When HEROES don't come HOME

Chapter Nineteen – Neon Shadows

The bass hit Emily like a hammer the moment she stepped through the door. Heavy, relentless, it throbbed in her ribs and made the air vibrate. Neon lights slashed the room in shades of pink and blue, painting the dancers on stage into something unreal, plastic. A haze of cigarette smoke and perfume hung thick over everything, clinging to her clothes as if it wanted to mark her too.

She froze just inside, instantly out of place. Men filled the tables, hunched over glasses of whiskey and beer, their eyes glazed, their faces slack. On the stage, a woman in heels and glitter bent into the light, spinning around the pole, her forced smile cracked at the edges. The crowd whooped. Emily’s stomach twisted.

She had patched men bleeding in desert dust, dragged bodies under fire, fought to keep lungs breathing long enough to reach evacuation. That was survival, brutal but necessary. But this—this parade of skin under leering eyes—felt worse. It was surrender. To sell yourself piece by piece, to let strangers buy your body with dollar bills… she could barely look.

Is this what it means to be disposable? she thought bitterly. Use them until there’s nothing left. Then move on.

A man at the front table shoved a wad of notes into the dancer’s garter. She bent, her face smiling but her eyes dead. Emily looked away quickly, heat rising in her throat. For them, she’s not even a person.

For a moment, the thought of Daniel stabbed her chest like glass. He too had been used, spent, hidden behind a coffin with no body. The same machine that ate soldiers ate women like these—just in different uniforms.

Emily tightened her fists. She wanted to leave. But Reeves had chosen this place for a reason.

A waitress appeared, hips swaying in practiced rhythm, tray balanced on her palm. She passed close, her gaze sliding over Emily head to toe. Recognition flickered in her eyes—sharp, almost amused. She slowed, leaned near.

“Your man’s waiting for you,” she murmured, voice low enough not to carry over the music. “Cabin three.”

Emily blinked. “I didn’t order—”

The waitress smirked knowingly. “Don’t play coy. Tall, broad shoulders, dark stare? Honey, men like him don’t dance for anyone but themselves. If he’s waiting in three, it’s for you.” She winked. “Trust me. That one’s a rare treat.”

Emily’s face warmed. She opened her mouth to deny it, but the words withered. She understood. Reeves. His trick to keep eyes off their trail.

Without another word, she turned toward the narrow hallway marked PRIVATE.

As she walked, the music dulled to a heavy throb behind her. Shadows clung thicker here, red bulbs casting everything in a sickly glow. Her boots clicked on sticky tiles, each step feeling like she was walking deeper into a trap.

And then she felt them. Two men rising from a nearby table, following. Their eyes pretended to study the stage, but their weight shifted toward her, deliberate. She didn’t look back, but every nerve screamed.

Ahead, two bouncers moved at the same moment. Broad, silent, they stepped into the men’s path like walls of flesh. There was no confrontation—just silent pressure, the kind that made pretenders back off. Emily didn’t slow. Her heart hammered as she slipped deeper into the hallway, pulse echoing in her ears.

She found cabin three and ducked inside, closing the door with a shaky breath.

The room was small, dim, bathed in the glow of a single red bulb that hummed faintly overhead. The chair in the center was occupied. Reeves sat straddling it backward, arms draped over the backrest, his posture lazy but his eyes sharp.

“Cute place you picked,” Emily muttered, her voice thinner than she wanted.

Reeves smirked. “You’ve got a tail, Carter. Long one. Like a fox dragging brush behind her. I figured this way, nobody asks questions. Just a lonely woman and her rented company.”

Emily’s lips twitched despite herself. “You and your theatrics.”

He shrugged. “Better they think you’re desperate than curious.”

She pulled the second chair closer, sitting stiffly. “So what now? We just… pretend?”

“Until I find a safer way,” Reeves said. His smirk faded. “Listen. There’s news.”

Emily’s pulse leapt.

“The lab tech,” he said grimly. “The leak. She’s dead.”

The words hit like ice water. Emily’s breath caught. “Dead? How?”

“Overdose,” Reeves said flatly. “That’s the official line. Tox will back it, neat as a bow. They’ll close the case within days.” His gaze darkened. “But my contact at the coroner’s office—someone I trust—told me what she really saw.”

Emily leaned in, her stomach tightening. “What?”

“Bruises on the neck. Subtle, but there. Track marks too clean. And the room—” his voice hardened, “—staged. Condoms on the floor, clothes tossed. They wanted it to look like a relapse after a wild night.”

Emily pressed her hand to her mouth. The thought made her skin crawl. “But why? Why kill her?”

“Because she was going to talk,” Reeves said. “She’d already made contact with a journalist. She had something. And they couldn’t risk it.”

He paused, his jaw tight. “And she wasn’t even straight.”

Emily blinked. “What?”

Reeves’s voice was sharp. “Her phone logs, messages—women. She was gay. Whatever happened in that bed wasn’t her. They didn’t just kill her, Carter. They rewrote her. They dirtied her memory so no one would look twice.”

Emily’s eyes stung. “God…”

Reeves’s tone was low, bitter. “This is how they work. One body at a time. Erase them. Replace them with a story nobody questions. And the Army signs the report.”

Emily felt nausea rise, anger twisting inside her chest. “How many?” she whispered.

“Seven,” Reeves said after a pause. “Maybe eight. And every one covered up.”

Silence pressed between them. Outside, bass thudded like a war drum.

Emily’s voice shook. “Then it won’t stop.”

“No,” Reeves said, his eyes locking with hers. “It won’t.”

For a long moment they simply stared. The room stank of stale perfume and neon dust, the door rattled faintly with the music outside—but here, in this tiny red booth, the world shifted.

Emily realized something terrifying: for the first time since Daniel’s death, she felt a sliver of safety. Reeves, jaded and broken, was still the only one willing to speak truth.

He leaned forward, voice rough but steady. “She was smart. If she planned to blow the whistle, she left something. A note. A drive. A breadcrumb. In a few days, I’ll get inside her place. If she left a trace, we’ll find it.”

Emily nodded slowly, her throat tight. She couldn’t speak.

Reeves studied her a moment longer, then sat back, letting the silence stretch.

Outside, the music pounded, laughter and catcalls rising. But in here, in the dim red glow, only their breathing filled the air.

And both of them knew: they were already too deep to turn back.