Chuck pulled onto his street, facing the roadblock set up by homicide. The road was starting to dry, only a few puddles left in the larger divots, giving his car traction as he downshifted. His engine hummed loudly as the lower gear engaged, slowing him down.
An officer at the barricade, short and round, with a cap resting on his balding head, put up a hand indicating to stop as Chuck let his car come to a halt at the barricade. The cop came to his window as he rolled it down, "Do you have business here, sir?" The man inquired.
Chuck fought the urge to roll his eyes as he looked up at the man. "I live at the garage just up there." He indicated his garage. "I spoke to an officer this morning before I left about two hours ago to pick up some parts for work. I'm just heading back to my shop and I'll be available for whatever detective stops by."
The man nodded as he looked in the back window of Chuck's car. "What was the name?"
"Charles Bartowski." Chuck answered impatiently.
"Okay, yeah, Detective Casey is talking to another neighbor right now, but he asked me to call him when you showed up."
Now there was a name Chuck knew. He felt his temper flare at the mention of the older man. He schooled his face to try to maintain a mask of calm. "Well I guess you can let him know I'm back. Is it OK if I go and do some work while I wait for him? I've got a city truck in there I wanted to get out today."
The officer waved him through as he called out on his radio that Chuck had returned. The barricade grated on the ground as he dragged it, opening just enough space for Chuck to drive his car through. Chuck took care to not bump the barricade, not wanting to scrape the paint on his 1996 Chevrolet Impala.
It was an older vehicle, but not old enough to be a classic, a choice Chuck had made on purpose when he picked it as his car. The stock engine had been decent for a while, clocking in at 260 HP. Two years ago, he upgraded it to a 415HP engine he was able to rebuild from a salvaged 2003 Porche 911 Turbo. Being a four door was necessary in his secondary line of work, quick entrance and exit was key to quick jobs. As he wove through the barricades, a trained eye might see that his tires were a custom built run flat style, and the weight distribution over the axles indicated it was almost 200kg lighter than the stock model, after accounting for the additional weight of the Porsche engine and additional modifications.
As he pulled up to his garage, he felt a sense of relief at finally being back in the space where everything made sense, offset by a tinge of dread at the name the barricade cop at said. That was not an encounter he was looking forward to.
The engine growled as he parked in his garage, shutting off with a light puttering. He ran his hand slowly over the wheel, feeling the creases in the leather he had memorized over the years. He sighed once heavily before getting out, hoping Carina was okay, that she hadn't brought something big to his door.
He breathed deeply as he opened the garage door, letting the fresh air that smelled of rain and sounds of cops on the street into his shop. He should be able to finish the truck today, now that he had the parts that he the parts from the back of his car. As he pulled the parts out, the cold metal sat heavy in his hands, reminding him of the gun that the blonde had tapped against her thigh.
As he settled into the routine of working on the truck, he grounded his mind in the task, focusing on the intricacies of the mechanical network of the vehicle. The metal and grease slid cleanly under his fingers as he worked, allowing his problems to slip from his mind for a brief interlude.
He was pulled from his work to the sound of leather shoes scuffing on the concrete floor. He rolled out from under the vehicle on his creeper, wiping his hands on a rag as he sat up. His visitor took long strides across the shop floor to him.
Casey's trench coat clung to his broad shoulders, emphasizing the strength he carried. His hair was cut short, a habit from his days in the military. His face was set in a frown, Chuck couldn't remember a time he hadn't seen it on his face. As he got closer, Chuck couldn't help but share his own frown as he remembered the last time he had seen Casey.
"Detective Casey, been a while." Chuck greeted him.
Casey grunted in response, a typical response. "It's detective sergeant now. About five years I think, how are you, Chuck?"
Chuck stood and crossed his arms. He leaned back against the truck, his shoulders tense and his voice catching in his throat. "Just under five years since you walked away from my parents' case. Not that I've been counting."
