Chapter Three:

  Trust is a loaded gun, you need to be careful with who you hand it over to. Give it to wrong person, your last supper will be lead; but sometimes, it’s a rope, haulin’ you out of the black. In a city this far gone, figurin’ who and what you can trust isn’t just a question - it’s the whole damn game.

  “Can you take a minute to slow down, and explain what that was back there?” Nora asked, voice filled with a tone panic and bewilderment.

  “I get how you’re feelin’,” Ezra said, his tone warm but taut, eyes flicking to the rearview. “But right now, I gotta keep watch for any tails. Need to stay sharp.”

  The yellow cab had just barreled down the twisted Hemlock hill, and entered the downtown city limits. Ezra eased up at the light- mind churning as the wheels idled. His destination was Harlan’s estate was north of the city. From here, he could drive parallel to the levee - through the heart of Sanguine smog, the industrial zone - slip under the Red Veil Bridge, and onto the on ramp to cross the river. Upside, it’s fast and desolate, he’ll see a tail for blocks away. Downside, is that same quiet. If the drop came, ain’t a soul in Sanquine around to see it.

  ‘Way those thugs operate, I reckon a crowd ain’t stoppin’ em none’ Ezra reasoned to himself. ‘Besides, I gotta grab Harlan at Marlene’s, but I can’t risk Nora being clocked there. Gotta stash her first.’

  He swung right at the light, the cab’s frame creaking as it turned into the industrial sprawl, and muttered a silent prayer that the city’s scum weren’t lying in wait. The street stretched ahead, lined with hulking warehouses and smokestacks belching black plumes, their shadows clawing across cracked pavement. The air hung thick with coal dust and the sharp bite of molten iron, the noon sun dulled to a sickly bronze behind the haze.

  A couple of minutes ticked by, the silence in the cab heavy as the smog outside. Nora broke it, her voice soft but quivering, like a wire pulled taut. “This part of town’s a bit quiet, don’t’cha think?” she said, fear lacing the words, maybe a shade of mistrust.

  “Aw, shoot,” Ezra muttered, wincing as he caught her tone. “Sorry, miss—I didn’t think this route through.”

  “What’cha mean?” Nora asked, her stutter betraying the nerves still raw from the fight.

  “You gotta be wound tighter than a drum,” Ezra said, glancing over to gauge her state, his eyes softening. “And here I am, haulin’ you through these sketchy backstreets. Just met me, and after havin’ your life threatened? Wasn’t too thoughtful, I reckon.”

  “I—I get it,” Nora said, her voice catching. ‘He seems earnest,’ she thought, though doubt gnawed at her—she’d been burned before. “So, can you tell me what’s goin’ on? I’ll help keep an eye out,” she offered.

  “Alright, I reckon I owe you that much,” Ezra said, his tone warm but cautious, eyes scanning the rearview for any flicker of pursuit. “But you’ll have questions, and I ain’t got all the answers, so it’s a quick SITREP—short and sweet, yeah?”“

  “Pardon?” Nora asked, brow furrowing, the military term catching her off guard.

  “SITREP’s war jargon—sorry, it slips out sometimes,” Ezra said, a faint grin tugging at his mouth. “Situation report. Straight to the point, no bull.”

  “Got it,” Nora said, her voice leveling

  “So, last night, your sister Marlene and her husband Richie got pinched,” Ezra said, keeping his voice even, like he was laying out a hand of cards.

  “For what?” Nora asked, her tone sharp and inquisitive, but not shocked, as if she’d half-expected trouble to find her sister.

  “Well,” Ezra said, pausing to choose his words, like sidestepping a minefield, “that’s one of them questions that just breeds more. Best you see the why, not hear it from me. I only know half the story, but I know who’s got the rest.”

  “K,” Nora said, the single letter dripping with skepticism, her eyes narrowing as she studied him.

  “Short version: she crossed someone she works with—dunno who—and now she’s in deep,” Ezra continued, his gaze flicking between the road and the mirror.

