The fighter falls back to the floor, and Victor uses his fists to end it.
Time blurs after that.
The next thing he knows, a heavy hand lands on his shoulder, and Phantom’s saying, “Geez, cuz, pretty sure he’s dead.”
Phantom’s voice draws Victor out of his red haze, and he finds the worthy fighter dead beneath him, his face little more than a bloody pulp.
He looks all around and sees the thing he didn't register while he was caught up in his unexpected one-on-one fight.
As it turns out, Phantom didn't need him for Target Practice at all. Eleven other 24K now lie dead in various positions around the warehouse.
“But I did look plenty badass double fisting Glocks while I did that shit,” Phantom brags as they walk to the warehouse’s shower room. “So thanks for the extra gun.”
Gone are the days when they would walk around the city of Hong Kong after a ritualistic killing, proudly sporting the blood and DNA of their enemies.
Now they carefully take showers after any wet work. Making sure to scrub every inch of their bodies and under their nails, too, to ensure that there is nothing left behind that could be used against them as evidence of their crimes.
And as for their suits and shoes, those go into a barrel and are set on fire after the job is done.
However, Phantom’s irreverent tone disappears as they watch the clothes burn.
“I know this shit was personal, but we shouldn't get back into the habit of doing our own kills,” Phantom reminds him, his voice taking on an uncharacteristically prudent tone. “Especially if we’re serious about going legit.”
Victor looks over at him, scrunching his brow.
And Phantom asks, “What?”
“What's going on with you?” Victor demands.
“Nothing,” Phantom answers. But then he admits, “I've got an opportunity. And it will be easier to take it if I look a little less shady. Especially on paper. So I need you to feel me on not doing our own wet work anymore…”
Victor's personal phone erupts with a call before he can answer his cousin.
He frowns when he sees the number. It’s a New Jersey area code but not one he recognizes. So how did an unrecognizable number make it all the way to a phone filled only with numbers Victor put in himself?
He sends the call to voicemail just to be safe.
But he immediately wishes he hadn't as soon as he hears it.
“Hey man, it's Luca. This is a hell of a message to leave on voicemail. I was going to keep my mouth shut. I tried to keep my mouth shut. But I meant what I said about having been where you were. And Amber just got a call about Dawn on her office line. If it were me, and my woman was in the hospital in the state she's in, I'd want to know. I’d need to know. So I'm telling you….”
21
DAWN
After several hours, another nurse finally appears in the hallway, where I was left to wait. At least waiting was what the first nurse called it. I was the only one back here, and it’s so cold and poorly lit, it feels like I’ve been left to rot.
“Excuse me! Excuse me! Can you help me?” I ask the passing nurse.
The nurse stops, but she seems to be considering whether to acknowledge my presence before actually turning around. “Keeping in mind that we’re swamped, and I’m not the one who issues drugs, what can I do for you, hon?”
My head is pounding, and her weird, defensive tone makes me want to back down. But I’m looking out for the health of two people now, so I press on, “Um, another nurse came through earlier, and I gave her a card with a number to call—that’s all I have on me. But she never came back. I just want to see if she was able to get in contact with anyone.”
The nurse frowns. “You gave the nurse an insurance card? Then why are you back here in the hallway? This is where we bring people to sleep it off.”
“Actually, I’m not sure why I’m back here. This is just where I woke up, and I have no idea how much time has passed. It took forever for me to get the chance to talk to the first nurse.”
“But you gave her an insurance card, and she didn’t have you moved to the beds in front?”
“No, it was a business card I still had stored in my coat. I don't have an insurance card with me,” I explain quickly. “That's the issue, I think. I don't know what happened. I was mugged, and I must have passed out and somehow ended up here. But I'm pregnant, and I just want to make sure—”
“You’re pregnant? Great, just great…” the nurse grumbles, grabbing my chart. “How far along?”