Casey looked around the shop, his eyes lingering for a moment on Chuck's car, but never meeting his eye. "I'm sorry, Chuck. You know I did everything I could, there just wasn't enough."
Chuck's fist tightened on the rag in his hand, his knuckles going white. "Their bodies were dumped in the middle of the street, Casey! There had to be something!" He felt the helplessness seeping under his skin, a feeling he tried to avoid but the man in front of him brought it all back. "There had to be."
"I know, kid. I tried. I'm sorry." Regret crept into Casey's voice.
Chuck felt tears well behind his eyes, and held them back. He drew a shuddering breath before speaking. "What can I do for you Detective Sergeant Casey?"
Casey pulled a notebook from his pocket and flipped it open. "Just need to know if you saw or heard anything last night."
Chuck shook his head and licked his teeth. "Nope, sound asleep."
Casey sighed as he scribbled in his notebook. "Figured you'd say that." He flipped his notebook closed.
"If that's all, Detective Sergeant Casey, I've got work to do." He pointed his thumb at the city truck behind him.
Casey looked around the shop as he closed his notebook, his eyes lingering on everything and nothing. "There's something big happening on this. My boss's boss's boss has feds crawling up his ass looking for answers. And the simple truth is I have no God damn clue what is happening." He paused and stared back at Chuck, pulling a business card from his pocket and offered it to Chuck. "In case you remember anything."
Chuck's jaw tightened as he eyed the card, making no move to take it. "Thanks for stopping by."
Casey grunted in disappointment, dropping his hand, and gently tossing his card onto a nearby table. "Be careful, kid." He turned and left, his coat billowing gently behind him.
Chuck let his head fall forward as he shut his eyes, taking a deep breath to clear his mind. He glanced at the card on the table, not sure if he should tear it up and toss it or keep it. His mind drifted to Carina as he assessed it.
Chuck's memories of their friendship starting in second grade flashed through his head, the time spent playing video games Carina had no interest in, or the dress up games Chuck had no interest in. But still always together. Her first boyfriend in nineth grade and how jealous Chuck had been. Their first kiss in tenth grade. Their very awkward first sexual experience together. Going to prom together and thinking they had their lives together in front of them. The break-up during their long-distance relationship phase while he was at Stanford, followed by the year when they didn't talk. And then her being there for him when his parents died. To now, she was the only family he had left, since Ellie had moved to Chicago and wanted to forget everything about their parents.
"What have you gotten yourself into, Ri?" he whispered to himself.
With a final glance at Casey's card on the shop table, he chose to not decide what to do about it today, and laid back down on the crawler. The familiar scent of grease and diesel grounded him as he rolled under the truck. The ratchet's click echoed in the quiet garage, a steady beat that matched the pace of his thoughts. Each turn of the wrench, each adjustment of a bolt, felt like a small victory, a piece of chaos made orderly. The rough texture of the metal under his fingers was a constant in his life, a thing that made sense when nothing else did. Here, in the solace of the garage, the noise of the world faded, and he could breathe.
He could feel the weight on his chest lighten, even if just a little. The truck wasn't just a machine, it was a puzzle, the one thing where the pieces fit perfectly. There was no room for his past under the truck, just the purity of the work, the simplicity of getting things right. In these moments, he wasn't a man haunted by his past, he was simply Chuck, doing what he did best.
The machine was straight forward. There was a problem, he could diagnose and fix it. The systems could be complicated, but it didn't lie, it didn't have motivations. It didn't have piercing blue eyes, eyes that followed his every thought no matter how hard he tried to forget them.
o-o-o-o-o
The street was quiet, cleared of cops hours ago. The midday sun had burned off the morning chill, leaving behind the stench of rain-soaked garbage and urine seeping from the alleys. The occasional box truck or work vehicle rolled by, bouncing with metallic groans as they hit the various potholes littering the worn down streets.
