CHAPTER FOURTEEN
JULIAN
An abandoned railway terminal should not have power. South Racine has enough to run three lights beneath the eastern platform and one red signal inside the old electrical room. Someone wants us to see where to enter. Owen parks two blocks away.
Margo sits beside me in the rear seat, wearing black trousers, boots, and a coat with too many hidden pockets. Her injured hand is wrapped beneath a leather glove with the fingers cut away. I look at it.
“What?”
“You modified the glove.”
“I needed grip.”
“You need healing.”
“Less useful tonight.”
Owen turns from the front seat.
“Perimeter team found no movement.”
“Then someone is inside,” Margo says.
“That is not how absence works.”
“It is how invitations work.”
She opens the vehicle door. I catch the edge before she exits.
“Wait.”
Her gaze moves to my hand. I release the door.
“Three routes,” I say. “Owen enters from the eastern platform. I take the main maintenance corridor. You remain at the exterior cabinet and monitor the relay.”
“No.”
“Margo.”
“The cabinet is inside the electrical room.”
“You remain at the threshold.”
“You need someone who recognizes Celia’s markings.”
“You recognize handwriting. Not gunfire.”
“I recognize both.”
Owen looks forward.
He has learned that watching does not improve the discussion. I lower my voice.
“If the terminal is a trap, the electrical room is the center.”
“Which is why I’m going.”
“You do not need to prove anything.”
“I’m not.”
“You went into the burning apartment.”
“With supervision.”
“The ceiling collapsed.”
“Poor supervision.”
My attention returns to her.
She looks back.
The argument is not about the terminal. It is about whether fear gives me authority.
It does not.
That remains true even when I hate it.
“You stay beside me,” I say.
“That was not the plan.”
“It is now.”
She considers.
“Fine.”
Owen glances at me through the mirror.
A warning.
Two people entering the same route creates vulnerability.
It also keeps Margo where I can reach her.
That is not sufficient tactical justification.
It is still the decision I make. We approach through the maintenance corridor.
Snow has blown beneath the broken doors and melted into dark streaks across the concrete. Old signs hang from chains above us.
FREIGHT ACCESS.
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
The terminal smells of wet metal, dust, and electrical heat.
Recent heat.
Margo touches the wall beside a service panel.
“Someone cleaned this.”
The concrete around the handle is gray. The handle itself is free of dust. Owen speaks through the earpiece.
“Eastern platform clear.”
I open the panel. Inside, newer wires run through old conduit. One black cable disappears beneath the floor toward the electrical room.
Margo photographs it.
“Same casing as the residential relay.”
“Yes.”
We continue.
The first gunshot strikes the wall behind us. Concrete fragments hit my coat. I pull Margo behind a support column. Owen responds from the eastern platform.
Two controlled shots.
A man shouts.
“Position?” I ask.
“Upper walkway. One shooter. Possibly two.”
Margo looks upward.
A narrow maintenance bridge crosses the terminal thirty feet above us. Shadows move behind broken glass.
“The electrical room is twenty yards ahead,” she says.
“We withdraw.”
“The relay is there.”
“We withdraw.”
Another shot strikes the column. Margo pulls a small mirror from her pocket and angles it toward the corridor.
“Man near the electrical door.”
“You brought a mirror.”
“Women’s compact.”
“There is no makeup in it.”
“Improvement.”
The man at the electrical room moves toward our position.
I fire once.
He drops behind a steel cart. Owen’s voice comes through.
“Second shooter crossing west.”
The terminal lights shut off.
Darkness.
Not complete.
Snowlight enters through the roof.
Enough to see movement.
Not enough to identify it.
Margo’s hand finds my sleeve.
“Left passage,” she whispers. “Maintenance route from Celia’s photograph.”
“No.”
“It reaches the electrical room from behind.”
“You are not going alone.”
“You can’t leave the corridor. They’ll reach Owen.”
Another shot comes from the upper walkway.
Owen fires back.
Margo presses the compact mirror into my hand.
“Hold this angle. When the man moves, Owen sees him.”
“What are you doing?”
“Getting the relay.”
“No.”
She touches the brass key beneath her coat. The maintenance gate beside us has an old cylinder lock. The key slides inside.
Turns.
The gate opens.
Celia keyed the early Clean Slate properties to the old South Racine access key. The key was never merely sentimental.
Margo steps through.
I catch her wrist.
“Come back.”
She looks at my hand around her.
Not angry.
Certain.
“You asked me to trust your decisions under pressure,” she says. “Do the same.”
