Page 12 of Make Them Bleed
I glance at the door Arrow just left through.Would he freak out?Probably. But maybe he’d understand the screaming hole Arby left in me; how chasing answers is the only time I feel remotely whole.
I shake off the thought. He’ll never know. Hoover has my back, Arrow keeps my sanity, and by the end of this, The Five will have nowhere to hide.
Cue dramatic lighting.
6
Arrow
The stretch of highway out to Maddox Security’s compound is a ribbon of cracked asphalt that seems determined to shake loose every guilty thought rattling in my skull. My ancient Civic grumbles up the final hill, cresting to reveal the squat gray silhouette of the facility—part tech campus, part fortress, all Dean. Motion-activated spotlights sweep the perimeter even at ten in the morning, making the place feel like it’s daring someone to try something stupid.
I drive up to the kiosk, flashing my temp badge at the guard. He waves me through and I park in my usual spot by the employee entrance and flash the badge at the panel. A cheerful chirp, a hiss of hydraulics, and I’m inside the climate-controlled corridors that smell faintly of ozone and lemon cleanser. The silence here is always eerie—state-of-the-art security gear hums like electronic crickets, but otherwise it’s a monastery for nerds.
Dean Maddox intercepts me before I can even dump my backpack at the hot-desk bullpen. He’s in tailored black, beard trimmed, looking more CEO than security specialist.
“Finn,” he greets, clapping a heavy hand on my shoulder. “You look like you coded through the night again.”
“Who needs REM cycles?” I deadpan. “Coffee is cheaper.”
He steers me toward the glass-walled conference room that everyone calls the Aquarium. “Got a sec? Something’s been buzzing in my ear.”
I follow, pulse quickening. Maybe he’s traced one of my more questionable web dives. Inside, Dean closes the door, folds muscled arms, and fixes me with that tactical-assessment stare.
“So,” he says, voice pitched low. “You know a girl named Arby Kate?”
Straight to the jugular. I swallow. “I—yeah. Iknewher. Influencer who was murdered a few months ago.”
Dean nods slowly. “News says they’re still hunting leads. Cops briefed us—asked if any chatter crossed our feeds. I figured it might be personal for you.” He tilts his head. “You close with the family?”
“Her sister Juno is my best friend.” The admission feels like sliding a live wire across the table. “I’m… helping where I can.”
“Helping,” Dean echoes. “That why your external IPs flagged deep-web pings last night?”
My stomach drops. “You looking at my logs?”
“Relax, kid. Only the anonymized metadata. But it raised a brow.” He leans forward, elbows on the glass. “If you need resources—legit resources—I can reach out. We’ve got contacts in cyber-crime, a few favors in federal circles. Quiet inquiries.”
Hope sparks, tempered by my secret identity crisis. “Could you see if anyone’s heard chatter? Rumors about buyers commissioning hits, that sort of thing?”
“Already put the word downrange.” Dean’s gaze softens a fraction. “But, Arrow, hear me: let the authorities run point. Vigilante work’s a good way to wind up dead or in federal housing.”
“When has ‘let the authorities handle it’ ever worked out for anyone I care about?” The bitterness shocks even me. “The cops have zip. Meanwhile Juno’s drowning.”
Dean exhales through his teeth, then taps a knuckle on the table. “Snoop carefully, then. Any whiff of you crossing lines, I pull you back, understand?”
“Scout’s honor.” I hold up three fingers.
He snorts. “You were never a scout.” Still, he extends a small flash drive. “Raw scrape from a darknet market we monitor. Might be nothing, but a user posted about ‘content creators paying overdue debts.’ Time-stamped two days before Arby’s murder. No handle match yet.”
My fingers tingle as I take it. “Thank you.”
“Keep me updated,” Dean says, already shifting back into commander mode. “And get some real sleep before you face-plant on my firewall.”
“Will do, boss.”
The afternoon passesin a blur of packet sniffers and penetration-test scripts. I set an automated crawler to parse the darknet dump, then send myself encrypted notes for later—as Hoover. By five, my brain is fried but the crawler spits back two curious hits: a wallet address that received five identical payments the night of the murder, and a burner email domain registered in Saint Pierce.
I screenshot everything, toss my gear in my bag, and bail.