Chuck was in the city truck, getting it to turn over and purr, the problem solved. He'd call the city yard soon, they'd probably come to pick it up tomorrow. He left the engine running as he stepped out to have a look at the engine under the open hood. He scanned the engine, looking for vibrations and listening for any squeals or tapping.
Satisfied with the state, Chuck unhooked the prop rod, latching it back in place and letting the hood drop close with a thud. As the hood snapped, he felt a hand grab the back of his head, slamming his face towards the hood. He managed to catch himself on his forearms just before his nose met metal, but the pain in his ribs came fast, a body shot that stole his breath.
Chuck felt the attacker come up along his side, and he brought a sharp elbow up into the man's solar plexus. The man wheezed at the impact, and then unleashed two more quick fists into Chuck's side, driving them deep against his ribs. He forced Chuck's face harder into the hood of the still running truck, his cheek bone pressed so hard against the hood his vision vibrated with the engine.
"Heya, Chuckles." A voice whispered wickedly in his ear, the stubble on the man's face brushing against his cheek.
"Fuck, Bryce." Chuck groaned out. "You ever try a handshake?"
Bryce laughed maliciously as he gave Chuck one last hard shove into the truck before stepping back. "Now what would be the point in that?"
Chuck stood and tested his ribs gently, they didn't feel that bad, hopefully it would just be some bruising. "I don't know, maybe it's easier for me to make payments if I don't have broken ribs, asshole."
Bryce dusted off a patch of dust from his otherwise perfectly clean outfit. His slicked-back hair and unnecessary shades made him look more like a predator in a suit than a businessman. He pulled his suit jacket sleeves back down, covering his Larkin crest tattoo on his forearm, a shield split into four quadrants showing a heart, a sword, a pill, and his initial B, with a banner over the top reading 'Family First'. The heavy gold rings on his right hand's index and middle fingers sparkled as though displaying wealth, but Chuck could feel their real purpose in the pain in his side.
Bryce sneered at him, "We both know you won't be able to keep this up, Chuck. The interest goes up at five years."
Chuck settled his clothing around him as he walked to the truck door, reaching in through the window to turn off the engine. Bryce must have been waiting to surprise him, it had been silent in the garage for hours other than the clicking and tapping of his tools. "Interest might go up soon, but I've got this month's payment. The shop is still mine, Bryce."
"Just a matter of time, Chuck." Bryce rolled his eyes dismissively. "We could still make a deal. You come work for the Larkins full time, we'll let you keep your shop, on paper at least. You're a good driver, Chuck, even if you refuse to carry a gun."
Chuck started walking towards the small office on the lower level of the shop, Bryce following a few paces behind. "You can shove your deal up your ass, Bryce. I still pick my own jobs."
Bryce snorted. "Two bit jobs where the crews are piecemeal aren't exactly great. You work with us and we put you on a real crew, the jobs pay better and they're lower risk to you."
"Maybe lower risk to me, but not to everyone. I thought you'd have figured it out by now that I'm not going to work for you Bryce." Chuck shook his head sadly as he opened the safe in his office, pulling out an envelope with bills sticking out, offering it to Bryce.
Bryce placed his hand on the envelope and hesitated, "You sure you don't already work for us, Chuck?" And he pulled the envelope of bills, sliding it into a pocket inside his coat. He straightened his jacket and pulled it tight. "See you soon, Chuck."
Chuck stood in his office, the phantom weight of the envelope still heavy in his palm. It wasn't just the money, it was the years of pressure, the crushing inevitability that no matter how hard he tried, he'd never be free of the Larkins and their debt.
He needed another job, fast. But each one felt like another step deeper into a pit he'd never climb out of.
o-o-o-o-o
Three days later, Chuck's leather gloves creaked against the leather of the steering wheel, his grip firm and controlled. The smell of the morning air was sharp, tinged with the aroma of fresh bread from a nearby shop wafting out in waves as people got their morning pastries, taking their early morning breaks. The sun was behind him, glaring off the side view mirror as he watched through it, the inside of the bank was a familiar mix of serenity and chaos.