The gunman moves behind the cart. I see him in the mirror.
Fire.
He drops.
By the time I turn, Margo has disappeared into the maintenance passage. Owen reaches my position.
“Where is she?”
“Inside.”
His expression contains several opinions.
None useful.
We advance toward the electrical room. The upper shooter retreats. A third man emerges from a side office. I see the weapon before Owen does. I push him aside. The shot crosses my ribs.
Heat.
Then pressure.
I return fire.
The man falls.
My left side strikes the wall. Owen catches my shoulder.
“You’re hit.”
“Graze.”
Blood warms the shirt beneath my coat.
“Julian.”
“Margo is inside.”
“She has a route.”
“She has one injured hand.”
“You have a hole in your side.”
“Graze.”
The electrical-room door opens behind the steel cart. A figure steps out.
Margo.
She holds a black relay box against her chest. The upper walkway shooter sees her.
His weapon turns.
“Margo!”
She drops.
Owen fires.
Glass breaks above us. The shooter disappears behind the railing. Margo crawls behind the cart. I cross the open floor. Pain cuts beneath my ribs with every step. She looks up when I reach her.
“You’re bleeding.”
“I know.”
“Where?”
“Side.”
“Show me.”
“Later.”
A red light blinks on the relay box.
Transmission active.
Margo turns it over. A series of manual switches line the base.
“I can kill the signal.”
“Do it.”
“If I cut power, the lights may fail completely.”
“They already did.”
“Emergency circuits remain.”
The upper shooter moves again. Owen covers the walkway.
“Now,” I say.
Margo flips two switches and pulls the main lead. The terminal alarm begins. A mechanical bell erupts above us. Red emergency lights flash along every platform. The upper shooter becomes visible.
Owen fires.
The man falls behind the railing. Silence follows in uneven pieces.
The bell.
Our breathing.
A final metal impact somewhere above. Owen speaks into his radio.
“Three down. Sweep now.”
Margo places the relay on the floor and turns to me.
“Coat off.”
“I’m fine.”
“You are leaking on evidence.”
She opens my coat before I can object. The bullet tore across the lower left ribs, removing fabric and skin without entering.
A graze.
A deep one.
Blood spreads along my side. Margo removes a packet from her pocket.
Gauze.
“Why do you carry that?”
“I work with women leaving men.”
The answer closes several questions. She presses the pad against the wound.
Pain sharpens.
My hand covers hers by instinct. She looks at it. I loosen my grip.
“Sorry.”
“You can hold it. Pressure helps.”
I press her hand harder against my side. Her face is close. Dust along one cheek. Hair escaping her braid. Anger in the tight line of her mouth.
“You left the route,” I say.
“I found the relay.”
“You could have been killed.”
“So could you.”
“That is different.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Explain without using the word wife.”
I cannot.
That is the problem. Owen approaches after the sweep.
“Terminal secure. One attacker alive.”
“Who?” I ask.
“No identification.”
“Of course.”
Margo gestures toward the relay.
“Local memory?”
“Possibly.”
The box is the same model as the residential transmitter, larger and modified. A repair mark cuts diagonally beside the serial number.
The original.
The device removed from police evidence.
Owen photographs it.
Margo shifts the pressure pad. I inhale through the pain.
“You need stitches,” she says.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I dislike hospitals.”
“I’m devastated by the inconvenience.”
Owen calls the medic. I look at Margo.
“You stayed.”
She frowns.
“What?”
“The side passage led outside.”
“It led to the electrical room.”
“It also had an exterior gate.”
She knew.
The route in Celia’s photograph showed it. Margo could have left when the shooting began.
Instead, she went deeper into the terminal.
“For the relay,” she says.
“Only?”
Her gaze moves to the blood on my shirt.
No humor arrives.
“No.”
The answer changes the air between us. Owen steps away to direct the perimeter team. Margo keeps pressure against my ribs. I lift my free hand. Stop before touching her face.
“May I?”
She nods.
My fingers brush the dust from her cheek.
Then remain there.
“I want to kiss you,” I say.
“You’re losing blood.”
“Not enough to explain it.”
“Good.”
“Is that a yes?”
Margo looks at the open gate behind her. The route she could have taken.
Then at me.
“Yes.”
I kiss her in the red flash of emergency lights while a terminal alarm rings above us and blood dries beneath her hand.
Not gratitude.
Not relief.
A choice made after danger, with every reason to leave still available. She kisses me back. When the medic enters, Margo does not step away until I do.