  “What’s that got to do with me?” Nora pressed.

  “You’re the collateral,” Ezra said bluntly. “Like, if she don’t play ball, you’re the one who goes down with her.”

  “Well, did she play ball?” Nora asked.

  “I—I don’t know,” Ezra admitted. “Barely got a whisper myself—just told to get to you before noon, her deadline, and keep you safe. Don’t know if I spooked those goons or if she skipped town. Who knows?”

  “So where we headed now?” Nora asked, her skepticism softening into curiosity, though her guard stayed up.

  “Didn’t think far enough to ask where to stash you,” Ezra said “so I’m takin’ you to my boss’s house. You’ll be safe there.”

  “Boss—of the cab company?” Nora asked, one eyebrow arching, her tone probing.

  “Huh? Oh, no, no,” Ezra chuckled, breaking the tension for a moment. “My other boss. He’s the one who tipped me you were in a jam.”

  “And you trust him?” Nora said, her eyebrow still cocked, voice laced with doubt.

  “Yeah,” Ezra said, eyes steady on the road. “We go back to the war. We have each other’s back, to hell and back.”

  Ezra eased off the gas, the cab gliding under the Red Veil Bridge’s iron lattice, its rivets glinting faintly in Sanguine’s midday haze. He rolled another block, weaving through the industrial zone’s tail end, then took two quick lefts onto the main drag, tires humming on smoother pavement. “Didn’t sniff a tail,” he said, voice steady but cautious. “Think we’re good to cross.” He nudged the cab onto the bridge, the engine’s low growl blending with the river’s distant churn below.

  Halfway across, the smog parted like a curtain, revealing Sanguine’s raw majesty—jagged mountains piercing the sky, their peaks dusted with haze, and the sea beyond glittering like shattered diamonds under the noon sun. The city’s grime seemed to fall away, if only for a moment.

  “Could be a pretty city if we let it.” Nora mused. “You know, for all the industry we have here, I’m baffled as to what we actually produce.”

  “During the war it was mutions. Now, Japan folding any day, war is winding down.” Ezra said “But those factories are still hummin’ like it was ‘42.”

  “Anyway,” Ezra pivoted, glancing at her, “if you don’t mind me noticin’, you didn’t blink when I said your sister got pinched.”

  “Yeah, well,” Nora said, pausing, her gaze dropping to her hands, “to be honest, her moral compass always pointed to herself.” She hesitated, then added, “Richie, though—that threw me. He was a boy scout. Naive, too. If she’s tangled in somethin’, I can’t see her draggin’ him in.”

  “My turn,” Nora said, her eyes narrowing as she sized Ezra up, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “Somethin’ I noticed.”

  “That is?” Ezra asked, curiosity sparking, his hands steady on the wheel.

  “When you hit my door, you were tongue-tied,” she said, her face blank, testing him. ‘I wanna see if he’s as earnest as he seems,’ she thought, watching for a tell.

  “Y-yeah, I—uh,” Ezra stumbled, a flush creeping up his neck. “Got there with minutes to spare. Hadn’t cooked up what to say when I saw you.”

  “Uh-huh?” Nora pressed, her voice light but probing. “That all?”

  “Yeah,” he said, chuckling sheepishly. “What do you say in a spot like that? ‘Come with me if you wanna live’? Or ‘Hi, I’ll be the cabbie you didn’t ask for—you won a free ride!’” His grin broke wide, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

  “So you’re tellin’ me you haven’t done this before?” she teased, a glint of amusement in her eye, her guard easing just a fraction.

  “Believe it or not, first time,” Ezra said, his laugh soft, like a valve releasing steam.

  The tension in the cab thawed, the air lighter as the Red Veil Bridge fell behind them. The city’s sprawl gave way to a forest road, pine shadows stretching long across the gravel, their scent sharp through the cracked windows. Ezra tossed out another apology for the remote trek, his voice tinged with self-awareness. A few miles in, the road opened to a rustic estate, its stone wall weathered but proud, encircling a sprawling house. The place had a fading beauty, like an old oil painting left too long in the sun—grand once, now softened by time, its gables and shutters sagging under the weight of years.

