Chapter 37

Jonathan drives, following the SUV that picked up Trixie, staying far enough back to not be busted as a tail. I’m in the passenger seat, having worked with him before, while Gabe and Thomas are in the back.

We correctly assumed Blackwell would bring Trixie to him, but we’d hoped it’d be somewhere more public and less secure. The Blackwell Tower isn’t an ideal location, but it’ll have to work.

Thankfully, Gabe did quite a bit of legwork on the strengths and weaknesses of Blackwell’s fortress when he fought his way out from underneath the man. And while it’d been a fool’s mission then, with only one man, our current team is much more experienced and better armed.

Two Special Operations vets, a freshly-retired hitman, and a billionaire.

It’ll have to be enough.

Dressed in head-to-toe black, we stick to the shadows, smoothly closing on the tower.

The guys follow my lead, not because this is my show but because I have the most experience leading a team, and though this ragtag assembly isn’t composed of the operators I’m used to, what they lack in finesse, they have in heart.

We approach a side door, guarded by a single man. If this were a military op, we’d take him out. A silenced pffft in the night air, and that’d be it.

But we’d prefer to not leave a trail of bodies behind. It’d be too messy and lead to too many questions. Plus, while the men we’ll encounter tonight are employed by Blackwell, that doesn’t necessarily make them evil themselves. We won’t punish them for the actions of the man who signs their paychecks.

I hold up a fist and everyone freezes behind me. I scan, looking for cameras, and when I see the dark orb above the doorway, I watch with bated breath. After what seems like an eternity but is probably only seconds, Jonathan places a hand on my shoulder signaling that we’re good. His guy did his job, hacking into Blackwell’s computerized security system. We should be clear of alarms and all cameras should be disabled for the next ten minutes.

Ten minutes. Watch a clock and the time will drag, infinitely slow and seeming like plenty of time to do just about anything. The reality is, ten minutes is a tight timeline for what we need to accomplish tonight. But the system hack couldn’t be any longer, so that’s the time we get.

I close the distance with a sprint, using the darkness and the guard’s attention to take him low, my shoulder hitting him in the stomach just as I wrap my arms around his legs and lift him. A quick twist, and I dump him to the pavement, his head bouncing off the ground harder than probably necessary, but he’s a big motherfucker and he’ll be okay other than a bad headache when he wakes up.

Inside, we progress to the stairwell. The elevator would be faster, but it’s a blind point we can’t risk. Not when everything is on the line. But each floor is a new threat, that we might be seen, that we might be confronted, that we might have to fight our way to the top floor.

The possibility becomes all too real when a door opens just as we start past the fifteenth floor. A tall, broad guard calls out, “Hey!”

Jonathan reacts quickly, his right leg lashing back in a powerful thrust-kick to the man’s stomach. The guard is thrown to the wall behind him, the back of his bald head bouncing off the drywall before he sags to the ground.

We’re all surprised, but Jonathan puffs up, sarcastically bragging, “I’ve got some moves too. Not just a supervisor sitting on his laurels.”

The smallest of grins quirks my lips behind my mask, and judging by the crinkles around Thomas and Gabe’s eyes, they’re doing the same small, hopeful smile. It feels righteous, like we have fate’s guiding hand endorsing our mission. Two guards, two down.

We don’t see another guard the rest of the way up the stairs, but we pause outside the top floor, knowing it’s Blackwell’s domain and will therefore be guarded by his best man. Gabe has been here before, met with Blackwell himself in his office, so he takes the lead.

He confided on the way here that his natural instinct is to snap the neck of the guard that’ll be stationed outside Blackwell’s office. Force of habit, he’d said darkly. But he promised to try and restrain himself, to go along with our less is more approach, and I hope he can.

He opens the door, shoving his way inside as quickly and quietly as a ghostly breath. I’m glad I’ve never been on Gabe’s bad side. His choke hold is silent but very effective, and he drags the guard into the stairwell. We close and lock the door behind us as we enter Blackwell’s private office area, ensuring the guard won’t interrupt, even if he does regain consciousness while we’re working.

But I can see the adrenaline burning through Gabe, the fire in his eyes. Time for being nice is over. He’s out for blood now.

Thankfully, so are we.