The crew had been inside for three minutes, another ninety seconds and they'd be out. The lookout was at the front door, ready to drag in any unfortunate members of the public that decided to do a bank run right now. Chuck could see the metallic black of his shotgun resting against his leg, easy enough to see when you looked for it, but hard to see from the street if you weren't paying attention. Passersby strolled past, oblivious, no one noticing anything amiss, not even the missing plates from his car.
Four minutes. Chuck shifted the car into gear, keeping his eyes on the bank. The two with the duffel bags emerged from the back room, moving fast and controlled for addicts. Better than the last crew, at least. The last crew thought they could hit the vault. Chuck had to leave those ones to the cops.
As the sirens picked up in the distance, Chuck pulled out in a tight turn across traffic poking into an alleyway beside the bank, cutting off pedestrian traffic. His tires screeched, drawing brief attention before it was forgotten in the chaos. The crew burst out of the bank, shouting and shoving pedestrians aside. A few bills fluttered to the ground in their wake, lost in the rising cacophony. The audible bank alarm was set off, a piercing shrill adding to the scene.
Passenger doors were flung open and the three men jumped in hurriedly, police sirens getting closer. "Go go go!" The one in the front seat shouted.
Chuck's foot slammed the gas. The roar of the engine echoed off the narrow alley walls as tires squealed against the pavement. Adrenaline flooded his system and sharpened his focus, every second stretching out as he shot out of the alley on the other side, weaving through the traffic with practiced precision. In his rearview mirror, he got glimpse of the flashing red and blues of police lights as the bank alarm's shrill wail grew distant. Chuck's hands gripped the steering wheel tighter, knuckles white as he took a sharp corner, cutting through pedestrians. The car responded like a living thing, eager and wild, matching the pounding of his heart.
Behind him, the wail of sirens grew louder, as they began the chase through the city's labyrinth. Chuck's mind raced, calculating every turn, every escape route. He gunned the engine, threading the needle between a bus and a garbage truck, feeling the rush of air pulsating as they nearly grazed his car's sides. His breath came in controlled bursts, the only sign of the pressure building inside him. The cops were closing in, but Chuck knew this city, these streets, like no one else. One more turn with his wheels squealing, then another quick one to follow, and he shot down a hidden side street, the car's tires briefly leaving the ground as he hit a dip. The sirens faded into the distance as they shot by, quickly swallowed by the city's noise. Chuck's heartbeat finally slowed as he merged with the normal traffic and exited into a parking garage, the getaway complete.
His passengers cackled with maniacal glee feeding off the rush. Chuck ignored them, his focus already shifting to the next step. He killed the engine and turned to the man beside him. "Two thousand, like we discussed."
The man's eyes glinted with something dark, his voice sharp, his pupils dilated wildly different from the meth, "Nah, bro. It's five hundred now."
Chuck's jaw tightened "The deal was two."
"Or…" The man said as his eyes turned wicked, lifting his gun to level it at Chuck. "Unless you started carrying a gun, and everyone knows you don't. I just shoot you and we keep all of it."
Chuck breathed in slowly, the threat of violence almost routine now, though no less real. "It's two thousand." He repeated, forcing calm into his voice. A trail of sweat trickled down his back as his hands tensed.
One of the men in the back leaned forward, his grin twisted in psychotic glee. "Nah, bro. It's five." The butt of his gun swung up, connecting hard under Chuck's eye. Pain exploded in his vision, white-hot and blinding. He reeled from the attack as he heard doors slamming, and felt a warmth spread down his face, the metallic taste of blood coating his lips.
When Chuck opened his eyes, the crew was gone, leaving a few crumpled bills on the back seat, the five hundred, just like they said.