  Ezra swung the cab around the estate’s horseshoe drive, its gravel crunching under the tires, the center patch—once a manicured garden—now a tangled snarl of weeds and knee-high grass, baked dry by the noon sun. He braked hard at the stone steps leading to the front door, the cab lurching to a stop before the sprawling house.

  “We’re here” he says.

  He bolted out, boots hitting the ground with a puff of dust, and fumbled the key into the lock of the heavy oak door, its brass knob tarnished but solid. The hinges creaked as it swung open, revealing a shadowed foyer. “Look,” he said, turning to Nora, his eyes bracing her for the hand-off, “I can’t stick around.”

  “You’re just going to leave me here?” Nora’s voice spiked.

  “You’ll be fine, I swear.” He reassures “I get the place looks a little rough and neglected, but its not as bad inside - and the kitchen’s stocked- and the library is a knockout.”

  “You pulled me out of my house, and you aren’t going to stay?” Her head tilted, frustration carving a line across her brow.

  “It’s my boss - He was out looking for your sister.” Ezra explains “He could be in a jam. I could have swung by and got on the way, but no point ‘n saving you from the frying pan, just to bring you to a fire.”

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “I - I suppose I get it” she says reluctantly, “Just - don’t forget me here”

  “Couldn’t if I tried, ma’am” Ezra smiles, as he bounded down the steps.

  “Wait” she calls back, “I just realized I didn’t catch your name.”

  “It’s Ezra” he tossed back, sliding into the cab. Engine growled, and he peeled out—off to play hero again.

  -

  Harlan gripped the thug’s collar—the same mug he’d clocked with his oxygen tank—and gave him a hard shake, followed by a sharp slap across the jaw. “Wake up!” he barked, voice muffled through the gas mask’s rubber hose. “Wake up!”

  The thug, the one the Russian had sneered at as “Durak,” stirred, his eyes fluttering open, bleary and pissed. “Let go, you freak!” he snapped, squinting at the mask’s red lenses glinting in the noon light filtering through heavy velvet curtains. ‘Might’ve clocked my face earlier,’ Harlan thought, ‘but no second chances now.’

  “I’ll drag you to the roof and drop you,” Harlan growled, voice rumbled through the rubber hose, “unless you start singin’.”

  “You and what army, mook?” Durak spat, lip curling.

  Harlan snatched a fistful of Durak’s slicked-back hair and yanked him toward the bathroom, the linoleum slick with scattered morphine syrettes. “See your pal?” he said, nodding at the Russian slumped in a doped-out heap, his bulk wedged against the marble sink. “Just me’s plenty.” He shoved Durak’s head toward the splintered bedpost in the bedroom, grinding his cheek into the jagged wood, the air sharp with sawdust and the sour reek of Richie’s corpse.

  Durak howled. “Alright! Stop! What d’ya wanna know?”

  “Where’re the kids?” Harlan demanded, his grip iron-tight.

  “What kids?” Durak gasped, eyes wide with panic.

  Harlan clamped both hands down, raking the post like Durak’s face was sandpaper on raw timber, the wood biting into skin.

  “Jesus! I don’t deal in kids, man!” Durak wailed, his voice breaking like cheap glass.

  Harlan twisted Durak’s face up, forcing it toward Richie’s bloated corpse swaying from the ceiling beam. “His wife did!” he snarled.

  “It’s the gospel truth!” Durak cried, sweat beading on his brow. “That sounds like a Russian racket, man!”

  “You work for the Russian, Durak!” Harlan shot back, lenses filling with fog the angrier he gets.

