Wrench & Blood

The Hunted

The first one to die was Vince.

Adam got the call at 3:17 AM. A nurse from Blackhaven General. Vince had been found on his kitchen floor, stabbed multiple times. No witnesses. No security cameras. No prints.

By the time Adam reached the hospital, Vince was already gone.

Sandra stood in the hallway, her face pale. Micheal sat on a bench, his head in his hands. Leo was in the waiting room, staring at his laptop but not typing.

“How?” Adam asked.

“Someone broke into his apartment,” Sandra said. “Neighbors heard nothing. The lock wasn't forced. He let them in.”

“He knew his killer.”

“Or the killer had a key.”

Adam walked to the room where Vince's body lay. A sheet covered him. A nurse stood by the door, clipboard in hand.

“I need to see him,” Adam said.

“Are you family?”

“I'm the closest thing he had.”

The nurse nodded and stepped aside.

Adam pulled back the sheet.

Vince's face was peaceful. His eyes were closed. His hands were folded on his chest. But his neck and chest were covered in bandages—the wounds beneath, hidden.

“I'm sorry,” Adam whispered. “I should have been there.”

He covered Vince's face and walked out.

---

The funeral was three days later.

A small service at a cemetery on the edge of Iron District. Vince had no family—no wife, no children, no living parents. Just the crew. Just the people he'd fought beside.

Adam stood at the grave, rain soaking through his jacket. Sandra stood to his left. Micheal to his right. Leo behind them, holding an umbrella that did no good.

“Vince was a soldier,” Adam said. His voice was rough. “He wasn't a hero. He wasn't a saint. He was a man who did bad things for good reasons. And he died because of it.”

He paused.

“I promised him we'd make it out. I promised him a new life. I couldn't keep that promise. But I can keep another one.” He looked at the grave. “I'll find who did this. And I'll make sure they never hurt anyone again.”

The crew stood in silence.

Then they walked away, leaving Vince alone in the rain.

---

The second one to die was Rex Marchetti.

Adam heard about it on the news. A pawn shop owner on Fuller Street, shot in the back of the head. Robbery, the police said. But Adam knew better.

He drove to the pawn shop.

Crime scene tape blocked the entrance. A police cruiser sat in the parking lot. An officer stood by the door, keeping back the curious.

“I knew him,” Adam said. “I need to see inside.”

“No civilians past the tape.”

“He was my friend.”

“I'm sorry for your loss. But I can't let you in.”

Adam walked around the building. The back door was open, guarded by another officer. Through the gap, he could see inside—the glass cases smashed, the shelves emptied, the floor covered in broken jewelry and shattered electronics.

But Adam wasn't looking at the mess.

He was looking at the blood.

Rex had been shot at close range. The blood pattern on the wall told Adam everything: Rex had known his killer. He'd been sitting down when the bullet hit. He hadn't seen it coming.

“Volkov,” Adam muttered.

“What did you say?” the officer asked.

“Nothing.”

Adam walked away.

---

That night, the crew gathered in the basement.

Leo had set up a new whiteboard. On it, he'd written the names of everyone connected to Adam. Vince. Rex. Lena. Sandra. Micheal. Himself. And a dozen others.

“Volkov is targeting people close to you,” Leo said. “He's not trying to kill you directly. He's trying to isolate you. Make you weak.”

“It's working,” Sandra said.

“No. It's not.” Adam stood up. “He killed Vince. He killed Rex. But he's not going to kill anyone else.”

“How do you stop him?” Micheal asked. “He's underground. The FBI can't find him. His own people can't find him.”

“Then we draw him out.”

“How?”

Adam looked at the whiteboard. At the names. At the connections.

“We hit him where he lives.”

“He doesn't have a home. He moves every night.”

“He has a home. Everyone has a home. Somewhere he feels safe. Somewhere he goes when he's scared.” Adam turned to Leo. “Find it.”

---

Leo worked through the night.

He combed through property records, utility bills, credit card statements. He cross-referenced Volkov's known associates, his family connections, his criminal history.

At 4 AM, he found something.

“There's a house,” Leo said. “In the suburbs. North of the city. It's owned by a shell company that's owned by another shell company. But the utilities are in Volkov's real name.”

