23. Greer
GREER
I'm surprised when I see Hayes shove his way into the room before we can move. His gray-blue eyes scan the space—the bodies, the blood, Cain standing guard, Zaria pressed against me—before landing on my face with an expression I recognize from a year ago.
Concern wrapped in controlled fury, the specific combination that means he's about to do something protective whether I want it or not.
"You look like shit." He crosses the room in three strides, hands gripping my shoulders to turn me toward the light. His assessment is clinical, cataloging damage the way someone trained to evaluate threats would. "Split lip, cut above the eye, significant facial bruising. What else?"
"Broken fingers, cracked ribs." I don't pull away because that would make this worse. "Nothing that won't heal."
"Let me see the ribs."
"Hayes—"
"Let me see them, Greer." The command in his voice brooks no argument, but it's the fear underneath that makes me comply.
I lift my shirt, wincing as the movement pulls at damaged tissue. The bruising's already spectacular—deep purple spreading across my left side where Ezinne's enforcer used brass knuckles. Hayes touches the area with surprising gentleness, watching my face for reactions.
"Breathing okay? Any sharp pain when you inhale?"
"Just a dull ache. No punctured lung if that's what you're worried about."
He drops my shirt and steps back, jaw working like he's trying to process something. His eyes meet mine and I see it—the ghost of finding me in Dylan's apartment, unconscious and covered in blood, the memory of thinking he'd arrived too late.
"This isn't like last time." I keep my voice low, meant just for him. "I'm not traumatized, Hayes. I'm pissed off and ready to finish this."
"You were tortured?—"
"I was interrogated by someone who underestimated me." I glance at the two bodies in the corner, the ones I killed before Zaria arrived. "She thought breaking my fingers would break me. It didn't."
Hayes follows my gaze, taking in the evidence of what I did before rescue arrived. When he looks back at me, something in his expression shifts. Not approval exactly, but recognition. Understanding that I'm not the same man who got taken by Dylan, not the victim who needed saving.
I'm someone who saved himself and then waited for backup to arrive so we could finish the job together.
"Dylan wanted me helpless," I continue, needing him to understand the difference.
"He got off on control, on making me feel weak.
This..." I gesture at the room, at Zaria standing a few feet away watching our exchange.
"This was tactical. They wanted leverage, information.
And I gave them nothing while planning how to kill them. "
"You're sure you're okay?" The question carries weight beyond the physical injuries.
"I'm better than okay." And I mean it. The trauma from Dylan came from helplessness, from being tied up while he described what he'd done to Lilah, from the psychological torture combined with physical pain.
This was just pain, just violence without the emotional component that breaks people.
"I need to finish this, Hayes. I need to make sure everyone involved pays. "
He studies me for a long moment, and I can see him weighing instinct against evidence. The instinct that says I should be extracted, protected, kept away from more violence. The evidence that I'm standing here calm and focused, already planning next moves instead of processing trauma.
Finally, he nods. "Alright. But if that changes?—"
"You'll be the first person I tell." A lie, probably. Zaria would be first. But it's what he needs to hear.
Hayes claps my shoulder once, careful of the injuries. "Cain, get him patched up enough that he doesn't bleed out. I'll hold the perimeter with the crew." He pauses at the door, looking back at Zaria. "Take care of him."
"Always." Her response is simple but carries absolute conviction.
Hayes leaves, and the room feels different without his presence—smaller, more intimate, focused entirely on the work ahead.
Cain materializes with a medical kit that looks military grade, setting it on the cleanest section of floor he can find. "Sit down before you fall down. You're running on adrenaline and spite."
"My two favorite things." But I sit because he's right—the crash is coming, and I'd rather be functional when it hits.
He works efficiently, cleaning the cut above my eye first. The antiseptic burns but I don't flinch. Zaria crouches beside us, her presence grounding me even as Cain pokes at damaged tissue.
"Fingers next." Cain takes my left hand, examining where Ezinne broke the ring and pinkie fingers. "This is going to hurt."
"Everything hurts. Be specific."
"I need to set them before I splint. That means manipulating broken bones back into alignment." He meets my eyes. "You want something to bite down on?"
"Just do it."
