Beneath the fiery orange of a dying sun, the lake shimmered like molten copper, its surface calm yet hiding the dark secrets beneath. The air was warm, the kind that lingers on the skin, carrying the faint scent of water and dusk. Two figures, cloaked entirely in black, knelt at the edge of the lake. Their movements were precise, rehearsed, almost ritualistic, as they lifted a bag—an oddly human-shaped bundle, tightly sealed, as if the night itself had been trapped inside.
"One... two... now!" they whispered in unison, and with a swing, the bundle sailed through the air before plunging into the water, sending ripples like shattered glass across the lake.
Nearby, a young man, unhooded, stood smoking a cigarette, the smoke curling around his face like a phantom veil. Dressed in black denim and a matching jacket, he watched the lake with an almost detached reverence, as if he were witnessing both a crime and a symphony.
A car door slammed behind him, and a taller, older man emerged from a long black vehicle. His presence was heavy, like the shadow of a cloud over sunlight.
"Job's done, Edwards," he said, his eyes scanning the lake alongside the younger man.
"Did it suffer?" Edwards asked, flicking ash into the water, the glowing tip of his cigarette painting a brief orange dot against the darkening lake.
"No... everything's clean. Cyanide. Sleep forever."
Edwards nodded, letting the words sink like stones into his thoughts. "Good."
"By the way... I heard something. About Iris."
Edwards shifted slightly, his body instinctively tense. "Iris? What happened?"
"Apparently... she had trouble with her husband. Fell down the stairs. Unconscious. She's in a coma at the hospital."
Edwards's jaw tightened. "Who told you?"
"The neighbor next door. You should go... she's your friend, isn't she?"
He hesitated, smoke curling from his lips, the embers reflecting the fading sun. "Where's her husband?"
"They can't find him. Neighbor heard him escaping..."
"So he... caused this? Left a four-year-old alone?"
"Yes... and it was the neighbor who called the ambulance."
Edwards's hand dropped, and his cigarette fell into the lake, hissing as it met the water. "God..." He exhaled slowly, processing the weight of the news. "That bastard..."
He turned to the older man. "Thanks for telling me, Paulie. Handle the cleanup... I'm going to the hospital."
"You'll also take care of her daughter?"
"I'll see... I'll see," Edwards replied, already walking away, his coat flapping like the wings of a dark bird.
Paulie smiled faintly, a shadow of amusement in his eyes, and signaled the hooded figures back to the car, their silhouettes disappearing into the evening like ghosts swallowed by the night.
The sun was sinking, dragging the day into shadow, and the narrow street slowly bloomed with artificial light as the streetlamps flickered to life. Edwards walked along the tree-lined sidewalk that led toward the great lake, the other side of the road crowded with buildings, cars, and pools of yellow glow under the lamps.
He kept himself in the shadows, a packet of cigarettes pressing lightly against the inside of his jacket pocket. His gaze was steady, fixed on his destination, every step deliberate. Ahead, a sign warned that the third exit from the roundabout would take him where he needed to go.
Crossing at the pedestrian lane, he stepped into the light of the opposite side, passing under a lamp whose bulb stuttered between pale green and amber, as if undecided about which mood the night should take. Three hundred meters remained.
Children played in a gravel lot—dust, scattered stones, and the rusting skeletons of abandoned cars. Edwards turned into the alleys he knew too well, paths that had once served as escape routes after crimes, secret corridors for whispered deals and broken promises. These narrow veins of the city led him to an immense six-story building, more than a thousand windows glinting like watchful eyes in the fading light. A rhomboid of four entrances, one on each side. Above the main doors, the Red Cross burned faintly in the gloom.
Edwards drew a breath and stepped inside.
At the reception desk, he leaned forward slightly. "Excuse me..."
The receptionist turned. "Yes?"
"Could you give me the room number for Iris H. Fleming, please? I'm a friend of hers... I heard she had an accident."
"The one in the coma?"
"Yes, that's right."
She typed quickly, her eyes scanning the screen. "Her parents are here, waiting. But no one can enter yet—they're running tests. You can go to the waiting room for rooms 270 to 280; she'll be brought to one of them shortly. Her parents will be there."
The woman offered a small smile.
"Thank you," Edwards replied with a faint nod, returning the gesture before heading for the elevator. The mask of composure stayed on his face, though tension had begun to creep into his veins.
A teenage boy was waiting at the lift. They entered together.
"Trouble?" Edwards asked as the elevator began its slow ascent.