“What's his real name?”

“Dmitri Volkov. That's his real name. He never changed it. He just hid it.”

“Where's the house?”

“Maple Drive. Number 47. It's a ranch style. Three bedrooms. Two baths. A garage.”

“It's not a fortress?”

“It's a family home. He bought it ten years ago, before he became a kingpin. Before the money and the power.”

Adam looked at the address. “That's where he'll go.”

“How do you know?”

“Because when you're scared, you go back to the last place you felt safe.”

---

Adam didn't tell Miller about the house.

He didn't tell anyone except Sandra, Micheal, and Leo.

“We do this ourselves,” Adam said. “No feds. No backup. Just us.”

“That's suicide,” Sandra said.

“Maybe. But it's the only way to make sure Volkov doesn't run again.”

“And if he's not there?”

“Then we keep looking.”

They planned the operation for two days.

Leo hacked into the neighborhood traffic cameras. He mapped the house, the surrounding streets, the escape routes. He identified Volkov's security—two guards outside, three inside, cameras on every corner.

“It's not a fortress,” Leo said, “but it's not a cakewalk either.”

“We're not going in through the front door,” Adam said. “We're going in through the back.”

“The back has a fence. Razor wire.”

“Then we cut through it.”

“And the alarm system?”

“You disable it.”

Leo swallowed. “I can try.”

“Trying isn't good enough.”

---

The night of the operation, the sky was clear.

Adam drove. Sandra rode shotgun. Micheal was in the back, checking his weapons. Leo was in the passenger seat behind Adam, his laptop balanced on his knees.

They parked three blocks from the house, in the parking lot of a closed church.

“Everyone ready?” Adam asked.

“No,” Sandra said. “But let's do it anyway.”

They walked through the dark, staying off the main roads. The neighborhood was quiet—suburban, middle-class, the kind of place where nothing ever happened.

The house on Maple Drive was dark except for a single light in the living room.

“That's the guard station,” Leo whispered. “One man. He rotates every two hours.”

“How long until the next rotation?”

“Forty-five minutes.”

“That's enough.”

Adam led them to the back fence. Razor wire gleamed in the moonlight. He pulled out a pair of wire cutters and snipped through the strands, one by one.

“Leo. The alarm.”

Leo pulled out a small device—a signal jammer he'd built himself. He aimed it at the house and pressed a button.

“Alarm's off. But I can only hold it for ten minutes.”

“That's all we need.”

They climbed the fence.

---

The back door was locked.

Adam picked it in thirty seconds—a skill Micheal had taught him. The door swung open silently.

Inside, the house smelled like cigarette smoke and coffee.

They moved through the kitchen, the dining room, the hallway. The living room was ahead, light spilling through the doorway.

Adam peeked around the corner.

One guard. Sitting in a chair, facing the front window. His back was to Adam.

Adam crossed the room in three steps. He put his arm around the guard's throat and squeezed. The guard struggled, kicked, then went limp.

Adam lowered him to the floor.

“Two more,” Micheal whispered.

They found the second guard in the bedroom, asleep. Micheal zip-tied his wrists and ankles before he woke up.

The third guard was in the basement, watching TV.

Adam stood at the top of the stairs. He could hear the muffled sounds of a sitcom laugh track. He descended slowly, one step at a time.

The guard didn't hear him.

Adam was five feet away when the guard finally turned. His eyes went wide. Adam hit him—once in the jaw, once in the temple. The guard collapsed.

“Where's Volkov?” Adam demanded.

The guard spat blood. “Go to hell.”

“I've been there. It's not that impressive.” Adam hit him again. “Where?”

“Upstairs. The attic. He's been there for three days.”

Adam left the guard on the basement floor and climbed back up.

---

The attic was accessed through a pull-down ladder in the hallway ceiling.

Adam pulled the cord. The ladder descended. He climbed up, gun raised.

The attic was dark, dusty, filled with boxes and old furniture. In the corner, sitting on a cot, was Dmitri Volkov.

He looked smaller than Adam remembered. Thinner. Older. His shaved head was stubbled. His hands shook.

