CHAPTER 6
Sparks
I didn’t get much sleep last night. Screaming interrogation victims tend to do that to you. Good news – the Tributaries are really disbanded now. I doubt their numbers can recover from this loss.
Only a few members are still alive. After about, eh, thirty hours give or take without sleep, I imagine it won’t be much longer until they spill the location of Jack’s safehouse.
Derek sends me upstairs to get some rest and recover, so I begrudgingly leave the interrogations to him.
He has more experience with them anyway.
The medic intercepts me in my post-adrenaline stupor, spotting the injury on my arm. I had honestly forgotten about the gunshot wound below my shoulder, but now that I was reminded, it throbs like a bitch. He leads me to a bedroom away from the chaos of the group for a closer examination.
“Ma’am, my name is Luca,” he introduces himself in a confident and professional manner. “Would you feel comfortable unzipping your suit so I can have better access to the wound?”
“I’m fine. Let’s just make this quick.”
I unzip the top of my suit, exposing my black lace bra.
One of these days, I will start wearing a tank top underneath my uniform, but today is apparently not that day.
Luca averts his eyes, focusing on guiding my arm free from the fabric.
The cold air stings. I bite my lip and look away, focused on keeping my shit together.
“Looks like a deep graze, but nothing too dramatic.” Luca assesses carefully. His fingers trail along the lightning scar along my forearm. I can see the questions forming in his mind, but he tactfully refocuses. “You’ll need stitches, but you’ll regain full movement of your arm in a few days.”
“Just give me some pain meds and I’ll be fine,” I grunt as I roll my shoulder, forcing the movement through the pain.
“Ma’am,” Luca says sternly. “I have had many macho patients eager to get back in the field. I understand you are in a hurry to go and get shot again, but if you don’t take care of yourself, the next bullet will be harder to shake. Now, sit still while I give you some anesthetic.”
I huff and lean back in my chair as he preps his equipment.
He’s right of course, but that doesn’t make me feel better.
I stare off in the distance, planning my next move.
While Derek is a talented interrogator, we might need an alternative method to locate Jack.
There’s got to be some clues here somewhere.
A sudden sting recaptures my attention. I jerk my arm away, but his firm grip holds my bicep in place.
“Sorry,” Luca mumbles, focused on administering the anesthetic. “Should have warned you there.”
He slowly removes the needle from my arm before swabbing the wound with a disinfectant wipe. The medicine hasn’t quite kicked in, so it stings like a bitch.
“Motherfucker,” I hiss as I clench the arm of the chair.
“You just got shot and an alcohol pad is what brings you down?” Luca teases. “No, you’re right, I’d rather get shot. Now, here comes the stitches. Look or don’t, I don’t care.”
I’m not ashamed to admit, I close my eyes. I rest my head against the wall and focus on my breathing, long and deep. Fortunately, my arm is numb, so I only vaguely feel some painless tugging. I hear the scissors clip, and then soft gauze rolled around my arm.
“That should do it.” Luca claps his hands together and stands up.
“You live in the compound, right? I can swing by when those are ready to come out. Keep that clean, there’s extra dressings in the med bay.
Or if I’m bored, I might give you the star treatment and wrap it myself.
Don’t fuck up my good work by getting it infected. ”
“Thanks, Luca.” I give him a tired nod. “I’ll be seeing you soon.”
“Not too soon,” he scolds, and leaves to check on other team members.
While in the bedroom, I figure a quick power nap wouldn’t hurt, but nightmares haunt my dreams. The world is blurry, except for Jack’s smirk taunting me.
He’s saying something to me, but I can’t hear the words.
I panic. What is he saying? I can’t make it out, but I know it’s important.
The sounds are muddled as if we are underwater.
Suddenly, the bubble pops and I can hear him clear as day.
But that also means, I don’t need you.
No!
I know what’s coming before it happens. The gunshot rings in my ears. Hot liquid splatters across my body, dripping down my cheek. Blood. Jeremiah’s blood.
His body hangs on chains suspended from the ceiling. Limp. Broken. Lifeless. The red puddle at his feet grows larger as the blood pools. This is all my fault. I couldn’t stop him.
Behind Jeremiah, I see more figures, hidden by shadow. The lights flick on. Derek. Astrid. My mother. No, no please.
But that also means…
I shoot up in bed, chest heaving as sweat drips from my brow. I wipe my face and force myself to calm down. I’m safe. Derek is safe. Jeremiah… Jeremiah made his own decisions.
I get dressed and leave the bedroom. Derek is sitting at the kitchen table, dark circles under his eyes. He shakes his head when he sees me, nothing yet.
“Go take a nap,” I order. “You’re no good sleep-deprived. I’ll see what I can figure out.”
Derek moves to protest but thinks better of it. He staggers toward the bedroom I came out of. I walk to the kitchen sink and splash some water on my face, hoping I look more alert than I feel.
There’s a shift change happening. Guards clock out as their replacements arrive. I’m glad we can get some fresh troops, but I do feel envious of those going home. I raid the fridge and scrap together a meager sandwich. Fed and somewhat rested, I start snooping.
I pass by a few extra rooms with barracks before I find what I’m looking for – an office. A laptop is resting on the only desk. I power it up and groan when it asks for a passcode. On a whim, I type in the code to the door downstairs. Huh. What would you know? I’m in.
I click through the folders. Downloads. Documents.
Pictures. All blank. Motherfucker. I open the email app.
It’s logged in. Here we go! This could have something.
I read email after email. Spam. Spam. Boring operations nonsense.