  “Do I sound Russian to you! Durak is slang for a Stunad” He says with a Italian flair “You know, an Idiot! I was on loan, I’m just an Associate of the Lupos, I ain’t even made, I’m small time. Lupos and Reds run their own games, swap favors now and then. Boss says jump, I jump—that’s it! They don’t talk, I don’t dig!”

  “What was your job here?” Harlan pressed, unrelenting.

  “Handle the stiff; come back and confirm the dame punched her own ticket. Got you instead.”

  “Why didn’t you stick around?” Harlan growled.

  “We watched from outside,” Durak rasped. “Hoverin’ over her? That’d scream murder, not suicide. Boss said she had to ice herself. If she didn’t, we just report it, not our mess.”

  “Who’s your boss takin’ orders from?” Harlan asked, leaning closer, the mask’s lenses catching a glint of sunlight.

  “Mikhal played middleman,” Durak said, nodding at the doped-out Russian sprawled in the john. “Even if he could talk, you’d get squat—those Red bastards bathe in ice water for kicks.”

  “Want a taste of his medicine?” Harlan snapped, red lenses flaring. “You’ll dig up what I need.”

  “You nuts? What I gave ya’s already got me swingin’ by the short hairs.” Durak pleaded “Sniffin’ up the Lupo chain? A kid in these goes missin’, they get posters. Wise guys like me vanish— it’s like you were never here.”

  “One job, stunad, and we’re square,” Harlan said, voice cold a Russian bath water.

  Durak gulped. “I’ll bite—what?”

  “Go to Boss Lupo. Spill it all—skip my nap and this little chat, or you’re done. Then tell him straight: ‘The mask knows his Russian hookup. Once I gut the Reds, Lupo’s next.’”

  “And you’ll let me walk?” Durak asked, voice trembling

  “Flap anything else, I’ll know,” Harlan hissed. “Don’t try me.”

  “Y-you got it.”

  “One more thing—where’s would you meet him?”

  “Cafe Roma,” Durak stammered. “His joint. I can sit him down there.”

  “Tonight,” Harlan ordered, his tone final.. “Get it done.”

  “I’m on it, swear!”

  Harlan slammed Durak to the boards, wood groaning under the thug’s weight. “Don’t twitch till I’m gone. Clear out before the cops swarm, or you’re a dead to me.”

  Durak nodded, clawing splinters from his chewed-up cheek. Harlan snatched his tank, case in hand, and slipped out the fire escape. ‘Ezra’s got till noon to snag Nora,’ he figured, ‘If he’s using every second, I’ve got an hour to burn. Cafe Roma’s ten blocks—I’ll scope it, then link with Ezra. Can’t stash gear here; cops’ll buzz this joint like flies on a stiff’.

  He cut through the neighborhood’s alleys. A sagging porch caught his eye a jagged plank masking a crawlspace hole. ‘Good for an hour’, he reckoned. He peeled off his coat, wrapped the briefcase tight, and shoved it into the gloom—blending with the shadows. Without it, he looked less like a brawler, but his face—split lip, bruised jaw—sang a different tune.

  Adrenaline ebbed, and the Russian’s fists echoed in his bones—aches creeping like damp rot. ‘Need a weapon that ain’t this damn tank.’, he growled to himself, flexing a sore hand.

  Harlan limped the ten blocks, aches gnawing his bones, till Cafe Roma loomed across the street—a brick hulk stinking of class and grease. In its lot, a delivery cart rattled in.

  ‘Lot’s wide open, too damn busy come dark’ he figured. ‘Can’t work out here—need inside, get eyes on the guts.’

  Next door to Harlan, a gutted storefront sagged, “Coming Soon” plastered over grime. A foreman barked at his crew, clipboard dumped on his truck hood. Harlan swiped it, smooth as a pickpocket, and tucked it under his arm, crossing the street to Roma’s door.

  A lumbering goon blocked him, ushering crates. “Closed till supper, mac. Scram.”

  “Health inspector,” Harlan shot back, flashing the clipboard fast—ink a blur.