“Kosta,” Volkov said. “I knew you'd come.”

“Then you knew you'd die.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Volkov stood up. He wasn't armed. “You're not a killer, Kosta. You've had plenty of chances. You've never taken them.”

“There's a first time for everything.”

“Is that what you tell yourself? That this time will be different?” Volkov stepped closer. “You're not a killer. You're a mechanic. You fix things. You don't break them.”

“I broke Cindy.”

“No. The FBI broke Cindy. You just pointed them in the right direction.”

Adam raised his gun. “You killed my friends.”

“I killed your enemies. Rex was a rat. Vince was a liability. They would have betrayed you eventually.”

“You don't know that.”

“I know people. It's what I do.” Volkov smiled. “You're not going to shoot me. You're going to call your FBI friend. You're going to hand me over. And then you're going to spend the rest of your life wondering if you made the right choice.”

Adam's finger tightened on the trigger.

“Do it,” Volkov said. “Prove me wrong.”

Adam fired.

The bullet missed Volkov's head by an inch, embedding itself in the wall behind him.

Volkov flinched. His smile disappeared.

“That was a warning,” Adam said. “The next one goes through your skull.”

“You're bluffing.”

“Try me.”

Volkov stared at him. Then he laughed. It was a bitter, broken sound. “You're not a killer. But you're not a coward either. That's a rare combination.”

“I'm going to give you a choice. Surrender. Tell the FBI everything. And I'll make sure you don't spend the rest of your life in solitary.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then I leave you here. Tied to that cot. And I tell Miller where to find you. He'll come with his guns and his badges. And you'll go to prison anyway.”

“That's not a choice. That's two versions of the same outcome.”

“That's the only kind of choice I have to offer.”

Volkov sat down on the cot. “You're smarter than Cindy. She would have killed me. She would have enjoyed it. But you—you want something more.”

“I want justice.”

“Justice. There's no such thing. There's only power. And you don't have it.”

“I have enough.”

Adam pulled out his phone. He dialed Miller.

“Kosta.”

“I have Volkov. The house on Maple Drive. Send your people.”

“Don't move. Don't do anything stupid. I'll be there in fifteen minutes.”

The line went dead.

Adam sat down on a box across from Volkov.

“Fifteen minutes,” he said.

“And then?”

“And then you disappear.”

---

The FBI arrived in twelve minutes.

Miller led the team. He looked at Adam, at Volkov, at the guards on the floor.

“You did this alone?”

“Not alone.”

“Where are the others?”

“Outside. Waiting.”

Miller shook his head. “You're going to get yourself killed one day.”

“Not today.”

The agents handcuffed Volkov and led him out. He didn't resist. He didn't look back.

Miller stopped at the door. “The evidence from the textile mill—it's enough to put him away for decades. But we need your testimony.”

“You'll have it.”

“And the bodies? The guards?”

“They're alive. Bruised. But alive.”

Miller nodded. “I'll make sure your name stays out of the reports.”

“I don't care about my name.”

“You should. You've done something remarkable.”

“I've done what I had to do.”

Miller left.

Adam sat alone in the attic, surrounded by dust and old furniture and the memory of what he'd almost done.

He'd had Volkov in his sights. He'd had the chance to pull the trigger.

But he hadn't.

And he didn't know if that made him strong or weak.

---

Outside, the sun was rising.

Sandra leaned against the car, her arms crossed. Micheal sat on the hood. Leo was already in the back seat, his laptop closed.

“It's over,” Adam said.

“Is it?” Sandra asked.

“For now.”

“And when the next Volkov comes? When the next monster crawls out of the shadows?”

“Then we'll be here.”

Micheal stood up. “I'm going back to Oregon. My cousin needs me on the boat.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“I'll drive you to the airport.”

“No. You won't. You'll be here, fixing cars, pretending to be normal.” Micheal smiled. “And I'll be there, catching fish, pretending to be normal. We'll both be lying.”

Adam hugged him. It was brief, awkward, genuine.

“Take care of yourself,” Adam said.

“You too.”

Micheal walked away.

Adam watched him go.

Then he got into the car and drove home.