“Okay,” I said. “You think this doctor has a sideline in organ trafficking?” My stomach tightened, the same old cold creeping up my spine.
“Morally gray, only-for-money, doctor. Yeah, probably.”
“Okay, so, what do we have onhim?”
“Whispers,” Caleb said with a sigh, scrolling through screens and showing a picture of a man taken from surveillance, around my age, with dark hair and even darker eyes. “Nothing more.”
“Nothing? Real name? The hospital he works out of?”
“Nope. No name. No hospital. Black market surgeon, a ghost doctor paid in cash. I tried to trace the payments Redcars have made to Doc in the past, but it’s lost in a tangle of noise and fake accounts.”
“It takes know-how to cover tracks.”
“Yep. Maybe he has a pet hacker? Or he hired someone? Jamie is all over that right now. Rumor around this doc is that he’s moving medical-grade painkillers, black market trading in organs, he’s a murderer for hire with assassination by poison his go-to, or he’s a good guy who’s quiet as a pussy cat, all depending on who you ask.”
I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “A biker turns up dead in a pit with missing body parts, and the last person to see him was a medic with no real identity you can find.”
“Oneof the last people,” Caleb corrected. “Doc’s cleaning crew was made of two men, blurry, caps low, so we can’t get anything from the footage.” Caleb finally looked up, eyes tired but sharp. “I’ll pull traffic cams, trace comms, follow the digital dust.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Flag anything tied to Rourke. He’s dead, and I want to know who put him in the ground, and how it’s connected to all the other bodies we found in there that go way back.”
“You want me to anon-inform the cops on the ID I have?”
I hesitated, thinking it through. A sudden ID dropping into the system would raise flags—too clean, too fast. If the wrong people saw it, it’d blow back on us before we had a chance to dig. The Cave had learned that lesson years ago: when to feed information, who to feed it to, and when to keep our mouths shut. We played the long game, trading patience for survival. Not yet, I decided. “As you said, they’ll get the DNA from the prison system. I want to talk to Doc first, off the books. Do you have an address or a location for him?”
“We have the number to call, but it’s a redirect. Seriously, the man is a ghost.”
“Can you un-ghost him?”
Caleb huffed a laugh. “That’s not a thing, Levi.”
“Then how do we get me with a face-to-face as soon as possible?”
Caleb tapped his chest. “Get yourself stabbed.”
FOUR
Doc
My third phoneon the counter buzzed, and Marisol glanced at it, her lips thin. She hated the jobs I took on during daylight hours, but hell, I charged a premium for them, and my money kept her and the kids safe, so I ignored her. By the time I reached the car, my phone buzzed again—a message:Knife wound. Redcars.
I hesitated—maybe I should skip this one.
They saw too much at that place, and what if they saw through the cracks?
What if they saw the real me?
“Fuck it,” I muttered. Money was money, and if I had to go to freaking Redcars again, I’d add on a premium. Last time, I’d left with blood under my nails and the smell of burned flesh in my clothes, and it hadn’t washed out for days. Redcars was where lines blurred fast and stayed that way, and every time I went back, I told myself it would be the last. I typed back,Fifteen K call-out, then sent the money request through one of my ghost accounts. It was accepted immediately—no questions, no delay, which probably meant they had Killian around with his wealthylawyer shtick. Money ruled the world I lived in, and this was another deposit into the twins’ college fund.
“Do you have to go?” Marisol asked. She was stirring some soap concoction on the stove that smelled of lemon, and the fragrance filled the entire house. She’d made a life here—a lonely one aside from the kids, but a good one.
“It’s a quick one,” I lied. I actually had no idea what I’d be walking into. I’d been to Redcars far too often, beatings, burns, virgin-Robbie and his PTSD… I’d seen it all.
Sliding behind the wheel, I started the engine and checked the mirrors, then pulled out onto the street, leaving the quiet suburb behind and heading into the city. I parked a block away from Redcars, engine off, scanning the street. Habit—automatic, ingrained, and impossible to shut off even when I told myself I was safe. I checked the syringe mechanism at my wrist, the gun in the holster, and then the knife in its sheath. With my medical bag over my shoulder, I stepped out, my head on a swivel.
The alley behind Redcars was slick with oil and rainwater, a patchwork of light and dark. Dumpsters lined one side, graffiti on the walls, and the hair on the back of my neck prickled. I had that feeling I was being watched again, and I almost stepped away, but then the back door burst open, and Robbie-the-virgin appeared—eyes wide, movements frantic. Where was Enzo? That man was Robbie’s insanely hyper-vigilant bodyguard, and I tensed when I didn’t see him.
Robbie was shouting at me in a panicked tone.
