Chapter 41 The Fixer
THE FIXER
KAIDEN
The warehouse smells like rust and motor oil.
Industrial shelving units. A few cars in various states of disassembly. The kind of place that does legitimate business during the day and something else entirely after dark.
“Three on the left,” Maddox murmurs beside me. “Two more in the back office.”
“And our friend?”
“Office. Probably thinks five bodies are enough to protect him.”
Ethan checks his phone. “Security system is looped. They're seeing empty rooms.”
“How long do we have?”
“Twenty minutes before it resets.”
I roll my shoulders. Ankle throbs with every heartbeat. A persistent reminder that I shouldn't be here. That I should be in bed, leg elevated, following doctor's orders like a good little patient.
But someone put Emma in the crosshairs. Someone used James as a weapon against her. Whoever is pulling the fixer's strings thought they could touch what's mine without consequences.
“Let's go introduce ourselves.”
Logan wanted to come. I told him to keep the wheels turning on Team Blaze. He argued. I reminded him that his dream was on the line. He told me I was a stubborn bastard with a death wish.
He wasn't wrong.
The first guard doesn't see Maddox coming. One moment he's leaning against a shelving unit, scrolling through his phone. The next, he's on the ground with Maddox's arm locked around his throat. Silent. Efficient. The man goes limp in seconds.
“One down,” Maddox says, lowers the body quietly.
Ethan stays close behind me, tablet in hand, monitors the security feeds. He insisted on coming. Something about not letting me walk into a death trap without backup. Logan encouraged it, even though I reminded them Maddox is a one-man army.
“I still think we should have brought Tank,” Ethan mutters.
“You could have stayed in the car,” Maddox says.
“And miss the bonding experience? Never.”
Two more guards emerge from behind a stripped-down sedan. These ones are ready. One pulls a knife. The other swings a crowbar.
Maddox takes the knife. I get the crowbar.
The man is fast, I'll give him that. First swing whistles past my ear. Second catches my shoulder, a glancing blow that sends pain radiating down my arm. But he overextends on the third, and I step inside his reach, drive my elbow into his throat.
He goes down choking. I grab the crowbar before it clatters to the concrete.
“That looked like it hurt,” Ethan observes.
“Worse for him.”
Maddox finishes his dance with the knife-wielder. The man crumples with a dislocated shoulder and what's probably a broken nose. Maddox wipes blood from his cheek, nods toward the back office.
“One more outside the door. Then our guy.”
The last guard is bigger than the others. Professional. He sees us coming and doesn't run. Plants his feet, cracks his knuckles.
“Mr. Rhodes,” he says, almost conversational. “You're making a mistake.”
“I make a lot of those. One more won't hurt.”
He moves fast for his size. First punch catches me in the ribs. I feel something crack. Not broken, but close. I grit my teeth, throw myself forward, use my momentum to take us both to the ground.
We grapple in the grime and oil. He's stronger, but I'm angrier. That counts for something. Elbow finds his face once, twice, three times. He bucks me off. I land hard on my bad ankle.
White-hot pain shoots up my leg. I swallow the scream.
Maddox appears above the guard. The fight ends with a sickening thud.
Ethan helps me up. I lean on him more than I want to admit.
“You good?” he asks.
“Fantastic.”
“You're a terrible liar.”
“I know.”
“I hope your ego was worth the pain.” Maddox steps over the body.
The office door is unlocked. Inside, the fixer sits behind a metal desk, hands flat on the surface. Older than I expected. Gray at the temples. Wire-rimmed glasses. The kind of face you'd trust to manage your investment portfolio.
He doesn't flinch when we enter. Just watches us with the calm assessment of a man who's seen worse.
“Mr. Rhodes,” he says. “I wondered when you'd find me.”
“Wonder no more.”
I lower myself into the chair across from him, bite back the groan that wants to escape. Maddox positions himself by the door. Ethan leans against the wall, tablet in hand.
“I assume you're here for information,” the fixer continues. “I should warn you that I have a strict confidentiality policy. My clients trust me precisely because I don't talk.”
“Your clients,” I say, “tried to kill me. Multiple times.”
“Allegedly.”
“The brake lines on my bike weren't allegedly cut. Twice. And whoever allegedly paid that joke of a man to stalk my girlfriend is going to allegedly regret it.”
The fixer's expression doesn't change. Something flickers in his eyes when I mention the stalking.
“I see you've done your homework.”