The first finger makes a sound like grinding gravel when Cain straightens it. White-hot pain shoots up my arm and I taste copper where I bite through my already split lip. Zaria's hand finds my right one, squeezing hard enough to anchor me.
"Good," Cain mutters. "Second one's worse."
He's not lying. The pinkie finger took more damage, and setting it requires three attempts before the bones align properly. By the time he's done, I'm breathing hard through my nose and my vision's gone gray at the edges.
"Stay with me." Zaria's voice cuts through the pain fog. "You don't get to pass out before we finish this."
"Wasn't planning on it." The words come out rough but steady.
Cain tapes the broken fingers together and splints them, then wraps my ribs tight enough to provide support without restricting breathing. He's done this before—the kind of field medicine that keeps people functional through operations when real medical care isn't an option.
"You'll need a hospital eventually," he says, packing up the kit. "But this'll hold until we're done here."
"Where's Ezinne?"
"Basement. Tied to a support beam, extremely unhappy about current circumstances." Cain straightens, looking between me and Zaria. "I'm taking the crew to secure the perimeter. You two handle interrogation."
"You sure?" Zaria asks. "Thought you'd want in on this."
"I want her dead, not chatty." He heads for the door, then pauses. "Don't let him die down there, Z. I'm just starting to like him."
The door closes behind him, leaving me alone with Zaria in a room that smells like blood and cordite and victory.
She helps me stand, letting me lean on her more than I'd admit to anyone else.
My ribs scream protest but I lock my jaw and push through it.
We move through the facility's corridors, passing bodies from our assault.
Some are Zaria's kills—clean headshots and center mass hits.
Others show Cain's work, the brutal efficiency of someone trained for this.
The basement stairs feel endless, each step sending fresh pain through my side. But Zaria keeps pace with me, her arm around my waist providing support that's both physical and emotional. We're in this together—the thought makes something settle in my chest that's been restless since they took me.
The basement is concrete and pipes, lit by the lanterns someone already set up. And in the center, zip-tied to a steel support beam, is Ezinne Okafor.
She's mid-forties and beautiful in the way dangerous things often are—sharp cheekbones, dark skin, eyes that promise violence.
Blood runs from her nose and her lip's split, evidence that Cain didn't bring her down gently.
But she holds herself with rigid pride, glaring at us like she's the one in control.
"Zaria Bennett." Her accent makes my name sound like an insult. "And the boy toy. Didn't expect you'd bring damaged goods to an interrogation."
Zaria's hand tightens on my hip. "Funny. I didn't expect you'd be stupid enough to take what's mine."
"That's what this is about? Revenge for bruising your fuck buddy?" Ezinne laughs, the sound echoing off concrete. "You're weaker than I thought if that's all it takes to bring you down here."
I step away from Zaria's support, forcing my body upright through sheer will. The pain's a constant presence but I've learned to compartmentalize it—Hayes taught me that during training, how to function through damage.
"She's not here for revenge." I move closer to Ezinne, letting her see exactly what her people did to my face. "She's here for information. I'm here for revenge."
Something flickers in Ezinne's eyes—uncertainty, maybe fear. Good. She should be afraid.
Zaria circles around to Ezinne's left while I take the right, boxing her in. We move like we've done this before, like we've been partners in violence longer than a few weeks. Maybe it's instinct. Maybe it's recognition that we're built for this—the dark work that most people can't stomach.
"Here's how this works." Zaria's voice drops into that cold, controlled register that makes my pulse kick. "You tell us who your informant is—the person in my organization who gave you our plans—and you tell us where Chisom is hiding. Do that, and I'll make it quick."
"And if I don't?" Ezinne tries for defiant but her voice wavers slightly.
"Then my boy here gets creative." Zaria looks at me, and the hunger in her amber eyes makes heat curl low in my gut despite everything. "He's got broken fingers and cracked ribs because of you. I think he's earned the right to work out his frustration."
The words "my boy" settle over me like benediction and permission simultaneously. She's not just allowing violence—she's encouraging it, praising it, turning what should be horrifying into something we share.
I pick up a length of pipe from the floor, testing its weight. The splinted fingers on my left hand make gripping difficult, but my right works fine. And I only need one hand for what I'm about to do.
"Start talking." I tap the pipe against my palm, watching Ezinne flinch. "Or I start breaking bones until you do."