Page 7 of Make Them Bleed (Pretty Deadly Things #1)

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. I knew her. 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 passes in 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.

Dusk paints the city pink by the time I push through my apartment door.

8-bit music roars from the living room. Gage is perched cross-legged on the floor, headset askew, mashing buttons like the controller owes him money.

Next to him sprawls Knight Hayes—six-foot-three, short boxed beard, and grinning like a devil out past curfew.

He waves a bag of take-out fries as a greeting.

“Yo, Hero Hoover!” Knight booms. “Gage filled me in.”

I shoot Gage a look. “Loose lips, bro.”

Gage pauses the game, and shoves chips into his mouth. “Hey, Knight’s rock solid. We figured an extra player can’t hurt.”

Knight props his elbows on his knees. “Look, man, high-school bros honor code. If I can body-check some scumbags for your girl, I’m in.”

I drop my backpack, and toe off my shoes. “Appreciate it. Just… keep it quiet. We can’t have Juno spooked.”

“Secrecy level: ninja,” Knight promises, zipping imaginary lips.

We crash onto the couch. Knight unpauses Galactic Mayhem 9 and we trade controllers between firefights. Conversation weaves around explosions.

“So,” Knight says over the chaos, “any new suspects?”

“Working theories,” I answer, thumb gunning lasers. “Dean’s pulling strings, checking for chatter. Got a lead on a crypto wallet that paid out five equal slices the night Arby died.”

Gage whistles. “Sounds like contract payouts.”

“Exactly my thought.” I land a head-shot combo, and pass the controller to Knight. “Question is: who funded it?”

Knight leans forward. “Was Arby seeing anyone shady? Ex-boyfriend, stalker fan?”

My chest tightens. “I don’t know. She was private about dating, weirdly. Juno might know something.”

Gage pauses mid-sip of soda. “But if you ask, she’ll smell something.”

“Yeah.” I scrub a hand over my face. “I’ll have to tread lightly.”

Knight elbows me. “Could scan her socials. Cross-reference frequent commenters, DMs. If a dude got ghosted, might’ve snapped.”

Gage nods enthusiastically. “Digital jealousy leaves footprints.”

I grin despite exhaustion. “You guys are psychopaths—but useful ones.”

Knight raises his soda can. “To useful psychos!”

We clink cans, resume the game, and strategize between shouts and laughter. For a couple of hours, the weight lifts; pixels explode instead of real people. But underneath, a current of purpose hums—we’re forming our own little task force.

When the final boss collapses in 16-bit glory, Knight stretches, cracking his neck. “Anything, Finn, you holler. I live for this shit.”

“I might take you up on that,” I admit, heart steady with new resolve. “We’re just getting started.”

Knight grins. “Then let’s make sure the next stream the world sees is those mask-wielding bastards getting exactly what they deserve.”

Amen to that, I think, as nine ticks closer… and Juno’s next alley rendezvous draws near.