He slammed his fist against the steering wheel, anger boiling over as the sting of betrayal settled in. "FUCK!"
o-o-o-o-o
It was early evening when Chuck made it back to his garage. His car engine rumbling was as discontent as he felt from the job. As the garage door opened, rays of sunshine pierced into the shop, casting long shadows that only served to emphasize the void in his life. Three empty bays, a barren future, and the last job that left him with not much more than bruises and a new scar.
As he fingered the stitches under his eye, Chuck couldn't shake the gnawing feeling that he was sinking deeper into a world he didn't want to belong to. Each job, each betrayal, was another step down a path he once thought he could avoid.
Four stitches, no concussion, and it cost him two thirds of the cash the traitorous crew had left him. But the crew was not in for a good few days. He contacted a few of the people he had worked jobs with before they went big time. They owed Z some money, and she was very happy to take Chuck's call, promising a small finders fee. It still didn't make the job worthwhile, the finders fee would maybe cover the cost of the stitches, but at least they wouldn't be double crossing anyone else.
Shutting off the engine, he felt the quiet of the garage settle around him. He could work on his car a bit tomorrow, it would need a bit of adjustment after the escape, but it was about as clean of a getaway as possible. What else he would do… He'd have to look for another job. At this rate he'd need to take a job every few days to make payments to Bryce when the interest went up.
Standing, he felt the soreness of his ribs pull at him from the beating Bryce had given him. Such an asshole, payment wasn't late or anything, a beating just because he could.
As Chuck climbed the stairs, his footsteps echoed ominously, each clang of metal a reminder of how alone he truly was. The door to his room was ajar, an unusual sight that sent a jolt of adrenaline through him. He paused, listening intently. The rustling sounds inside were far too casual, too comfortable, to belong to an intruder. Unless they were waiting for him.
Chuck was tired. Tired of surprises, tired of the fights. He was fucking tired of all of this shit. He threw the door open, revealing Carina in a pair of tight jeans and a leather jacket with entirely too many buckles, casually preparing a sandwich in his kitchen.
Her fiery hair swung wildly as she snapped to face the door. "Chuck! Shit you scared me!"
A small chuckled escaped his lips at her panic. "Well maybe let me know next time you're going to stop by. It's good to see you too, Ri."
She laughed with him for a second, and then her face took on a look of concern. She put down her half-assembled sandwich and stepped up to him, running a finger along the stitches on his cheek. "Shit, Curls. Who the fuck did this to you? I want a fucking name, Chuck!"
"It's dealt with already." He sighed as he stepped past her, her fingers gently trailing off his cheek. He looked down at the sandwich she was making with disdain. "You know I have other fixings and condiments, right?"
Carina rolled her eyes, a smirk tugging at her lips. "And we both know you don't eat tomatoes, the only reason you have them is for me. And I like mustard, some things never change, Curls." She reached out, brushing his stitches with a touch that was entirely too gentle. "Now, are you seriously not going to tell me what happened?"
Chuck ran a hand through his hair before answer. "I did a job, the crew turned on me. They technically still paid me, just less than half my rate." He sighed. "I made a few calls already. The owe Z some money, so she plans to collect and I'll get a finders fee."
Carina looked at him deeply, cataloging everything she already knew about him into the file named Chuck. "Well, maybe that makes why I'm here a bit better."
Chuck narrowed his eyes at her words. "Why are you here, Ri?"
Carina looked away, refusing to meet his eyes. "She wants to meet with you, Curls."
Chuck clenched his fists, the frustration and fear churning into a resolve he hadn't felt in years. He wasn't ready to be pulled under, not yet. But deep down, he knew the tide was coming, and it was only a matter of time before he'd have to swim with the sharks. He passed up working the best crews, he dodged the recommendations, he tried keep his profile low. And it was all blown one night because Carina had needed help.
"And if say no?" He asked, knowing the answer. A cold wave of dread washed over him. The Syndicate never asked nicely, and they never took no for an answer.
Carina's sweet smile did little to mask the gravity of her words. "Then the next person they send looks meaner." The reality of it hung in the air like a noose tightening around his neck.