We don’t go in slowly this time, not wanting to give Blackwell time to arm himself or run. Instead, we burst through the door in a crashing singular movement, guns out, Jonathan and me sweeping the front while Thomas and Gabe cover us.

“What the—”

Blackwell’s cursing exclamation of surprise is short-lived. He’s standing at a wet bar near the door, blocking Trixie in. But as we enter, he snatches her, grabbing her forearm and twisting her around to act as a shield.

She doesn’t cover his entire width, but it’s enough. He already has a gun pointed at Trixie’s head. He must have already had it pulled and I wonder if we just saved her life from this crazy monster.

“Let her go, Blackwell,” I command, lifting the MP5 Jonathan lent each of us. Hopefully, the threat of facing four men with guns will convince him to give up.

He licks his lips like he’s eager to put us in our place. “I don’t think so. You boys have made a grave mistake tonight.”

Thomas pulls his balaclava off his head, raw anger in his eyes as he glares at Blackwell. “You’re the one who fucked up.”

Blackwell’s jaw drops in surprise, his hands going slack on Trixie for a split second. But when she tries to move, his grip retightens as his mouth clicks closed.

Through gritted teeth, he protests the truth before him. “NO! You’re dead! The building collapsed with you inside,” Blackwell rasps. “There’s no way you could’ve gotten out.”

“Ever heard of an escape plan?” Thomas taunts. He pats his chest. “Feels pretty alive to me. Want to check for yourself?”

Ironically, Blackwell does actually take a step forward, keeping Trixie in front of him, and we all prep for battle. But it’s not to test whether Thomas is a ghost. It’s to threaten him. “How dare you? You should’ve stayed dead. Never should’ve trusted someone else to do what I should have done myself.”

“Just can’t get good help these days, can you?” Thomas needles. He’s using his weapon, not the gun but his mouth, pushing Blackwell’s buttons. It’s smart. It might make Blackwell sloppy and give us an opening to make a move.

“You think you’re so brilliant, coming into my city, with your insufferable talk of hope and community,” Blackwell sneers, while out of the corner of my eye, I see Gabe sliding to the side for a shot. “You make ridiculous business decisions, have the gall to buy my own companies, and go against me on contracts. You’re an entitled brat whose only value is in your death. The absence of you from my city will be nothing but a small footnote in Roseboro’s history.”

“Your city? This city belongs to the people, the ones who get up at the crack of dawn to work their asses off for it,” Thomas argues. “The ones who work late into the night to keep us all safe, the ones who work hard, day in and day out. Roseboro is everyone’s city.”

Blackwell scoffs. “Their city? It’s MINE. I own it, from the riverfront to downtown and beyond. It’s all mine—the land, the people, the government, all of it. I am Roseboro.”

“All I see is a pathetic old man with delusions of grandeur,” I growl, pulling Blackwell’s eyes to me as Gabe takes another side step.

His eyes go wild, spittle gathering at the corners of his mouth. “They will all bow down to me. You will all bow down to me. I have earned it! I have worked tirelessly to reach this point, and I will not have you destroying my grand vision for this city.”

“You blew up my building,” Thomas charges, tiring of the madman’s grandiose rants. Gabe takes another step but doesn’t raise his gun . . . not yet.

Blackwell’s answering grin is full of malevolence, no sign of remorse for his actions. “I did. Right under your nose, stupid boy. Demolished your building and your entire empire. It will all be mine for pennies on the dollar, every last bit. I will wipe away any legacy you thought to leave, remake it in my own image, and you’ll have nothing, even in your death.”

His speech is odd, like he’s forgotten that Thomas is standing right in front of him, alive and well. He’s stuck in a rut of his own making, looping his own maniacal plans for the future.

But his plan becomes clear as he turns his gun on Thomas, Trixie still a shield held in front of him. “Now, you’ll stay dead.”

Trixie has been silent, frozen in fear in the middle of a circle of men out for blood tonight. But she shows her guts, taking the opening when Blackwell points the gun at Thomas.

She twists, shoving Blackwell away, but before Gabe can take the shot, Thomas rushes into the grappling pair. Trixie’s caught, her shirt snared in Blackwell’s left hand, and the three of them go dancing across the office, fighting for the gun.

