Page 9 of Make Them Bleed (Pretty Deadly Things #1)

Arrow

I gun my ancient Civic up the cracked two-lane that leads to Maddox Security and pretend the potholes are stress balls—each one a satisfying thump under the tires that releases some of the panic coiled in my chest since last night’s alley rendezvous.

Sunrise is still warming the horizon, brushing the pine trees with watercolor pinks, yet my pulse is already slamming triple time.

I glance at the passenger seat. A flash-drive the size of a Chiclet rattles inside an evidence bag, stamped POSSIBLE LEAD—DO NOT LOSE in Gage’s Sharpie scrawl.

The drive holds a copy of the crypto-wallet ledger and burner-email domain I scraped at four-thirty a.m. It’s all I have to give Dean this morning, and it feels pathetically small—a pebble tossed at a freight train.

But it’s something. Something means momentum, and momentum keeps Juno alive.

The Maddox compound squats at the top of a ridge like a paranoid castle: six-foot steel fencing, cameras that track hawks in flight, solar panels glinting like polished shields.

Most folks see an ultra-secure tech campus; I see a hard-won sanctuary run by the one guy I trust not to rat me out to the Feds.

The guard at the gate kiosk barely glances at my temp badge before waving me through.

Inside, fluorescent lights hum, HVAC whooshes, and the faint scent of Dean’s preferred lemon-verbena floor cleaner lingers like we’re inside a very tidy storm cloud.

I cut across the bullpen, and bee-line to the Aquarium.

Dean Maddox is already there, pacing, fingers flying over a phone. Black Henley, black jeans, combat boots. He looks up the second I crack the door, gray eyes assessing, and kills the call.

“Finn,” he rumbles, voice like gravel shaken in a steel drum. “Got your message. Show me what you’ve got.”

I hand him the drive. “Ledger from a dark-web exchange. Five equal payouts—same night Arby died. Wallet’s ghost-registered, but one address traces back to a local ISP.”

Dean snaps the evidence bag open, plugs the drive into a tablet, and scrolls. His brows lower, forming that trench that only appears when something actually worries him. “You pull this legally?”

I manage a bland smile. “Define legally.”

He snorts, but it’s fifty-percent admiration. “Fine. I’ll route it through some friends at CYBERTRAC. No promises.”

I blow out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Appreciate it.”

Dean folds muscular arms, gaze drilling into me. “Listen, Arrow—you sure you want to keep poking this? You look like you slept in a car wash. Authorities?—”

“—have nothing,” I finish, a little sharper than intended. The echo of Arby’s final scream slices across my memory. “I’m not playing vigilante. I’m just…parsing data the cops missed.”

Dean’s jaw ticks. “Just parsing really ugly data. Which can get you shot if the wrong people think you’re in the way.”

“That’s why I came to you,” I confess. “If chatter pops up—contracts, chatter rooms, whatever—I need ears.”

He sighs. “I’ll text my contacts. Pull favors. But you stay two steps back from the fire, understood?”

“When has staying back ever worked?” The frustration slips out before I can reel it in. “Arby’s dead. Juno’s barely holding on. Waiting isn’t an option.”

Dean’s steady gaze softens—just a hair. “You love this girl.”

I look down at the table’s smooth glass surface; my reflection looks like a ghost behind the fluorescents. “Since we were ten.”

“Then protect her smart, not loud.” He pockets the drive. “I’ll let you know when something shakes loose.”

“That’s all I need.” I straighten, shouldering my backpack. “Thanks, Dean.”

“Arrow,” he calls as I reach the door. I pause. “Stay safe out there.”

I almost smile. “Copy that, boss.”

The sun has climbed to a merciless angle by the time I pull into the parking lot of my apartment complex—a squat three-story brick building with fading teal trim and a resident raccoon that raids the dumpsters like clockwork.

I’m still replaying Dean’s warning when I climb the stairwell and push into Unit 2B.

The living room smells like cold French-fries and victory-sweat—never a good sign.

Battalion-level explosions ricochet from the TV, and Gage, in Jurassic-Park pajama bottoms, sits cross-legged on the rug like a meditation guru for chaos.

Beside him lounges Knight, currently balancing a controller in one hand and a greasy takeout carton in the other.

Knight looks up, salute-flicks two fingers off his brow. “General Hoover, reporting for after-action.”

I kick the door shut with my heel and drop my pack. “Please don’t call me that in public.”

Gage pauses the game—pixelated carnage freezes mid-explosion—and peers over his glasses. “So? Dean hook you up with the CIA yet?”

“Working on it.” I toe off my sneakers and flop onto the couch, exhaustion seeping into the cushions. “He’s got feelers out. Could take time.”

Knight shoves the carton at me—lo mein, looks like. “Carb up, soldier. We were reconning in your absence.”

My eyebrows climb. “Reconning, huh?”

Gage nods enthusiastically. “Knight pulled Arby’s old TikTok lives, scraped the chat for recurring user handles. We isolated a dozen that spammed hate comments the month before she died.”

Knight beams like a cat that hacked a Roomba. “Already dumped the usernames into a relational DB, cross-referenced with breach lists from HaveIBeenPwned. Two of ’em have Saint Pierce addresses.”

I blink, genuinely impressed. “Dude. That’s…fast.”

Knight cracks his neck. “I live for this shit, remember?”

Gage nudges a plate of fries toward me. “Eat while the details are fresh.”

