12
REBEL
The safehouse exhales after everyone leaves, like the building was holding its breath for Divine and French the entire time. Now it’s just the buzz of old wiring, the hiss of the kettle working too hard, and the ache in my shoulders that refuses to let go. The city hums past the blackout curtains, muffled sirens, a baseline from a distant club, someone’s laughter that sounds too thin to be real.
Carter sets two mugs on the scarred table and drags a chair around to face me. We’re close enough that the steam curls into the small space between us and disappears like smoke.
“Divine and French will ping if anything shifts,” he says.
“Divine will ping if a pigeon blinks near the fence line,” I answer, wrapping my hands around the mug. Heat works into bruised knuckles I hadn’t realized were throbbing. “French will send memes and a cocktail recipe.”
One corner of his mouth lifts. “You like them.”
I pretend to study the coffee. “They’re annoying.”
“Which is how you say ‘family.’”
I look up. “Yeah.”
Silence settles, not empty, but weighted. The safehouse smells like gun oil, industrial cleaner, and us. Carter’s changed into a fresh T-shirt from a go-bag stashed in the hall closet, and it stretches over a chest that looks like it head-butts problems for a living.
I’m still covered in road dust and a long-sleeve shirt that smells of soap. The drive we took is with Divine. The plan keeps turning without us. For the first time in days, we have no orders.
Carter nudges my boot with his. “You okay?”
“I’ll be fine when the Vultures choke on their own shells.”
“That’s not a feeling. That’s a mission statement.”
“Same thing in my world.” Carter watches me over the rim of his mug, patient and unblinking, like he can outwait the lies. I breathe out. “Alex really liked you as a friend, didn’t he?” The words land between us like I dropped a wrench.
Carter doesn’t flinch. “I don’t know. He liked giving me shit.”
“That’s how he liked people.”
“Then, yeah, he did.” Carter sets the mug down, voice lowering. “I should’ve told you sooner I was there that night. I had a shot at pulling him off that roof, but it wasn’t enough.”
My throat tightens. “You don’t have to keep wearing his last minute like a punishment.”
“Feels honest.”
“Honest isn’t the same as useful.”
A soft laugh, barely there. “You’re too good at that.”
“What?”
“Turning knives into ledgers. Accounting for pain like it’s billable.”
“Gotta put it somewhere.” I lift one shoulder, casual as I can make it. “What about you? Where do you put yours?”
“In work. In miles.” He turns the mug in his hands. “In staying alive long enough to finish what he started.”
“And what’s that?”
“Cut the head off the people who turned his name into a revenue stream.”
Our eyes catch and hold. The kettle clicks off in the background. I realize my hands have stopped shaking. “Tell me something real,” I say. “Not a mission. Not a tactic. Something you don’t say out loud.”
