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Chapter Eight

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The top floor of the old municipal building had four barren windows, arched end to end on the west wall. Ceiling to floor. There was no glass to cut the view—to inlay a reflection or provide the illusion of separation from the world—just the vestiges of what were once sheaths of tattered plastic, battered nearly out of existence. But the roof was solid, blocking the wind, trapping the light. It felt oddly secure. Oddly ideal. Even after the painful endeavor of having to limp up four flights of chipped marble and dusty cement stairs.

Sitting with his back pressed to the balustrade at the top, Grady stared outside, down towards the street below, watching mist rise off blackened pavement in a dying storm, turning the landscape dull and dream-like. Dismally serene.

He blinked slowly, trying to stay focused on the moment and the view. Keeping his breathing steady and even, trying to find his center.

There wasn't one to be found. It was an illusion. Their surroundings were surreal. The sense of cover was a fantasy. Any moment now, Petrov was going to come out of the shadows and put a bullet in the back of Miguel's head. After which he would stare at Grady, watching his reaction with dead eyes. These are the rules. You know this.

Unconsciously, Grady rolled his hands into fists. He should have kept Miguel out of this. What had he been thinking?

Oblivious to the track Grady was on, Miguel leaned over his side, pressing another square of gauze to the rough abrasions on his chest, face grim with the pointlessness of the gesture. Like putting a band-aid on a concussion, or a butterfly strip on a broken bone. His fingers slid as they smoothed the tape, deft and cautious, but unable to avoid catching the edge of bruising across the low portion of Grady's ribs.

Grady flinched, holding his breath as flames scorched his lungs in the aftermath. A sense of vertigo overtook him. His vision sloped forward and the skyline beyond gathered itself together, rolling in at the edges like a scroll.

"No, no, come on," said Miguel, suddenly sounding a million miles away. "Stay with me."

Unlocking his jaw, Grady breathed deeply, expanding his chest as far as he could. It burned, but he held the fire, releasing the breath slowly then expanding his ribs again until the world rolled itself right again.

In front of him, Miguel's forehead was drawn into a wrinkle. Eyes dark.

"I'm good," Grady said quickly. He put his own hand over the gauze on his chest, checking the tape before pulling his shirt back into place. He coughed lightly and took another slow breath. "They're bruised. Not broken. I can tell the difference."

Flicking his gaze up from Grady's torso, Miguel rocked his chin. "As comforting as that is, it's your head I'm worried about. In more ways than one." He sat back on his heels, dropping the leftover gauze to the floor with a demeanor of defeat. "I'm pretty sure this isn't what Beaudreaux had in mind when I promised him I'd get you medical attention."

Grady shook his head. "We can't go to the clinic," he countered. Again. "Any clinic."

"No one can be everywhere at once."

"Close enough," said Grady. "Beaudreaux will be looking for us and they're watching Beaudreaux. Trang was inside the bar, with Malloy, and there's more than just him. They're tapped in at the police station. Probably the dojo. I don't know where else."

Miguel leaned back against the adjacent pillar, the crown of his head resting on the brick, frustration evident, even though the guise of his pose was casual. "So, when's your next job?"

"Tomorrow night," Grady answered. "They've been moving me around to different docks. From what Rothman said at the bar, I think they're trying to compile all the information they can to reconstruct this Foley guy's network, take control of the pipeline. As much of it as they can, anyway."

"Then these guys are organized crime."

Grady bent his good knee up, using it to prop his elbow as he ran a hand over his head. He could feel his pulse behind his ears, thudding through his skull. "That's my guess."

"If they are, they're new around here. And I'm sensing the locals don't like it. I knew someone was shaking things up, I just didn't know who."

"Yeah," said Grady. He dug his fingers deeper into his scalp.

Miguel's tone dropped slightly. "Sooner or later," he said, "this is all going to go ka-boom. You know that, right?"

Grady sniffed, reaching down for the water next to his hip. He unscrewed the cap off the bottle and took a sip. His hand shook, sloshing water onto his shirt. It was an old Pepsi two-liter. The lingering taste of cola stuck to his lip.

Miguel sighed. "Fine. Then tell me again what you know about them. You said one of these guys was a guard in the prison camp? In Vietnam?"

Setting the water back, Grady nodded as he wiped his mouth. "Trang. The camp was overcrowded but I kind of stood out."

"You would," Miguel agreed.

"He used to set me up to fight. He'd take bribes for the… opportunity. Then he'd take bets on the outcome. That place was all about corruption. Hardly any food. Even less clean water. Everyone packed together. Murderers with thieves. 'Religious dissidents' with ex-soldiers." Guys just trying to kill each other. Without moving his head, Grady looked sideways at Miguel. "There was a lot of opportunity."