I grab a fry, chew, then lean forward. “Okay. Any signs they escalated beyond trolling? Threat DMs, doxxing?”

Knight brings up a laptop—the sticker-plastered beast whirs like a jet engine. “One dude sent Arby a ‘Your time is coming’ message three weeks pre-attack. Account nuked day after the murder.”

My fists clench. “Coward.”

Gage spins around, head tilted. “Were you able to tie the burner email domain you found to this guy?”

“Not yet,” I admit. “But Dean’s people might.”

Knight scrolls. “Also, rumor on a gossip forum claims Arby was secretly dating someone ‘problematic.’ No name—just vague ‘older-guy bad vibes’ posts.”

I exchange a look with Gage. “If that’s real, motive could be jealousy. Or blackmail.”

“Or sabotage,” Gage adds. “Toxic ex leaks her address to psychos for notoriety.”

Knight shrugs. “Influencer murders get clicks. Dark corners pay for ’em.”

“There’s also another user. Looks like a stalker. Elijah123 is the handle.” Gage shrugs. “Could be nothing.”

“He local?”

Gage nods. “Yeah, he’s either really stupid, or not a threat because we have an address.”

“Text it to me,” I say in a flash.

“I think we look at the older man theory as well,” Knight says.

My stomach knots. I shove the carton aside. “We need Juno’s blessing before we dig deeper into Arby’s love life. But first—I promised her I’d secure a workspace.”

Gage perks up. “Knight’s uncle owns that abandoned print shop near the river. Still got power.”

Knight smirks. “Place smells like ink and disappointment, but it’s empty and locked. I can get keys.”

I consider. Riverfront’s isolated, but not deserted. Close enough to Juno’s apartment. “Make it happen. I’ll rig Wi-Fi through a tethered node, keep everything air-gapped.”

Gage claps once, triumphant. “Boys’ clubhouse, but for murder investigations.”

Knight stands, and stretches like a panther. “Cue the montage.”

Two hours later, we’ve turned the print-shop office into a makeshift war room: spare desks dragged into a rough horseshoe around a thrift-store whiteboard, extension cords snaking like vines, my portable router blinking amber.

Knight’s hauled in two extra monitors and a gaming tower that hums like a dragon.

I test the VPN tunnel—green. Data sandbox—green. Motion camera at the door—live feed pops onto Screen 3.

Gage plasters the whiteboard with sticky notes: Troll Handles, Crypto Wallet, Possible Exes, Power-Grid Outages. It looks half conspiracy theory, half startup incubator.

“Not bad for zero budget,” Knight says, parking his hands on his hips. “Needs snacks, though.”

“I’ll hit the bodega,” Gage volunteers, grabbing his wallet. “Nobody steals my code fuel.”

When he’s gone, I boot my laptop and slide the Herbert-Hoover mask from my backpack, setting it upright on the desk. Knight whistles low. “That thing’s nightmare fuel.”

“Tell me about it,” I mutter, wiping my finger across the rubber brow.

Knight tilts his head, studying me. “Look, man, you’ve been in love with Juno since dinosaurs. You sure this secret-identity thing won’t blow up in your face?”

I tap the mask’s cheek, and hear the hollow rubber echo. “I’m sure it will. But keeping her alive counts more.”

Knight nods—solemn for once. “Ride or die, huh?”

“Exactly.”

“And if she figures it out?”

The air between us feels thin. I picture Juno’s wide hazel eyes filling with betrayal. I picture her forgiving smile, too. Unsure which hurts more.

“I’ll deal with it,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll apologize for lying…after she’s safe.”

Knight claps a hand on my shoulder—weighty but reassuring. “Then let’s make damn sure she lives to yell at you.”

We get to work. Knight scrubs forum archives; I set up encryption keys; Gage returns with plastic bags rattling full of energy drinks, beef jerky, and suspiciously neon pastries. We dive into theory swapping while joystick duels break the tension every forty-five minutes.

At one point Knight pauses the game, controller dangling. “Rumor says, Arby was dating someone?”

“I never saw evidence,” I admit, scrolling through an archival ZIP. “But she guarded her private life like Fort Knox.”

Gage tears open jerky. “We should cross-match her last sponsorship trips with city CCTV. Maybe she traveled with a mystery plus-one.”

“Good,” I say. “I’ll send the itinerary to Dean’s contact and see if airport security cams pick up her entourage.”

Knight grins. “Look at us, baby birds leaving the nest, flapping into felony territory.”

“Cyber-felony,” I correct. “Totally different sentencing.”

We laugh, but the drive is relentless. At some point my phone buzzes with a message from Hoover’s encrypted channel—me, reminding myself to text Juno the new meeting location.

I type:

Warehouse loft, 142 Riverside. Midnight tonight. Come alone.

Her reply arrives a minute later:

Juno: Got it. Bringing more stuff. Thank you.

Three little words from behind her screen, but they thump against my rib cage like fists.

Knight slaps another magazine into his pixel-blaster. “You okay, dude?”

I pocket the phone. “Yeah. Just—ready to make a difference.”

“Hell yeah.” He unpauses the game. “Dibs on the rocket launcher.”

The digital carnage resumes, neon streaks lighting our improvised HQ, but my thoughts drift to Juno walking into this echoing print shop, trusting Hoover with the last pieces of her shattered heart.

And me standing there, face hidden behind the worst president mask in history, trying to be her hero while praying she never sees how scared I really am.

I can’t promise I won’t break her trust.

I can promise I’ll never let anyone break her again.