“Thomas, get down!” Jonathan yells as he and I lift our guns, but before he can, Blackwell’s gun goes off, freezing everyone.

The split second stretches out, ending when Trixie’s mouth opens in a round O of surprise. Her hands go to her belly, a red bloom of blood growing quickly against her pink shirt.

“No!” I call as her legs give out and she collapses to the floor, but no one can catch her or even watch because Thomas is still wrestling with Blackwell for control of the gun. With a hard yank, he steps back, gun in hand, pointing it at Blackwell.

Impotent fury washes over Blackwell’s face for a moment before he laughs, a bark of amusement contradictory to being held at gunpoint.

He holds his hands wide, challenging, “Go ahead, boy. I dare you.”

Thomas holds the gun steady, his eyes narrowed. Jonathan drops to his knees, doing what he can to help Trixie. Gabe moves to Thomas’ left shoulder and I take a step closer but keep half-focused on the door.

“Let me,” Gabe says, lifting his MP5. “This isn’t your—”

“No.” Thomas shakes his head, his eyes haunted by what he’s seen. “I have to. This has to be me.” His voice is hollow, but resolute.

“You won’t do it. You don’t have the balls,” Blackwell taunts. “And even if you did, this city will still be mine. Built by my designing hand, my legacy in every corner. You’ll never be half the man I am. Even now, you hesitate, letting your friend here die. So weak.”

Blackwell looks down to Trixie, who’s in Jonathan’s arms, but we’re not carrying first-aid kits, so there’s not much he can do besides hold pressure on her wound. “So pathetic, but a reasonable resource loss so that my plan can succeed.”

Trixie looks up with a bloody smile. “Pathetic? Who do you think told them where you’d be tonight?”

Blackwell lunges for her, angry that she might’ve gotten one over on him, furious that she might’ve been our pawn instead of his tonight.

A second shot rings out, and Blackwell’s head jerks. His eyes look shocked as he crumples to the floor, and Thomas lowers the gun. “My job. My burden.”

Shock is setting in quickly, his first kill, especially at close quarters, already hitting him hard. We understand, having all been there once ourselves. Gabe comes up, taking the gun from Thomas’s hands.

“It’s okay, man. I’ve got this.”

Gabe examines Blackwell’s still body, making minor adjustments to his placement then setting the fired gun down. “It’ll look like he did it himself.”

“You sure? We can’t risk being wrong here.”

“I’m sure,” he tells me. “No fingerprints since we have on gloves, Blackwell has residue on his hands from shooting Trixie, and the placement will look like he fell after a self-inflicted shot. I’m sure.” The look in his eyes tells me this isn’t his first rodeo at staging either, and I have to trust his skills. We’re in this together.

Trixie makes a gurgling noise, Jonathan squeezing her hand desperately.

“Trix—”

Her brows are pulled down, her eyes half-closed in pain. I don’t know what to say. I can’t reassure her that she’s going to be okay, because she’s clearly not. But she sacrificed herself to try and help us, by coming here at our behest tonight and in fighting for the gun, even if she was unsuccessful.

She tries to smile, her lips trembling at the corners. “Tell Char I’m sorry. Tell her to believe. Take care of her, Commander Coo—”

She doesn’t finish the silly nickname she bestowed upon me, a last breath pushing past her lips without sound. She relaxes in Jonathan’s arms, no longer in pain, no longer trying to escape her meager beginnings and become something else. She dies as a friend, a member of our family.

Her eyes stare blankly, and though we know we shouldn’t touch her, Jon closes them for her.

I look up, realizing Gabe is at Blackwell’s desk, his laptop open. “I kept the note simple, just I’m sorry, even though I don’t think that asshole was sorry for a single thing he did in his life.”

“Sounds right for the scene we’re setting, at least,” Jonathan says, getting up. He’s going to take it hard later. He’s a born lifesaver, and while he’s lost them before... it’s always hard. I know he remembers each and every one of the souls he’s escorted to the Reaper’s door.

We gather at the door, the four of us partners in this, and look around one last time. “We clear?”

“Yeah,” Gabe says. Thomas finally nods, and I remind myself to check in with him later too. He’ll need to purge himself.

I lead us back out the door, down the stairs, and finally, into the dark night.

Mission accomplished. Another hollow victory.