Page 30 of Freedom’s Inferno

The city blurred in streaks of light and shadow. Every second stretched thin as wire. I pictured her slipping, tumbling into asphalt, and bile burned my throat.

“Come on, Lucky Lana…” I growled to no one, to the wind, to the machine that suddenly felt like an animal that no longer answered to me.

We hit a stoplight, and I braked hard, the engine growling low as the bike came to a standstill.

Her head jerked up, her body tensing. “Wha–?”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “Easy. You fell asleep.”

Her voice was small against the rush of passing cars. “I did?”

“Yeah. Try not to do that again, huh?” My throat tightened.

We idled there in the red glow, both catching our breath. The light shifted and I glanced back at the signs ahead. We were only a few blocks from Blackwell Sterling.

“Just a few more minutes,” I said.

She nodded weakly and leaned against me again. A tremor ran through her where she pressed against me, whether from exhaustion or fear, I didn’t know.

I’d never get over the guilt if she got hurt because I’d been too stubborn and too damn reckless to think ahead.

The bike rumbled back to life, and we lurched forward again. She managed to keep herself awake for the final few minutes of the journey.

I pulled into the parking lot, fully expecting her to rail into me for being so irresponsible.

She didn’t. She only climbed off the bike, handing me the half-shell helmet with exhausted weariness.

I’d worry about how we’d manage to get back later.

“Let’s make this quick,” I said, and she nodded, the two of us approaching the building with caution.

I shoved my key into the lock, and held the glass door open for her, following behind.

The lobby was dimly lit by exit signs and the emergency way lighters. The empty office building reminded me of a liminal space in one of those zombie movies, and I half expected someone to jump out at us. The elevator doors slid open with a sigh. The mirrored interior reflected us both, pale and tired and out of place. It looked like we weren’t moving at all, just suspended in time, trapped in the hum of fluorescent light.

The third floor of Blackwell Sterling was drenched in a low amber glow, security bulbs casting long, skeletal shadows across the glass partitions. We stepped out together, our silhouettes ghosting along the walls as we moved down the corridor. The silence pressed against my ears, broken only by the faint rumble of the HVAC and the soft click of Lana’s heels. Every sound amplified, our breathing, the gentle rustle of her coat, the echo of my boots against the tile.

Richard’s office door loomed at the end of the hall. His name was still etched on the glass in gold leaf: R. Blackwell, Managing Partner.

I hesitated a second before pushing it open. The smell hit me first, unchanged from my visit a week ago. Stale cologne and the faint, sterile scent of printer ink. Everything was still where he’d left it: the expensive decanter on the sideboard, the neat stack of unread correspondence, an unwashed coffee mug on his desk.

Lana brushed past me, flicking on the desk lamp. The warm light spilled across the mahogany, catching dust motes drifting in the air.

“Start with the drawers,” she said, already tugging one open.

It didn’t take long before we got through the desk. Pens, business cards, a half empty pack of cigarettes. Nothing.

“Of course,” I muttered. “The one time we actually need him to be organized…”

Lana shot me a look, but I caught the faint tug of a smile before she hid it. “He wasn’t organized. He was obsessive. There’s a difference.”

I let out a dry laugh. “Yeah, I remember how he could get, especially when it came to money. Now, where is that fucking money?”

“Here,” she said, yanking open the bottom drawer. She pulled out a small silver key, and made straight for the filing cabinets on the other side of the room.

The key turned with a reluctant click. Together we sifted through manila folders, stacks of quarterly reports, legal forms, nothing out of the ordinary. The monotony gnawed at me, the smell of paper and dust thick in the air.

“How did you and Richard end up laundering money for Costa? You don’t seem like the type to… volunteer for organized crime.”