Chapter 10 Jackson #2
Already tracking it. Twenty feet to our right, the main breaker is exposed. Three shots to the box, and half this garage goes dark. I fire. Sparks explode in a shower of white-hot metal. Emergency lighting kicks in, bathing everything in stuttering red.
Their night vision needs at least thirty seconds to adjust. We need five.
“Move.”
Two twists of the wires and the engine roars to life, the sound echoing off concrete walls.
“Get on.”
She swings her leg over without hesitation. I hand her the go-bag and mount in front of her. She shoulders the bag, and wraps her arms around my waist, her grip tight and sure. She leans against my back. Her thighs bracket mine.
More shooters emerge from cover. I draw with my left hand, keeping my right on the throttle. The Glock barks twice—suppressing fire, forcing them back.
Then I see a fifth shooter, in an elevated position on the parking structure’s second level. Rifle trained on us.
There’s no time to think.
I rise slightly, making myself a larger target to shield Talia, and fire three rounds at his position. He ducks, but not before his weapon cracks.
The bullet punches into my left bicep like a sledgehammer wrapped in fire. It lodges deep in the muscle, grinding against bone. My arm spasms. The Glock almost slips from nerveless fingers, but I manage to holster it.
Don’t flinch. Don’t slow. Don’t let her know.
I gun the engine. We tear out of the garage, tires screaming against concrete. The bike slides slightly on the turn—too much speed, not enough grip—but I correct with my body weight. Talia moves with me instinctively, leaning into the turn rather than fighting it.
Her grip is perfect—firm but not panicked, moving with the bike instead of against it.
I check the mirrors. There’s a black van two cars back, trying to navigate traffic. Another joins from a side street.
“Your phone,” I shout over the engine. “Toss it.”
She doesn’t question me. One arm releases briefly, quick movement, then her phone disappears into the bed of a passing garbage truck. Her arm immediately returns to my waist.
Her hand comes away wet.
“You’re bleeding.” Not a question. Her fingers find the tear in my jacket, the warm wetness spreading beneath.
“I’m fine. Hold on.”
I lean hard into the next turn. The vans are heavy and less maneuverable. Every corner gains us distance. They’re still tracking us somehow.
But how?
There’s a construction site ahead, with a chain-link fence and a gap where someone cut through. Perfect.
I aim for the gap, shoot through at forty miles per hour.
We weave between cement mixers and excavators, the bike’s engine screaming in the confined spaces.
Three hard turns through the maze of equipment.
My left arm throbs with each movement, blood running down inside my sleeve, pooling in my glove, but the pain is manageable. I’ve worked through worse.
“Millennium Park,” I tell her, shouting over the wind. “Concert tonight.”
She nods against my shoulder.
The park stretches wide ahead, pulsing with light.
Thousands of people swarm toward the main pavilion, a sea of movement and sound.
Massive screens flash the words ANGEL FIRE – WORLD TOUR in molten red and gold.
Even from blocks away, I can feel the bass rumbling through the pavement, through my ribs.
Figures. The one night we need quiet and the biggest rock band on the planet is setting Chicago on fire.
But crowds are good places to vanish.
I pull in near a row of bikes, kill the engine. My left arm screams as I swing off, the bullet’s path reminding me it’s still there, but I keep the motion smooth. Controlled. She doesn’t need to see pain; she needs competence.
“Stay close.”
We merge with the flow of fans. College kids spilling beer from plastic cups, couples holding hands, Angel Fire shirts everywhere—black cotton and burning wings. Normal lives orbiting a single purpose: music. No one looks twice at us.
The opening chords of “Heart’s Insanity” thunder through the night, that iconic guitar riff echoing off glass towers. The crowd roars, a unified, fevered sound. Lights sweep over faces. Phones lift. The air vibrates with energy, joy, and alcohol.
That’s when I spot the street vendor pushing through the bodies—light-up necklaces, glow sticks, and surgical masks swinging from his stand. Still sealed. Five bucks each. Protection from summer colds, the cardboard sign boasts. Post-pandemic paranoia still paying dividends.
