Page 4 of The Medic (Dominion Hall #6)

CHARLIE

I should’ve gone back to the hangar.

The job wasn’t finished—still needed to realign a jammed elevator hinge and sign off on the maintenance log.

Nothing mission-critical. Just the kind of thing I usually cared about doing right.

But today, I couldn’t bring myself to give a damn.

The heat was too thick. The air too still.

And something else had already started gnawing at the back of my skull.

I told myself I’d head back later.

But I knew I wouldn’t.

Because I wasn’t in town just to turn wrenches.

Not really.

I turned the truck away from the airstrip and pointed it downtown.

Not the Charleston from the magazines—no cobblestones or boutique hotels.

I was headed for the underbelly. The forgotten parts.

The parts the city tried to scrub from its brochures.

Where windows were cracked, corners burned, and history lingered in the walls like mold.

I cracked the window as I drove. Let the smell hit me—fried grease, hot pavement, old AC units fighting for their lives. Places like this had their own scent. Their own rhythm. You just had to be quiet enough to hear it.

I didn’t wear anything that stood out. Faded jeans, boots, and a nondescript tee. I kept my profile low and my eyes moving. It didn’t matter that I could buy this whole block twice over—I wasn’t here to flex. I was here for the pull.

It always started the same. A twitch. A knot in the gut. Sometimes I tried to ignore it. Pretend I didn’t feel it. But it always came back stronger the next time.

So, I followed it.

Today it took me three blocks past a junkyard, two corners into gang territory, and down a stretch of broken sidewalk where weeds pushed up through the cracks like they were staging a rebellion. I rolled slow. Real slow.

Then I saw him.

Kid. Couldn’t have been older than ten. Limping hard on his right leg, like it hadn’t healed right from something serious. He was small. Thin. Wore an oversized basketball jersey and shoes that looked like they used to belong to two different people.

He moved like someone who didn’t want to be noticed. Which meant I noticed him immediately.

I coasted the truck forward and parked two houses down. Killed the engine. Watched him for a beat.

He kept glancing over his shoulder. Smart. Wary.

I stepped out of the cab.

“Hey,” I called.

He didn’t stop.

“I’m not a cop.”

Still walking. Faster now.

“You hurt?”

That one got him. He paused. Barely. Then kept going.

I followed at a casual distance. Hands in pockets. Voice low.

“You break that leg?”

He didn’t answer.

I picked up the pace, but not enough to spook him. He started to veer off the sidewalk and cut through a narrow alley between two rundown duplexes.

“Let me guess,” I said. “Bike accident. Hit a pothole. Flipped. Landed hard. Couldn’t afford the hospital.”

That stopped him cold.

He turned slowly. Looked me over from head to toe.

“You from social services?”

“No.”

“Church?”

“No.”

“You work for that new clinic?”

I shook my head. “I’m just … lookin’ to help.”

The kid crossed his arms. “Ain’t nobody helpin’ ‘round here unless they want something.”

I pulled out my wallet and held up a fifty. “I want to talk to your mom. Five minutes. You walk me to her door, you keep this.”

He stared at the bill. Then at me.

“What’s the catch?”

“No catch.”

He narrowed his eyes. “People say that when there’s a catch.”

“They do,” I said. “But I’m not people.”

A long beat passed. Then, with a quick flick of his wrist, he snatched the fifty and turned. “This way. Stay behind.”

I followed.

The building we ended up at looked like it had survived a war. Rusted chain-link fence. Vinyl siding warped from heat. Front door hanging crooked on one hinge. The kind of place that whispered stories even when nobody was talking.

He knocked twice, then twice more in a rhythm I recognized as habit.

The door cracked. A chain rattled. Then a tired voice asked, “Who’s that?”

“Some guy,” the kid muttered. “Says he wants to help.”

The woman on the other side peered through the gap. Her eyes flicked to me, then down to my boots.

“You a cop?”

“No, ma’am.”

“You with the church?”

“No, ma’am.”

She sighed. “Then what are you?”

“Outreach,” I said. “Pilot program. Community health initiative.”

She didn’t buy it.

I added, “No paperwork. No strings. Just a quick look at your boy’s leg and a grocery stipend. Free of charge.”

Still, she hesitated.

Then her eyes slid to the bill in her son’s hand.

She opened the door.

