Wrench & Blood

The Interrogation

The FBI field office was a gray concrete box on the outskirts of Blackhaven. No windows. No signs. Just a steel door and a camera that followed Adam as they led him inside.

The handcuffs bit into his wrists. His jacket was gone—confiscated as evidence. So were his shoes, his belt, his watch. They'd left him in a white jumpsuit that was too thin for the cold.

Two agents walked him down a fluorescent-lit hallway. Past closed doors. Past a water fountain that dripped. Past a room where someone was screaming.

They stopped at Room 4.

"Inside," one of the agents said.

Adam walked in. The room was small—eight by eight—with a metal table, two chairs, and a mirror on the wall. Two-way glass. Someone was watching.

He sat down.

The agents left. The door locked behind them.

Adam waited.

---

Fifteen minutes passed.

Then thirty.

Adam counted the ceiling tiles. Sixteen. Each one stained yellow. He counted the scratches on the table. Forty-three. He counted his own heartbeats. Too many.

The door opened.

Agent Miller walked in. He carried a file folder and a cup of coffee. He sat down across from Adam, placed the folder on the table, and took a long sip of coffee.

"You've been busy," Miller said.

"I've been sitting in a room."

"Before that. Warehouse 17. Fifty girls. Twelve dead guards. A lot of property damage."

"I was rescuing people."

"That's one way to look at it." Miller opened the folder. "Another way to look at it: you broke into a private warehouse, discharged a firearm in a city limits, and caused a multi-vehicle accident on Miller Street two nights ago."

"The multi-vehicle accident was self-defense."

"The courts will decide that."

Adam leaned forward. "Where's Harmon?"

Miller's expression didn't change. "Special Agent Harmon is on administrative leave pending investigation."

"He's dirty. He was working for Cindy."

"That's what you said on the phone."

"It's what I'm saying now."

Miller closed the folder. He set his coffee down and folded his hands on the table.

"Tell me everything. From the beginning. Don't leave anything out."

Adam told him.

He started with Danny's text message. The garage. Cindy's men. The ledger. He told Miller about Micheal, about Sandra, about Rex, about Cross. He told him about the cabin, about the shipment, about Harmon's calls and promises.

He left out only one thing: the hidden pocket in his jacket where he'd kept the ledger. That was his insurance.

Miller listened without interrupting. When Adam finished, he sat back.

"That's quite a story."

"It's not a story. It's the truth."

"The truth is that Danny Kosta was a two-bit criminal with a gambling problem. He owed money to half the gangs in Blackhaven. He wasn't some hero informant. He was a liability."

"He was my brother."

"I'm sorry for your loss. But that doesn't change the facts." Miller pulled a photograph from the folder. He slid it across the table.

Adam looked at it. His heart stopped.

It was a picture of Danny. But not the Danny Adam remembered. This Danny was younger, maybe twenty, standing in front of a brick wall with two other men. One of them was holding a gun. The other was holding a stack of cash.

"That's Danny, three years into his career with the Serpents," Miller said. "He wasn't just skimming. He was dealing. Meth. Coke. Whatever made money. And he wasn't working for Cindy back then. He was working for a man named Victor Ortega. You remember Victor?"

Adam didn't answer.

"Victor Ortega was the head of the Serpents before Cindy took over. Danny helped Cindy kill him. That's how she got control. That's how Danny got his position."

"You're lying."

"I wish I was." Miller pulled out another photograph. This one showed Danny and Cindy, sitting in a car, talking. "Danny wasn't an informant. He was a collaborator. He helped Cindy build the trafficking operation. He recruited girls for her. He found buyers."

Adam's hands were shaking.

"The ledger," Miller continued, "wasn't insurance against Cindy. It was insurance against everyone else. Danny was planning to sell it to the highest bidder. The feds, the cartel, the rival gangs—he didn't care who bought it, as long as he got paid."

"That's not true."

"Then why did he have a bank account in the Cayman Islands? Why did he have a passport with a fake name? Why was he meeting with a cartel lawyer three days before he died?"

Adam had no answers.

Because he didn't know.

He had thought he knew Danny. He had thought his brother was a victim. A man who made mistakes but was trying to do the right thing.

