Chapter 5 #2
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Then she took two fingers, tapped the brim of her visor where her eyes would be, and pointed them at me. I see you. I am on you.
I lifted my chin in a small nod. Not a challenge. Not a bow. Just acknowledgement.
Without another word, she kicked her bike into gear and rolled away, disappearing around the side of the hospital toward the back.
I watched her go for a breath longer than necessary, then shook myself and headed inside.
The front sliding doors hissed open, releasing a wash of overly filtered air. Bleach, coffee, something floral from an automatic dispenser. It all smelled like a lie trying to cover metal and fear.
The desk in the lobby was manned by a girl who couldn’t have been more than twenty. Ponytail, pale blue lanyard ID, boredom written in every line of her posture. Until she saw the cut.
Her eyes widened just a little. Her mouth flattened.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Morning,” I said. I softened my tone a notch, let the Jersey accent sit heavier. “I’m here to see a patient. Came in last night from a motorcycle accident. Name is George Kiehls.”
She blinked at me, then clicked her mouse. “Are you family?” she asked.
“Brother,” I said. Not lying. Just not specifying the kind. She looked at my cut then back to my eyes. She knew what I meant. “His partner is on her way later. I’m checking on him until she gets here.”
“I’m not supposed to give out room numbers without verification,” she said with a sigh. “Especially with… especially in cases where there was an… incident.”
“Incident,” I repeated. “You mean a wreck or the fact that he came in wearing the same patch as me?”
Her cheeks colored, but she didn’t back down. I liked her a little for that.
I leaned on the counter just enough to bring us closer.
“Look,” I said. “I get it. You have rules. I respect the rules. But my brother is upstairs, possibly waking up in a strange place full of people who don’t talk like him, think like him, or give a damn beyond their shift.
I need to lay eyes on him. Make sure he knows he isn’t alone.
You help me do that, I’ll walk out of here happy and quiet.
You send me through hoops I don’t need, I am pacing this lobby for an hour and making everyone nervous.
You seem smart enough to prefer option A. ”
Her lips twitched like she didn’t want to smile and was losing the battle. “You’re laying it on thick,” she said.
“I’m desperate,” I said honestly. “And I’m very charming when I’m desperate. Ask anybody.”
She looked at the screen again, then at me, then sighed. “Sit,” she said. “I’ll print you a visitor band. If anyone asks, you are family, you came in with the initial intake but had to step outside to smoke.”
“You’re a lifesaver…?” I glanced at her ID. “…Hannah.”
She rolled her eyes. “I am an underpaid front desk clerk,” she said.
“Your friend is in ICU Step-Down. Fourth floor. Room 417B. Visiting hours technically start at eight, but if you act like you belong there, most people won’t question you.
If you can wait a few more minutes, it’ll look better for the both of us. ”
I took the band from her and wrapped it around my wrist. “You ever need a favor, Hannah, you come down to Atlantic City and ask for Jersey Boy,” I said. “Someone will point you in my direction.”
She snorted. “Sure,” she said. “I’ll tell my mom I made friends with a biker today. She’ll be thrilled.”
“Tell her I was a perfect gentleman,” I said.
Hannah shook her head.
The elevator ride up felt too slow. Everywhere I looked there were signs. Radiation this way. Oncology. Pediatrics. Pastoral Care. Broken people and the people who tried to put them back together, all stacked like boxes in a warehouse.
Fourth floor opened into a quieter wing.
The noises changed. Less chatter. More beeping.
Owning that steady heart monitor rhythm.
Machines humming. A nurse at the station glanced up, took in the wrist band, the cut, and then went back to her chart.
Someone moaned softly behind a door. Somewhere else, a TV droned with the sound turned down low.
I followed the numbers until I found 417B.
For a second, I just stood in the doorway and watched him.
Miami lay on the bed, pale under the bruises. There were more bandages than I wanted to see. One leg elevated, wrapped from mid-thigh to ankle. One arm in a light cast and strapped across his chest. Tubes snaked from his hand, under the blankets. His chest rose and fell in small, careful breaths.
He looked smaller. That hurt more than anything.
I stepped inside. The air in the room felt colder than the hall. There was a chair against the wall. I ignored it and went straight to his bedside.
“Hey, sunshine,” I said quietly. “You picked a hell of a way to get some time off.”
No response. Only the beeping of the monitors.
I glanced at the chart hanging at the foot of the bed. Kiehls, George. Male. Age. Vital signs. Then the notes.
Broken leg, compound but stabilized. Dislocated arm. Fracture to the skull, small but real. Bruised ribs. Bruised lung. Internal bleeding treated in surgery. No severe organ damage.
“Stubborn bastard,” I muttered. “Couldn’t even do dying properly. Had to half-ass that too.”
My chest got tight again. I leaned in closer, one hand on the rail, the other brushing a lock of hair away from his forehead.
“You scared the shit out of us,” I said. “Quinn is about ready to burn the whole world down. Blackjack is snarling at everyone. Priest has been punching walls. You had better be hearing this, because if I’m pouring my heart out to a guy who cannot hear me, I’m never living it down.”