“I have very motivated researchers.” I lean forward.
“Here's how this is going to work. You're going to tell me who hired you.
In exchange, I won't let my friend here release your entire client list to every law enforcement agency, news outlet, and criminal organization that might find it interesting.”
Maddox holds up his phone. “I've already got everything. Contracts, payments, communications. Took me about four hours to crack your encryption. Frankly, I'm insulted. I expected better from a professional.”
The fixer's composure cracks, just slightly. “That's not possible.”
“And yet.”
Silence stretches between us. The fixer looks from me to Maddox to Ethan. Calculating his options. Finding none.
“If I talk,” he says slowly, “I'm finished. My reputation is the only thing keeping me alive.”
“If you don't talk, we release everything. You think your former clients will thank you for exposing their dirty laundry?” I let that sink in. “Either way, you're done. The only question is whether you walk out of here, or whether we leave you for your clients to find.”
He removes his glasses, polishes them with a handkerchief. A stalling tactic, but I let him have it.
“I don't deal with your father directly,” he says finally. “The instructions come from the house. Not the office.”
The house. Not Victor's corporate machine. The Hammond estate.
“My mother.”
“I didn't say that.”
“You didn't have to.”
He puts his glasses back on. “There's a buffer. Several layers. Whoever is giving the orders doesn't want fingerprints on this.”
“But the money comes from Hammond accounts?”
“Some of it. Some comes from elsewhere. Old money. Family money.” He pauses. “Not your father's family.”
Helena's family. Her connections. The ones Logan used to joke were tied to dictators in countries we can't spell.
“What were your instructions regarding Emma Sinclair?”
For the first time, the fixer hesitates. “Destabilization. Surveillance. Nothing... permanent.”
“Nothing permanent?” My voice drops to something cold and sharp. “You put a stalker in her life. You weaponized her abusive ex against her. You made her feel like she was going crazy.”
“He was useful. Motivated. His personal vendetta aligned with the objective.”
I want to break something. Preferably his face. But I need more.
“What's the endgame? What do they want?”
The fixer meets my eyes. “You, Mr. Rhodes. Back where you belong. The accidents, the pressure, the surveillance on your girlfriend... it's all designed to remind you that you're vulnerable without the family's protection.”
I think about it. The escalating threats. The near-misses that never quite killed me. Someone wants me scared, not dead.
“Someone wants me to come crawling back.”
“Someone wants you to remember that the Hammond name is a shield. Without it, you're exposed. And so is anyone you care about.”
That sounds like Victor. His logic. His arrogance. Break me down until I admit I need him.
But the fixer said the orders came from the house, not the office. Helena's domain.
Unless they're working together. Victor applies the pressure, Helena manages the details. A family project, destroying my independence.
“And Emma? Why involve her?”
“Leverage. You clearly care about her. That makes her useful.” He shrugs. “Hurt her enough, and you'll do anything to protect her. Including coming home.”
My jaw tightens. They turned her trauma into a tool. Used James to make her feel crazy, unsafe. All to manipulate me.
“One more thing.” I lean back in the chair.
“If anything happens to Emma Sinclair. Anything at all.
A parking ticket, a stubbed toe, a bad day at work.
I will hold you personally responsible. And I won't send lawyers to have a conversation.
I'll dismantle your whole operation and choke you on your blood.”
The fixer pales. Recoils. Good.
“Do we have an understanding?”
He nods. “Perfectly.”
I stand. Ankle screams. Ribs ache. Knuckles crusted with blood. But I walk out of that office on my own.
The drive back to ELK is quiet. Maddox drives. Ethan sits in the back, scrolls through the data we pulled from the fixer's systems.
“There's a lot here,” he says. “Going to take time to sort through.”
“Focus on the money trail. I want to know exactly where Helena's funding is coming from.”
“You really think it's your mom?”
I stare out the window. “Helena's playing a longer game.
She wants my shares. If Victor's distracted by his new family, she needs allies on the board. Or she needs to control enough votes herself.” I pause.
“They might be working together now, but they want different things.
Victor wants an heir he can control. Helena wants power she doesn't have to share.”
“And you're caught in the middle.”
“I'm the piece they're both trying to capture.” I laugh bitterly. “The only thing they agree on is that I'm more useful broken than free.”
Ethan is quiet for a moment. “That's fucked up.”
“Should be the family motto.”
We pull into ELK's executive parking garage. Maddox kills the engine, turns to me.