But maybe Danny was just another criminal. Maybe he got exactly what he deserved.

"Why are you telling me this?" Adam asked.

"Because you need to understand what you're involved in. Cindy Vance isn't the villain of this story. She's just the latest villain. Before her, it was Ortega. Before him, it was someone else. Blackhaven has always been run by criminals. The names change. The game doesn't."

"What about the girls? The trafficking?"

"What about it?"

"Cindy was shipping fifty girls out of that warehouse. Children. You can't tell me that's just business."

Miller was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "No. That's not business. That's evil. And that's why I'm going to help you."

---

Adam blinked. "Help me?"

"You want Cindy. I want Cindy. But not for the reasons you think." Miller leaned forward. "I've been building a case against her for five years. Human trafficking, money laundering, murder—the works. But every time I get close, someone tips her off. Someone inside my own office."

"Harmon."

"Maybe. Maybe someone else. I don't know yet. But I know that you're the first person who's gotten close enough to make her run."

"She didn't run. She escaped."

"Same thing. She's scared. That's good. Scared people make mistakes."

"What do you want from me?"

"I want you to finish what you started. I want you to find Cindy. Find Cross. Find the evidence that will put them away for life. And I want you to do it before they disappear for good."

"You want me to be an informant."

"I want you to be a weapon." Miller slid a card across the table. It had a phone number on it. "This is my personal line. Call it when you have something. Don't call it otherwise."

"What about the charges? The warehouse? The shooting?"

"What charges? I don't see any charges." Miller stood up. "You're free to go, Mr. Kosta. For now."

He walked to the door. Before opening it, he turned.

"One more thing. Stay away from Harmon. If he contacts you, tell me immediately. He's dangerous. More dangerous than Cindy."

"Why?"

"Because he has a badge. And badges protect people who don't deserve protecting."

Miller left.

---

An agent brought Adam his clothes. His shoes. His belt. His watch.

But not his jacket.

"Where's my jacket?" Adam asked.

"Evidence."

"There's nothing in it."

"Then you don't need it."

Adam dressed in silence. The jumpsuit was gone. He was back in his jeans and t-shirt, but the jacket was missing. The hidden pocket. The spare key to the safehouse. The photograph of Danny.

All gone.

They let him out a side door. The rain had stopped. The sky was gray, the air cold. Adam stood on the sidewalk, alone, no car, no phone, no wallet.

He started walking.

---

It took him two hours to reach Iron District.

His feet were blistered. His hands were numb. His mind was a hurricane of thoughts.

Danny wasn't a hero. Danny was a criminal. A collaborator. A man who helped Cindy build the very machine Adam had been trying to destroy.

But Danny was still his brother.

And Cindy still killed him.

Adam didn't know if that changed anything. Maybe it didn't. Maybe revenge was revenge, no matter how complicated the truth.

He found the safehouse. The door was locked. He used the spare key—the one hidden under the dumpster, not the one in his jacket.

Inside, the safehouse was empty.

No Micheal. No Sandra. No Elena. No Dom, Frank, Vince, or Leo.

Just the map on the floor. The weapons cleaned and put away. The cot where Adam had slept, still rumpled.

He sat down on the cot and put his head in his hands.

---

His phone was gone. Confiscated. He had no way to contact anyone.

He searched the safehouse. Under the floorboards. Behind the loose brick in the wall. In the false bottom of the ammo box.

Nothing.

Then he remembered.

Danny's old phone. The burner he'd found in the apartment. He'd hidden it in the ceiling tile of the bathroom.

Adam climbed onto the toilet, pushed the tile aside, and reached into the dark.

His fingers found the phone.

He pulled it out. Dead battery. He found a charger—Danny had stashed one in the same ceiling tile—and plugged it in.

The phone buzzed to life.

Twenty-seven missed calls. Twelve voicemails. All from numbers he didn't recognize.

He listened to the first voicemail.

"Adam, it's Sandra. Where are you? The feds released us. We're at the Rusted Spoke. Call me."

The second.

"Adam, it's Micheal. Miller talked to us. He said you were free. Where are you?"

The third.

"Adam, it's Elena. Something's wrong. Cindy's people are moving. We saw them near the Docks. Call us."

The fourth.