  The goon sized him up, squinting. “Fine. Talk to Fabrizo’s inside.” He jerked a thumb at a slick suit mid-row with a worker.

  Harlan eased in. ‘Distracted—good. Play it quick, he won’t pry too much’, he figured. The sommelier was red-faced, railing. “Six-month-old swill? I can’t sell this - this - grape juice!”

  “You ordered it, stunad!” Fabrizo snapped, tie askew. “I leaned on my guys for you!”

  “Five years old bottles - AT LEAST - I said!” the flunky snarled.

  “Excuse me!” Harlan cut in, voice like a blade.

  Fabrizo threw up a finger—wait—then barked, “Figure out how to sell it, or you’re out.” The sommelier stormed off, fuming. Fabrizo swung to Harlan. “Yeah, what?”

  “Health inspector, sir.”

  “Bull,” Fabrizo growled. “We just had one.”

  ‘Shit,’ Harlan cursed inwardly. “Follow-up,” he said, tapping at the clipboard. “Boss’s orders—some mix-up.”

  Fabrizo’s eyes narrowed, fingers rubbing air—cash sign. “Not enough grease last time, huh?”

  Harlan perked, playing it coy. “Between us, the old guy got canned for to many uh”—he mimed the rub—“and my boss, straight-arrow type, wanted a redo.”

  “Uh-huh,” Fabrizo said, skeptical.

  “Don’t sweat it,” Harlan grinned. “Place looks tight—above code. I’ll keep the old deal alive… next visit.”

  “Naturally,” Fabrizo muttered.

  “Just need the lay of the land quick,” Harlan pressed. “Boss’ll quiz me—you get it.”

  “Fine,” Fabrizo said, “but stick to dining room, kitchen, johns. Upstairs offices are off limits.”

  “Got it, chief!” Harlan snapped a mock salute.

  For the next ten minutes, he poked at tables, fingered greasy cutlery, and scuffed along stained floors, drifting to the johns. The sinks hid a cupboard—locked, but a cheap pin-tumbler, he clocked. ‘Could work,’ he mused, ‘if I snag a seat tonight.’

  He fished a key-chain from his pocket—no keys, just a nest of picks. One hook popped the lock smooth, revealing stacks of napkins and toilet rolls. He gutted it—every roll from the stalls too—drowned ‘em under the tap, then chucked the soggy mess in the trash, tying off the bag.

  Harlan stepped out, lobbing the dripping sack down a hall near the exit, and hunted Fabrizo. “Clean as a whistle, boss,” he said, tipping an invisible cap.

  “Good,” Fabrizo grunted. “On your way then?”

  “One hitch,” Harlan cut in.

  Fabrizo’s brow arched. “Yeah?”

  “Your men’s john’s bare—no toilet paper.”

  Fabrizo snarled, “I’ve got kids runnin’ this joint—damn kids! Thanks, pal. Next visit’s welcome.”

  “Funny you say that,” Harlan grinned. “In lieu of our usual”—he rubbed fingers—“how’s a table tonight? Sister’s in town.”

  “Fine, Mister…?” Fabrizo trailed, fishing for a name.

  “Voss - Elias Voss” Harlan offered.

  Harlan stalked out of Cafe Roma and cut back toward Marlene’s block—after a quick detour to snatch his gear from that rotting porch. The street was a hive—cops buzzing, an ambulance parked crooked, two stretchers rolling out, one with body bag zipped tight.

  ‘Damn,’ Harlan thought, gut sinking. ‘Two syrette’s would have killed most men - but that Russian might make it’ Relief mixed with dread filled Harlan—he’d never snuffed a life before, but that may come to haunt him. ‘If that Russian stirs, he might peg my face—trouble’s got my number then.’

  No time to stew—Ezra’s cab swung ‘round the corner. Harlan piled into the back, exhausted.

  “Went swell, huh?” Ezra said, sarcasm thick as Sanquine’s smog.

  “Floor it,” Harlan say. “I’ll fill you in on the ride.”