Chapter 4 - SINS OF THE FATHER
Z
Unit 7 in the North Point industrial park looked like exactly what it was meant to be: an abandoned, rotting warehouse that no sane person would ever give a second glance. The corrugated metal roof was rusted through in places, and the windows were painted black, covered in decades of grime and graffiti. But when I punched the code Vincent mumbled into the keypad hidden behind a fake electrical box, the massive steel bay doors rolled open on silent, heavily greased tracks, revealing a fortress. The interior was pristine, brightly lit, heavily armed, and completely isolated from the outside world. It was a paranoid man’s paradise.
I pulled the SUV inside and hit the button to close the door, sealing us in. The moment the engine cut, the silence was deafening, broken only by Vincent’s labored, agonizing breathing. He had lost too much blood. I practically carried him into the central room, a sterile, white-tiled space equipped with an industrial stainless-steel table, high-intensity surgical lights, and cabinets fully stocked with medical supplies. It looked like an underground morgue, but tonight, it was going to be an operating theater.
"Get on the table," I ordered, my voice leaving no room for argument.
He didn't protest. The man who ordered executions with a flick of his wrist was entirely at my mercy, gritting his teeth as I hauled him onto the cold steel. I didn't waste time with bedside manners. I grabbed a pair of trauma shears and cut his ruined, blood-soaked shirt away, throwing the expensive fabric to the floor. The entrance wound was ugly—a jagged, swollen hole just below his right collarbone. The skin was black and purple, slick with fresh blood. I turned him slightly. No exit wound. The bullet was still lodged deep in his shoulder muscle.
"We don't have anesthesia," I said, tearing open sterile packages of gauze, forceps, and a scalpel. I poured a generous amount of iodine over his shoulder. He hissed, his jaw clenching so hard I thought his teeth would shatter. "I have local lidocaine, but it won't do much for the deep tissue. You are going to feel this, Vincent."
"Just do it," he growled, gripping the edges of the steel table until his knuckles turned bone-white. "Get the damn thing out."
I didn't hesitate. Hesitation gets people killed. I injected the lidocaine around the wound, waiting barely thirty seconds before I picked up the scalpel and made a small, precise incision to widen the entry hole. Vincent let out a low, guttural roar, his entire body convulsing on the table. "Don't move!" I snapped, bearing down on him with my free arm. I grabbed the long forceps and drove them into the wound, probing through the slick, ruined muscle fibers, searching for the hard scrape of metal against metal.
The silence between us was heavy, charged with a strange, violent intimacy. He was staring at me, watching my face as I worked with a cold, detached precision that terrified most people. "Your father," Vincent grunted, trying to focus on talking to distract himself from the excruciating pain. "Juarez cartel... what was his name?"
"Alejandro," I muttered, my eyes glued to the bloody hole. "He was the best cleaner in Mexico. He taught me how to scrub blood out of hardwood, how to dissolve bone, how to shoot first and never miss. And he taught me that loyalty in this life is a myth. The cartel boss he served for twenty years ordered a hit on our family just because my father accidentally saw a ledger he wasn't supposed to see."
"And you survived," Vincent said, his voice straining.
"I survived," I agreed. "I changed my name. I crossed the border. I found the quietest job I could find in the house of the loudest man in Boston. I thought if I stayed invisible, death wouldn't find me again." The forceps clamped onto something hard. A sharp jolt of electricity shot through my fingertips. "Got it. Brace yourself."
I yanked the forceps out in one fluid, brutal motion. A crushed, blood-covered bullet clattered onto the metal tray. Vincent screamed, a raw, primal sound, before collapsing back onto the table, chest heaving, sweat pouring down his pale face.
I immediately packed the wound with hemostatic gauze, applying intense pressure until the bleeding finally slowed, then wrapped his shoulder tightly in heavy bandages. I stepped back, my hands trembling slightly now that the adrenaline was beginning to recede, covered up to my elbows in the blood of Boston’s most feared man.
Vincent lay there, breathing heavily, staring at the ceiling. After a long minute, he turned his head to look at me. The vulnerability in his eyes was gone, replaced by a cold, calculating sharpness. The king was wounded, but he was awake.
"You saved my life, Micah," he said quietly, his voice regaining a fraction of its usual commanding timbre. "But invisibility isn't an option for you anymore. Julian saw your face. He saw you kill his men. By tomorrow morning, every corrupted cop, every hitman, and every street soldier in Julian’s pocket will be looking for the maid who shoots like a sicario."
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I wiped my bloody hands on a towel, staring back at him with matching intensity. "I know. Which means my survival is tied to yours. So, tell me, boss... how do we kill a ghost?"
A slow, terrifying smile crept across Vincent’s face. It was the smile of a predator who had just been backed into a corner and was finally preparing to bite. "First," he whispered, "we figure out who helped him dig his way out of the grave. And then, we burn their entire world to ash."