"Adam, it's Leo. I hacked into the traffic cameras again. There's something you need to see. Something about Harmon. Call me."

The fifth.

"Adam, it's Sandra again. We're leaving the Spoke. Someone followed us. We're going to the safehouse. Meet us there."

But they weren't at the safehouse.

Adam's blood ran cold.

He called Sandra's number.

No answer.

He called Micheal.

No answer.

He called Elena.

No answer.

He called Leo.

The phone rang once. Twice. Three times.

"Adam?" Leo's voice was a whisper.

"Where are you?"

"The Cut. Under the old bridge. They're here. Cindy's people. They found us."

"Who's with you?"

"Just me. I ran. The others—I don't know."

"Stay where you are. Don't move. I'm coming."

"Adam—"

The line went dead.

---

Adam grabbed a gun from the weapons cache. A Glock, fully loaded. He grabbed another for Leo. He grabbed extra magazines, a knife, a flashlight.

He didn't have a car. He'd have to run.

He burst out of the safehouse and into the rain.

The Cut was two miles away. Twenty minutes if he pushed hard. Fifteen if he sprinted.

He sprinted.

The streets were empty. The rain was cold. His lungs burned. His legs ached. He didn't stop.

He thought about Leo. The kid. The one who had never done anything like this before. The one who wanted to see the ocean.

He thought about Sandra. About Micheal. About Elena, Dom, Frank, Vince.

His crew. His family.

He wouldn't let them die.

---

The old bridge loomed ahead, rusted and dark. The riverbed below was empty—just weeds and trash and the oil drum where Adam had first found Micheal.

But the oil drum was cold. The fire was out.

And standing under the bridge, surrounded by four men, was Leo.

The men were Cindy's. Adam recognized their jackets—black leather with a silver serpent patch. Serpents. Cindy's personal guard.

They hadn't seen him yet.

Adam dropped to a crouch behind a concrete pillar. He counted. Four men. Two with pistols. One with a shotgun. One with a knife.

Leo was on his knees, hands behind his head. His laptop was on the ground, smashed.

"Where's the rest of them?" one of the men asked.

"I don't know," Leo said. His voice was shaking. "I told you, I ran."

"You're lying."

"I'm not—"

The man with the knife grabbed Leo's hair, pulled his head back.

"Last chance. Where are they?"

Adam raised his gun.

He had a clean shot at the man with the knife. But the others would return fire. Leo was in the middle. Crossfire would kill him.

Adam needed a distraction.

He looked around. The riverbed was full of debris—old tires, broken bottles, chunks of concrete. He picked up a piece of concrete and threw it as far as he could.

It landed in the darkness, clattering against the rocks.

The guards turned toward the sound.

Adam stepped out from behind the pillar.

He shot the man with the shotgun first. The blast was deafening. The man dropped, his weapon clattering to the ground.

The other three spun. Adam shot the second man in the chest. The third man fired his pistol—wild, panicked—the bullet ricocheted off the concrete pillar.

Adam shot him too.

The fourth man ran.

Adam let him go.

He ran to Leo, grabbed the kid's arm, pulled him to his feet.

"Are you hurt?"

"No. I don't think so."

"Can you run?"

"Yes."

"Then run."

They ran.

---

They ran until The Cut was behind them. Until the old bridge was a speck in the distance. Until Adam's lungs were screaming and Leo was gasping for breath.

They stopped in the alley behind a boarded-up church. Adam leaned against the wall, doubled over, sucking air.

Leo slumped to the ground, his face pale.

"They killed them," Leo said.

"You don't know that."

"I heard the gunshots. After I ran. I heard them."

Adam's heart sank.

"Who?"

"All of them. I think." Leo's eyes were wet. "They found us at the safehouse. Cindy's people. There were too many. Elena told me to run. She said to find you."

"Elena's alive?"

"She was. When I ran."

Adam pushed off the wall. "We have to go back."

"We can't. They'll kill us."

"Then we die trying."

Leo stared at him. Then he nodded.

"Okay."

Adam handed him the extra gun. "Do you know how to use this?"

"Frank taught me."

"Then use it."

They walked back toward Iron District.

Toward the safehouse.

Toward whatever was waiting for them.