Shadows Ablaze

Chapter 17- Jaxon

The gun clatters to the ground, sending a bullet whizzing toward the wall opposite us and leaving a hole in the drywall.

Dark skin ripples beneath white light as the dealer twitches on the ground. Two metal prongs are sunk in his chest, creating a loop for the electricity as it leaves my taser, enters his body, and returns.

"Let go of the trigger, Debul," Zieb hollers. I jump at the nearness of his voice and move my finger. "Get his gun." Zieb works at putting handcuffs on the dealer, who doesn't fight back, his body still recovering from the current pulsing through him. I approach the gun and lift it from the ground. The click of the cuff's teeth bite at my eardrums. Lynni quickly assists me in disengaging the safety as Zieb pulls the dealer to his feet. I tuck the gun in the lip of my jeans.

Thick, black eyebrows twist as the dealer regains control of his muscles. Blood pumps to his cheeks and crawls across his forehead. He struggles against his new restraints.

"Lynni," Zieb addresses, looking to the small blond girl. "Collect all the evidence."

She walks the table and begins dropping the numerous drugs into one of the bins.

I glance around the warehouse, freezing at the sight of the pale figure lying on the ground beside Sevn. Sevn's eyes meet mine, doing their best to hide the horror that consumes him. Dark red has patterned his light gray t-shirt in polka dots. Stray droplets decorate his neck and jaw, refusing to remain confined to something that can be easily discarded like a shirt.

My heart rakes in my chest as I risk a glance at Pale Eyes. His chest doesn't move, his limbs don't itch in an attempt to get off the ground. His arms remain pulled behind his back, clasped together by the cuffs. His eyes are darker than usual, the color bled from them the same way the trail of dark red bleeds from his chest.

Despite my best efforts, I can't help but look at his wound. I can feel my face growing white as I spot the deep hole the bullet created.

When I was ten, Gatlin, my childhood best friend at Justice Haven Home for Boys, was recruited for a job on a local fishing boat. I had been so jealous that he was the one they wanted and not me. But when he came back to the orphanage after his first day with welts all over his hands from where the acidic waters had pecked his delicate skin and dried blood on his knuckles from the places the fishing ropes rubbed him raw, I was thankful they hadn't chosen me. Every day it got worse. He would come back after being gone from sunrise to sunset with festering, irritated lumps on his hands, more prominent cuts and patchy, red rashes dressing the majority of his hands and lower arms.

Most of the other kids at the orphanage couldn't stand to look at his wounds, too consumed by hemophobia. Children do not want to believe the world will hurt them. They don't want proof that it will chew them up and spit them out on the sidewalk of an unforgiving city. But our world is not pretty and it is not nice. If you want a taste, you can open your front door, but you have to be ready when the reality of the world floods in and consumes you. And at that point, there's no one to blame but yourself when the world destroys you and the life you thought you had. Every orphan kid learns that eventually.

I had always thought I was tough. The sores and blood on Gatlin's limbs never bothered me. But now, the swaying of my legs tells me I'm not immune to the gore. Then again, Gatlin never had a gaping hole in his chest.

Zieb steps toward the corpse with caution, passing the dealer off to me as he goes. I take hold of the cuffs, suffocating the metal in my grasp, using it as an anchor and a shield. Zieb reaches Pale Eyes, slowly dropping into a crouch and placing two fingers on the man's jugular vein, checking for a pulse. The moments stretch into what feels like an hour.

When Zieb stretches back toward the ceiling, his body is rigid. He turns to us, placing a hand lightly on Sevn's shoulder. "He's gone. I'll inform the Sheriff and a unit will come back to clean up." His words are soft and even as he speaks. Has he done this before? How many people has he pointed a gun at and pulled the trigger? I shake the thought from my head. This is not the time for questions like that. "Let's move out," he breathes. A curtain has long since fallen over his face, hiding whatever expression he actually feels.

I push the dealer toward the exit until we've escaped the constraining walls of the warehouse. I expected the air out here to be refreshing. To wash away the thoughts and scent of blood inside. But I find it to be worse. The fog clings to my desperation and anxiety. If it were a living creature, I'm certain it would push its way down my throat until I choked on it. A sweat breaks on my skin within seconds, casting a blanket of damp over my body.

Faces peek out of the windows that line the street, curious about the scene that has unfolded. I can't blame them. Gunshots aren't something you hear often.

So much for hoping no civilians would notice our presence...

Zieb comes to my side, taking hold of the dealer's cuffs. "Weren't there supposed to be three?" he asks, knuckles already pressed into the dealer's back and edging him forward.

I nod. "But I'm not sure I want to hang around to see the other guys' reaction when he gets back," I admit. A waterfall of ideas begin to spill as I wonder where the third one is, what he's doing, how he'll react when he sees the place has been swept and one of his group members is lying dead on the ground. Who will he blame for that? Will he know we were here? Or will he place all the blame on the other dealer we caught?

I've been guaranteed immunity by the Sheriff, but I wonder what good that will do against a pissed off drug dealer.

"I know why you look so familiar..." the dealer drawls out. His thick lips press together so tightly some of the color drains from them.

I don't respond, hoping my silence tells him to shut his mouth if he knows what's good for him. But he clearly doesn't. I shouldn't expect much more for a drug dealer. And definitely not from someone who murdered his partner.

His lips curl, a spark lighting in his eyes as it all falls into place. "Maybe you aren't the trembling kid we thought you were," is all he says before stepping forward and following the cement street as it curves through downtown.

Zieb stumbles to keep up with him. His groomed eyebrows arch at me as he passes, but he doesn't ask what the dealer means by the statement. I don't move. I can't manage to get myself to do anything. Not even a nonchalant shrug.

My stomach twists. Bile rises in my throat as I think about the looming conversation Zieb is going to press once we return to the department.

There are going to be questions. Lots of them. I know that. But then again, it's not really Zieb's business. He may be my mentor and partner, but that doesn't mean I need to explain anything to him. I try not to think about the repercussions that would result if the department knew of my previous interest in working with the dealers, but the thoughts slip in anyway, not asking for my permission.

I let the dark street swallow me, grateful for the emptiness of the night.