“I’m functional.”
“That’s not the same as fine.”
“It’s enough.”
She goes quiet, but I can feel her thinking. Calculating blood loss rates, probably. Running probability scenarios on infection, shock, and complications. That beautiful brain of hers never stops, even when she’s silent.
“The masks were brilliant,” she finally says.
“Basic countersurveillance.”
“Still brilliant.”
The industrial district is all shadows and rust when we arrive. Empty factories and warehouses, most abandoned when manufacturing fled overseas. I park behind an old textile factory, kill the engine. My arm screams when I reach for the door handle, muscles locked around the bullet.
“This is it?”
“Safe enough for now.” I scan the area—check angles, exits, potential threats. “Phoenix won’t find us here.”
She follows me inside, and I can feel her questions building. About the wound. About the plan. About what happens next.
The factory floor is vast, empty, moonlight filtering through broken skylights. Our footsteps echo in the silence. I’ve stashed supplies here before—water, medical kit, weapons. Always have a backup location.
But first, I need to address this bullet, and for that, I’m going to need her help.
Which means letting her see me weak. Vulnerable. Trusting her with my life, the way she’s been trusting me with hers.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
“Jackson.” Her voice is soft but firm. “You need to let me look at that arm.”
I turn to face her. Even with the cap and mask, her eyes are luminous. Concerned. She reaches up, pulls off the mask and cap, shakes her hair free. Then reaches for mine.
“May I?”
I nod. She removes my cap and mask with careful fingers, like she’s unwrapping something fragile.
“Now,” she says, all business despite the tremor in her hands. “Let’s see how bad it is.”
No more hiding. No more control.
Just trust.
Fuck.
ELEVEN
Jackson
FIELD MEDICINE
The abandonedtextile factory reeks of rust and pigeon shit. I leave Talia by the entrance, weapon drawn, and clear each room methodically. Check corners. Test doors. Map exits. The movements are automatic, but my left arm screams with each sweep, blood still seeping through the makeshift pressure I’ve kept on it.
Ground floor clear. No squatters. No surveillance. No surprises.
“Wait here.” I head back outside.
The stolen Camry needs to disappear. I drive it four blocks south, wipe it down with my shirt, and leave the keys in the ignition. Someone will boost it within the hour, destroying any forensic trail. The walk back takes longer than it should. Blood loss is making me sluggish, but I keep my pace steady. Controlled.