Next to them: baseball caps and tour shirts from Angel Fire’s Inferno Tour—the band’s logo in blazing orange and gold, wings, flame, and all. The vendor barely glances up when I pull out cash with my good hand, grabbing two masks, two caps, and two shirts.
“Put these on.”
Talia takes the bundle, already understanding. “Facial recognition?”
“Phoenix loves its surveillance.”
She tucks her hair beneath the cap, pulls the brim low.
Mask up, head down. Instantly anonymous.
I follow suit, adjusting the brim to cast a shadow over what the mask doesn’t hide.
The shirt is too big on her, the black cotton swallowing her frame, but it makes her look like just another fan. We keep them on. They’re our armor now.
The band launches into “Hunting Waterfalls,” the crowd’s collective shout rising around us. The sound is deafening, overwhelming, perfect.
We move as one body with thousands of others, our faces lost to the strobing lights and smoke. Every camera in range sees nothing but data noise—caps, masks, color, motion. Not enough for an algorithm to name.
Talia glances up at the stage once, awe flickering in her eyes as the lights hit the band. For a heartbeat, she forgets the danger. I almost do too. Angel Fire fills the night, “Carry Her Home (for Me)” bleeding into the darkness like an anthem for everything we’ve lost.
Then the crowd surges again, and I catch her hand, grounding us back in the mission.
The far edge of the park lies in shadow, quieter, safer. I spot what we need—a faded Camry idling outside a coffee shop, driver inside grabbing a late-night caffeine fix. No GPS, no smart-key tracking. The perfect escape.
“We’re taking that car,” I say.
I move before she can debate ethics. Slide into the driver’s seat smooth and casual like it’s mine. She follows, shutting the door just as the owner exits the coffee shop, cup in hand. By the time they process what’s happening, we’re already turning the corner.
Behind us, Angel Fire hits the final chorus, a wall of sound rising like the city itself is singing us into the dark.
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere off-grid.” I check mirrors, take another turn. No pursuit visible. “Twenty minutes north. Industrial district. Empty building I’ve used before.”
My arm throbs with each turn of the wheel, blood seeping through the jacket, soaking into the seat. The bullet’s deep but missed the artery—I can tell by the flow rate. Steady seep, not spurting. I can work with this. Have to.
“You’re hurt.” Her hand hovers near my arm, not quite touching.
“I’m functional.”
“That’s not the same as fine.”
“It’s enough.”
She goes quiet, but I can feel her thinking. Calculating blood loss rates, probably. Running probability scenarios on infection, shock, and complications. That beautiful brain of hers never stops, even when she’s silent.
“The masks were brilliant,” she finally says.
“Basic countersurveillance.”
“Still brilliant.”
The industrial district is all shadows and rust when we arrive. Empty factories and warehouses, most abandoned when manufacturing fled overseas. I park behind an old textile factory, kill the engine. My arm screams when I reach for the door handle, muscles locked around the bullet.
“This is it?”
“Safe enough for now.” I scan the area—check angles, exits, potential threats. “Phoenix won’t find us here.”
She follows me inside, and I can feel her questions building. About the wound. About the plan. About what happens next.
The factory floor is vast, empty, moonlight filtering through broken skylights. Our footsteps echo in the silence. I’ve stashed supplies here before—water, medical kit, weapons. Always have a backup location.
But first, I need to address this bullet, and for that, I’m going to need her help.
Which means letting her see me weak. Vulnerable. Trusting her with my life, the way she’s been trusting me with hers.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
“Jackson.” Her voice is soft but firm. “You need to let me look at that arm.”
I turn to face her. Even with the cap and mask, her eyes are luminous. Concerned. She reaches up, pulls off the mask and cap, shakes her hair free. Then reaches for mine.
“May I?”
I nod. She removes my cap and mask with careful fingers, like she’s unwrapping something fragile.
“Now,” she says, all business despite the tremor in her hands. “Let’s see how bad it is.”
No more hiding. No more control.
Just trust.
Fuck.