The corner of his mouth twitched.
I froze.
“Evan,” he rasped. His voice was rough sandpaper, barely there.
Relief hit so hard I thought my knees might go out. I leaned over him more. “Yeah, it’s me,” I said. “Who else would it be, you dramatic fuck?”
His eyes blinked open, unfocused at first, then sharpened enough to find my face. For a second there was confusion, then recognition, then something like amusement.
“You… crying?” he asked. Every word seemed to cost him.
“I’m not crying,” I lied. My eyes burned. “I’m just allergic to seeing you this ugly.”
He chuckled. It turned into a wince as pain shot through him. He sucked air, face contorting.
“Don’t,” I said sharply. “Laughing is banned. Breathing only. Quietly.”
His gaze slid to the doorway, then back to me. Something in his eyes changed. The amusement drained, replaced by something I had never seen on his face before.
Fear.
His hand twitched weakly against the sheets. “Door,” he whispered. “Close the door.”
I glanced back. The door was half open. Nobody was in the hall. A nurse’s cart rattled in the distance.
I went and nudged it shut until it clicked. The beeping of the machines seemed louder now, the room smaller.
When I turned back, he looked worse. Breaths shallow, eyes wide. His good hand lifted off the bed a few inches and reached for me.
I was at his side before he could wheeze the words.
“Hey. Hey,” I said. “It’s just me. We’re good. You’re safe. Nobody’s here but you and my charming personality.”
“Closer,” he rasped.
I bent until my head was near his. I could smell the antiseptic on his skin, the hospital soap, the faint underlying scent that was just Miami.
“The bike,” he whispered. His voice was shredded. “Evan… the bike. It’s cursed.”
If it’d been anyone else, I would’ve laughed. Miami believed in vibes, not curses. He loved ghost stories but didn’t put stock in them.
“Cursed how,” I asked softly.
“Not… the metal,” he said. Every breath sounded like it hurt. “What was inside. Could… feel it. Even… engine off. Like it was… humming under my skin.”
Yeah. I had felt that too.
“What was in it?” I asked.
He swallowed, eyes fluttering. “Took it out,” he managed.
“After… Redline. Felt wrong leaving it… in there. Felt worse leaving it… in the frame.” He coughed once, winced hard, blinked through tears he would pretend later didn’t happen.
“Stopped at… convenience store. Stole some asshole’s… backpack. Put it all in there.”
“Of course you did,” I said. “So where is the bag now?”
“Here,” he whispered. “They brought… my shit. Before surgery. I… I made sure. Last thing before… blacking out… I checked. Bag was… okay. Still zipped.”
His eyes rolled a little, fighting to focus.
“Tell me what it is,” I said. “What’s inside?”
He tried. I saw the words on his lips, but they were ghosts.
“Vinci…” he breathed. “Vincino. Bolivar. Cartel. Russians. Gio…” His voice broke. He sucked in air, strained. “All in there… all… all of them. Black book. Names. Routes…”
My heart thudded once hard against my ribs like it was trying to break out.
“A black book?” I pushed. “You talking code, ledgers, what?”
He tried to say more. The words came out as broken fragments. “Syndicate… Yakuza… money… deals… someone… playing… both… both sides…”
Then his strength gave out. His head lolled a little to the side. The monitors beeped quicker, then settled. A nurse would probably come if it went too crazy. For now, it just registered the strain of him trying to talk.
“Hey.” I shook his shoulder lightly. “Miami.”
His lashes fluttered once. Twice. Then his body surrendered and he slid back down into whatever medicated, exhausted sleep they had him in.
“Of course,” I muttered. “You drop a bomb and then take a nap. Classic.”
My mind was racing. Every word he had managed ran laps in my skull. Vincino. Cartel. Russian. Giorlando. Black book.
If he was right, if he had pulled whatever was in that bike and put it in a backpack, then it was not just the wreck that made him a target. It was the fact that he had walked away from that bike with a briefcase full of war strapped to his shoulders.
I stepped back and scanned the room.
There, hanging on a hook near the little built-in closet, was a hospital property bag.
Plastic. Transparent. Containing his jewelry, his wallet, the chain he never took off, his belt.
Next to it hung his boots, scuffed and muddied.
Above those, with a hospital sticker slapped crookedly on the strap, was a black backpack that didn’t belong to him.
Miami liked loud colors. Flamingo pink. Neon blue. Anything that screamed “Florida trash chic.” This bag was plain. Matte. Practical. A civilian’s backpack. Something he wouldn’t be caught dead with in a million years.
My pulse kicked up.
I crossed the room in three long strides and took it down. It had weight. Too much weight for clothes. I set it on the little visitor chair and unzipped the main compartment halfway.
Inside, I saw the corner of a leather cover, dark and worn. The edge of something wrapped in plastic. Thick, heavy, some sort of electronic device maybe? This had the kind of organization that didn’t belong to junkies or joyriders.
My heart sank all the way to the floor.
“This is bad,” I whispered.
I took a breath, steadying myself, then slid the zipper the rest of the way open to see exactly just how bad it was.