock. We have six years of brotherhood. "You good?"
He means functional.
"Yeah."
He leans over, and sees my phone. "Texting?"
"Wrong number."
He side-eyes me. "You responded?"
"Yeah."
He doesn't push, knowing when to stop. That’s why he's VP—and why he's the only one I tolerate at 1 AM. "Cartel's moving product through Fifth Street."
"Handle it."
"Already did."
Leaves. Back to the phone. Her words. Forty-seven of them in the last message. Counted twice. She uses words like shields. Like weapons. Like both.
I'm not an angel. Angels don't perform illegal medical procedures in vans that smell like blood and broken dreams.
Blood and broken dreams. Knows the smell. Knows the weight. Angel who lives in hell. Like Emma tried to. But she failed. This one hasn't failed…Yet.
I pull up my laptop and open Digger's program, which traces numbers.
Phoenix. Medical district. Three-mile radius. Weekend worker—Thursday night availability. Could be nurse. Paramedic. Could be anyone with medical training and flexible morals.
Wrong number meant for Ray. Who's Ray? Doesn't matter.
Phone buzzes. Dylan.
Dylan: Uncle Z, can you spot me $200? Books.
Books… Right. Code for girlfriend. Kid's just nineteen. Emma's age when…
Nope, don’t go there. Instead, I just transfer five hundred dollars.
Done.
Dylan: Thanks. You okay?
Yeah.
Dylan: Liar.
The kid’s smart. Too smart. I can see him edging closer to the life, and I can’t let it happen. Not to him. Emma’s enough. She’s more than enough.
Back to her messages. I bet she saved me as Wrong Number. I can tell by her response patterns. Typing delays.
Makes sense. But regardless, this is wrong.
I text again. I shouldn’t, but I do.
You still awake, Angel?
Immediate dots. Maybe she can't sleep.
Wrong Number? It's 2 AM. Normal people sleep.
You're not normal people.
Astute diagnosis. What's your excuse.
I count breaths. One. Two. Three. Answer.
Same as yours.
I'm awake because I pulled bullets out of a child. You?
I'm awake because I probably know who put them there.
Silence. I count to sixty. Twice. Three times.
That's not comforting.
Wasn't meant to be. Truth rarely is.
So you're, what? Criminal with a conscience?
No conscience. Just insomnia.
Liar.
She's right. Emma was right, too. Said I felt too much. Before the foam. Before the cold. Before I turned feelings into fists.
Go to sleep, Angel.
Can't. Too wired. Too angry. Too...
Lonely.
I know lonely. I live in lonely, and I can recognize it through a screen.
I didn't say that.
Didn't have to. You kept texting a wrong number. That says everything.
Seven minutes passes. She finally types.
This is stupid. We should stop.
Yes.
But?
But you'll text tomorrow.
That's presumptuous.
That's accurate.
She will. I know it. Feel it. It’s just the way that lonely calls to lonely.
Goodnight, Angel.
It's past midnight. Technically morning.
Deflection. Humor. Shield up.
Technically you're deflecting.
Technically you're still a stranger who could be dangerous.
Definitely dangerous. Never claimed otherwise.
It should scare her. But I know it won't. She pulls bullets from children. Knows dangerous. Lives with it. Like I do.
That should make me block you.
Should. Won't.
Goodnight, Wrong Number.
She texted Ray she got me. Clearly a mistake. Best mistakes are accidents. This feels like that. Like Emma finding me after our parents died. Until it wasn't. Until she was gone.
My phone buzzes once more.
Thank you.
For what?
For being awake at 2 AM. For answering a text that wasn't meant for you. For not asking why I do what I do.
I stare at her words. Count them. Twenty-seven.
We all have our reasons.
What's yours?"
Emma. Foam on her lips. "Don't let me die ugly, Z." Died ugly anyway. Dealer who sold her the hot dose. I found him. His bones broke easy. One by one. Methodical. Counted them. Like I count everything now.
Maybe I'll tell you someday.
Someday implies future conversation.
Yes.
That's probably a bad idea.
The worst.
You answered a wrong number about illegal medical procedures.
You sent it.
Point. Goodnight for real this time.
Goodnight, Angel.
Now she’s gone. Really gone. I check three times. Nothing.
Then I pull up the trace and study it. UNM area. Weekend medical worker. Texts someone named Ray about illegal activities. Comfortable enough to steal his tequila.
Whoever Ray is doesn't matter. She texted me instead.
I count to sixty. Check phone. Nothing.
Count again. Still nothing.
Wrong number. Right timing. Or wrong timing.
Doesn't matter.
She's mine to find now. Not to hurt. Not to own. Just to know she's real.