The apartment was a furnace. No central air, just a box fan barely pushing breath through the humidity. It smelled like old frying oil and Lysol. A baby cried somewhere in the back room. The blinds were yellowed with age.

The woman was maybe thirty. Tired. Thin. Dressed in scrubs that looked second-hand. She carried herself like someone who’d spent too many years fending off promises and waiting for rent extensions.

“You got ID?” she asked.

I handed over my license. She glanced at it, then tossed it on a plastic folding table.

The word Veteran was stamped clean across the bottom, just under the photo.

I'd been a medic once, back when uniforms and orders ruled my life. Maybe that’s why helping injured people felt like second nature now—like the one part of me that still made sense.

“Let me see what you wanna see,” she said.

I knelt in front of the boy. “What’s your name?”

“Tyrese.”

“All right, Tyrese. You mind if I take a look?”

He shrugged. “Guess not.”

I rolled up the leg of his shorts. Felt along the shin. Bone alignment was off. A jagged ridge mid-tibia. The limp made sense now. It had never been set right. No cast, no pins. Just healed crooked.

“You broke it clean?” I asked.

“Snapped,” he said. “Felt it pop.”

“You ever go in for it?”

“Urgent care gave me Tylenol. Said to wrap it and stay off it. We ain’t have money for nothin’ more.”

I nodded. “Still hurts?”

“Only when it rains.”

I smiled, even though I didn’t want to. “That’s real Southern of you.”

He grinned a little.

I looked up at his mother. “I know a guy. Pediatric ortho. He’s out of Charlotte, but he takes my calls. He’ll fix it right—plates, clean-up, rehab. All covered.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And I’m supposed to believe that?”

I stood. “You don’t have to. But I’m giving you the number anyway.”

I scribbled it on the back of a receipt and handed it over.

“And this—” I pulled a stack of folded bills from my back pocket. “—is for groceries. Or rent. Or whatever else needs fixin’.”

She took it, but didn’t unfold it. Just stared.

“This some kind of scam?”

“No, ma’am.”

“You want something later?”

“No.”

“You gon’ come back askin’ for favors?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

I looked around the room. At the empty cabinets. The peeling linoleum. The baby still crying in the back.

“Because someone should.”

She didn’t say anything. Just stared. I could feel her testing every word I’d said, looking for cracks.

After a long moment, she nodded.

“You said your name was …?”

“Charlie.”

She looked like she wanted to ask more. Like she knew better.

But all she said was, “Thank you.”

I nodded. Tipped my head to Tyrese.

“You hang in there, all right?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

I stepped outside into the heavy air and let the door close behind me.

For a second, I just stood there.

Let it settle.

Sometimes this part was the hardest. The walking away.

But it was also the point.

No follow-up. No photo ops. No last names.

Just in and out. Quiet as a ghost. Sometimes there was trouble. That was good. I was a Dane. Danes liked trouble. Loved it even.

Back in the truck, I let out a slow breath. Rubbed the back of my neck. I was just starting to feel good about the day when my phone buzzed.

Marcus.

I considered ignoring it. Thought about letting it go to voicemail.

Then I remembered the last time I did that, and the blowback that followed.

I answered.

“Yeah?”

“You’re still in Charleston, right?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Good. I need a favor.”

“Let me guess—something shady involving federal agents and zero plausible deniability?”

Marcus laughed. “Not this time. It’s social. Boring. One of the Charlestons is throwing a masquerade tomorrow night. A little bird told me Department 77 might send someone to scope it out.”

I groaned. “No.”

“I can’t go. You’re the only one in town who can pass as disinterested and lethal in a tux.”

“Hard pass.”

“It’s a black-tie ball, Charlie. With masks. Booze. Belles. Maybe even some intel.”

“Still no.”

“You’ll have fun. I already forwarded your name. You’re expected.”

I closed my eyes. “I hate you.”

“You love me. Tux is in your room. Mask, too.”

He hung up.

I stared at the screen for a long second, then dropped the phone on the seat.

This was the last thing I wanted. Pretending to be someone I wasn’t. Swimming in a pool of people I couldn’t stand. Charleston elite. Backroom handshakes. Painted-on smiles.

But then …

I thought about Sloane.

Her walk. Her voice. That glare sharp enough to draw blood.

I’d never see her again. That was fine. Good, even.

But maybe …

Maybe there’d be another belle tomorrow. One I didn’t have to argue with.

One I could fuck and forget.

Yeah.

That sounded about right.