"Did you already know how to fight?"

"I'd learned some basics. When Beaudreaux was laid up after being shot, there was this guy in the local village teaching all the kids martial arts. I loved it. It kept me… focused. After that I started picking stuff up wherever I could. Even in the camp, man—especially in the camp, I'd hang around anyone I could get to teach me anything they knew. Besides Beaudreaux, it was the one thing in my life that made me feel less afraid."

"Güey, how old were you?"

Grady tapped the cap on the bottle, pressing his thumb against the top. "Twelve. Thirteen. I…" He frowned, feeling a pit grow in his stomach. "Young enough that I still thought… I still had this fantasy, you know. Beaudreaux would come storming in, all bad-ass special-forces, and..."

Miguel was quiet.

Grady glanced at him and then looked away, clearing his throat. "Anyway, a few years later, I gave up the fantasy and escaped. Me and this other kid in the camp. We hit the streets and, eventually, made it to Hong Kong."

"And Petrov? You said you thought he was Russian. I didn't think Russia sent soldiers into Vietnam."

Grady stared at Miguel's face. Beaudreaux had been right about him. He should go to college. He had the mind for it. Facts. Context. He swallowed, trying to form an answer. Petrov's name kept getting struck in his throat. A white-hot pulse flashing over the nerves below his sternum whenever the name got all the way to his teeth. It made him want to scream it just to get the anticipation over with. Petrov! Petrov! Petrov! He unlocked his jaw, pushing the name slowly off his tongue. "Petrov. I don't… I don't remember why he was there. I just know he was."

"This dude has a lot of power over you."

Grady tilted his eyes away and said nothing.

Miguel laced his hands together, touching his fingers to his eyes. After a moment, he let them drop. "We need Beaudreaux on this," he finally said.

"We can't."

"He's looking for us anyway, and it's only a matter of time. He'll find you. He'll find me. He'll find this Petrov guy. Those people in the cages you're talking about… they're dead already. Petrov and Trang have set you up to fail." He took a breath. "It's like a piñata, see? These dudes come to town, crashing the party they weren't invited to. They smash open the prize and make all the other kids start scrambling around—meanwhile, they gather as much candy as they can for themselves until time runs out. But time will run out. It always does. We need Beaudreaux."

Grady scrubbed the heel of a hand across his face, feeling his pulse quicken, feeling the sensation of static ride across the nerves under his skin. "I know. But I can't… I can't. Beaudreax's system isn't going to work here. And I can't go to anyone else in the department. If they start looking in his direction... if Petrov's name even pops up on a police investigation… All he needs is an excuse. Maybe he's going to kill them anyway, but if I break the rules now…"

"Then they die and you end up in the cage."

Grady flexed the muscles down his back. "I've survived cages."

Miguel pushed off the pillar, getting to his feet. He paced towards the windows, then turned. "This Petrov guy—does he know what Nigel did to you?"

"Why?"

"Because you were what, sixteen? Seventeen? Nigel branded you, put you in a cage, and made you wait your turn to die. This dude wants your cooperation, so he puts people in cages and makes them wait to die."

The pit in Grady's stomach grew wider. He moved his hand to the back of his neck, scratching fingers against the ache in his head. The room was starting to spin again. He tipped his eyes sideways at Miguel and swallowed. "I'm not sure he needs that kind of reason. I think Petrov is just… a bad man."

Miguel was silent, but a long moment later he blinked, giving Grady a deliberate look. "You said Petrov plays by his own rules."

"Yeah." Grady straightened. "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking, if we can't go to the cops. Maybe there's someone else we can go to."

"Who?"

Miguel held his hands to his sides. "The people's whose piñata was smashed. Rafferty. Scolari. Castano. Chen Dao."

Grady stared. "No way."

"No, hear me out. This guy is organized crime. With the police, it's war. With Rafferty, or Castano, it's business. They have a vested interest in finding him. They have a vested interest in not having more blood and heat in the city. And they're not the ones Petrov will be watching."

Grady pushed himself to his feet. His knee had stiffened as he sat and he listed sideways before catching his balance. "And how exactly do you see this happening?"

"I think someone, unobtrusive like myself, should do a little networking." Miguel reached down for his jacket, starting to shrug it on.

"No." Limping forward, Grady reached out to catch his sleeve. "We gotta talk this through. We can't just… I can't let you. This is my problem. If anything happened to you because of me…"

"Hey." Miguel smiled. "You forget who you're talking to. Community relations, remember? I'm good with animals."

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tbc