Spam. Ugh, I’m so glad Oliver likes doing the admin work.
It would be torture having to do all of our paperwork.
Maybe I could have the assholes in interrogation downstairs sort through some. Now that would get them talking.
Wait. Hold on.
It’s pretty clear that Jack cleared out everything of any importance just in case we were able to get past all of his security – which we did pretty easily. I’m not going to find any clues laying around in the open. Hell, the men downstairs genuinely might not know where Jack’s safehouse is.
But does Jack share my disinterest in paperwork? I can’t picture him hunched over a desk filling out tax forms. Is it possible…
I reopen the email I formerly discarded. It seems to be a utility bill of some kind. I click to view the itemized invoice. There’s a listing for 571 Northridge Avenue. No surprise there, that’s where we are, but there’s a second charge on the line below. I got him.
The team assembles quickly, packing up gear and dispatching the remaining captives downstairs.
It isn’t long before we are back on the road.
I lead the caravan on my bike, speeding down city streets.
The light turns yellow right as I enter the intersection, and a slew of curses leave my mouth as the red light stops the group behind me.
While we pay off the local police force, we try not to push our luck too far.
A red-and-white striped barrier descends, blocking the road for the light rail train. You have got to be shitting me.
I glance back at Derek, then at the open road in front of me. I know I should wait, but my nightmare flashes before my eyes. Derek hanging from the ceiling, gunshot wound to the face, blood dripping onto the floor.
I can’t let him get hurt. I’m sorry, Derek. He calls out to me, but I rev my bike and shoot down the road.
I cut my engine as I pull up in front of a quaint house. The shutters are painted a crisp white and the garden is blooming. It doesn’t look like a safe house, but I don’t have the luxury of doubt. In one swift kick, I bust through the door ready for a fight. But that’s not what I get.
“It was unlocked,” Jack calls out from a side room. “But whatever works, I suppose.”
I hesitantly round the corner into a sitting room. Two recliners face each other. Jack is sprawled in the furthest one, holding a glass of whiskey. A second cup is sitting on an end table next to him. The ice cubes haven’t even melted. He gestures for me to take it.
“Please sit, have a drink.” He takes a sip.
“I’ll stand.” This is a trap. Something is wrong.
“What took you so long?” He questions. “I’ve been waiting.”
“It’s over, Jack.” Venom laces my voice. “The Tributaries have collapsed. I don’t know how you survived the fall from the ship, but I’ll make sure this next fatality sticks.”
“Funny, I thought you died too,” Jack chuckles, ignoring my threat. “It took me by surprise seeing you yesterday. Although it makes sense, Derek doesn’t have it in him to run a mafia on his own. How’s your girlfriend?”
I try to hide my emotions, but it doesn’t matter. Jack has always been able to read me.
“Trouble in paradise?” He muses. “Who broke up with who? Let me guess, you broke it off with her.” He pauses, scanning my body language. “No? She broke up with you?” I flinch involuntarily. “Tsk, tsk. Too bad.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” My voice trembles, and I hate myself for it. I hate how Jack can always find exactly what button to push.
“Sparks, baby,” Jack croons. I used to love the way he said my name, now it makes me sick. “I’m the only person who truly knows you. You can try and deny it, but I get you, more than your girlie, more than Derek, more than anyone.”
“I’ve changed,” I argue. “I’m stronger now.”
“No, you’re not,” Jack chides. “If you were, you would have killed me as soon as you walked in. Face it, you can’t kill me because in some twisted way, you still love me.”
“No.” I’m horrified at the accusation. My composure falters, and I stumble back a step.
“Sparks, it’s okay.” Jack sits up. “I love you too.”
I turn away from him, clutching my stomach. His voice is ringing in my head, I can’t think straight. I’m stronger now. I have to be.
If not, what was it all for?
His hand rests gently on my shoulder and spins me to face him. He slowly pushes back my hood. I stand before him, feeling vulnerable and exposed.
“You’ve cut your hair.” He purses his lips and places a lock behind my ear. “I can’t braid it now. You’ll have to wait until it grows out.”
I don’t say anything. I can’t. All of the air seems to have left my lungs. Dejected, I lower my head and stare at the floor.
“When Derek walks through that door,” Jack pauses to lift my chin, making eye contact with me. “Shoot him.”
He places a gun in my hand. It’s heavy. The matte black metal leeches the warmth from my hand.
I know how to use a gun. Derek taught me a few months ago, and we have occasional practice on the gun range. But I don’t like guns. They’re loud and foreboding. I much prefer to fight with my hands or my powers. It’s more utilitarian, and I can rely on stealth instead of brute force.
I take the gun and check the chamber. It’s loaded. I toggle off the safety.
“You can do this.” Jack seems excited, like a morbid cheerleader.
Meanwhile, I can’t get over the nauseous pit in my stomach. I hear a horde of engines ripping down the street. Jack retreats back to his chair, grinning ear to ear. He takes another sip of his whiskey.
“Sparks!” Derek calls frantically. I can hear the panic in the voice as he barges through what’s left of the door.
I take a breath,
Raise my gun,
And fire.
Blood spatters across the wall. I’m close enough that I get covered, the residual heat from the liquid riles my stomach.
A whiskey glass tumbles to the ground, splashing on the wood.
I engage the safety and tuck the gun into my belt, before stepping through the fluid coating the ground.
I pick up the second glass of whiskey and down the liquid.
A bloody lip print is left on the glass.
I duck past a stunned Derek, straddle my bike, and drive home.