"More like punishments," the boy replied with a sigh. "I'm bringing my grandmother a gift."
"She's here?"
"Yeah. Admitted."
"What for?"
"Pancreatic cancer..."
Edwards looked at him with a brief flicker of sympathy. The boy's nervousness was raw, unhidden—so unlike Edwards's controlled demeanor. When they reached the second floor, the boy gave a shy nod of farewell and stepped out.
Edwards followed the narrow hallway, the door numbers ticking past like seconds on a clock. He turned a corner, pushed open a door, and entered the waiting room. Nine chairs lined the perimeter.
Kimberly Fleming and Jordan Harding—her parents—were already there. Kimberly rose instantly, her hands trembling, and embraced him tightly, worry written into every muscle of her body.
"E... Edwards, it's been so long! You heard... you heard..."
Surprised by the sudden closeness, Edwards slowly brought his arms up, resting them lightly against her back, his eyes meeting Jordan's with a respectful nod. The older man kept his distance.
"That bastard... I knew he wasn't good for her. Two years I told her, and now look—" Kimberly's voice broke, her hand covering her face as she fought tears. Jordan stepped in to hold her gently.
"Why didn't she choose you?" she murmured bitterly. "You helped her with everything, while that worthless Robertson did nothing for her, or for her daughter... nothing."
Edwards said nothing at first, letting the storm of her grief pass. "I suppose she cared for him too much," he said quietly.
Jordan finally spoke, loosening his hold on his wife. "Why didn't you help her? You knew something was wrong..."
"I knew they had problems... but I didn't think it was this bad. I didn't know Robertson was the kind of psychopath who would throw his wife down the stairs... with their daughter watching." Edwards sank into a chair, the words weighed with restrained anger.
After a moment, his tone softened. "And Sarah? Where is she?"
"The neighbors took her in for now... she's safe."
"They got along well with Iris?"
"Quite well. She invited them to every party... you know, luxury spaces, money. Those neighbors have everything—they can invite anyone, connect with anyone."
Edwards reached into his jacket, placing the packet of cigarettes on the table before slipping the coat off his shoulders. The movement was calm, deliberate, but his eyes were far away—fixed not on the room, but on the shadows of the past and the weight of what came next.
The air in the waiting room had begun to thicken—sweat, nerves, the stale perfume of anxiety clinging to every breath. Edwards had been sitting there too long, his mind pacing faster than his body could. Kimberly's eyes, brimming with quiet desperation, followed him as he rose. Jordan's gaze was less readable, but there was something in it too—perhaps hope, perhaps calculation.
Edwards could not stop thinking about Sarah. That little girl had been thrown into the worst kind of darkness, the kind that leaves scars no one sees. And though he was a criminal, Edwards was not a monster. His work was cold, yes—but his victims were those who deserved the cold. Crime for money, and only against the guilty.
He pushed open the bathroom door. The smell was faintly metallic, cleaner than the waiting room, almost comforting in its sterile detachment. The light hummed softly. He approached a sink, turned the tap, and gathered water into his hands, splashing it against his face as if trying to wash away something heavier than sweat.
This act—being cold, being hard—it gnawed at him. But a bounty hunter did not get to choose softness.
He tore two paper towels from the roll fixed above a closed toilet and dried his face. In the mirror, his pale blue eyes stared back at him—paler than usual, as if even the color had been drained by the weight of the day. He crumpled the towels, tossed them into a bin already overflowing, and returned to the waiting room.
Minutes passed like deserts—endless, airless, each second a grain of sand sliding slower than the last. Nervous energy grew the way technology does—quietly, relentlessly, until it fills the whole space.
Finally, the doctor emerged, face unreadable, the kind of face that carried both hope and death in the same breath. Kimberly rose instantly, her lungs refusing to give her air. Edwards stood more slowly, already braced for whatever came.
"Mr. Harding, Mrs. Fleming, Mr..."
"Edwards," he said quietly. "Mr. Edwards."
The doctor nodded and delivered the news.
"Iris is stable... but yes, she has been placed in an induced coma. It will last for an indefinite period. The next few days will be crucial. However, the room is small, so visits must be one at a time. Understood?"
The three of them nodded, deciding without debate that Kimberly should go first. Her grief was the rawest.
The doctor led her away, leaving Jordan and Edwards seated together once more.
"So... business is good," Jordan said after a pause.
"You're still keeping it quiet," Edwards replied.
"Yes... I could never do better by you. That's always been my gift, for treating my daughter so well." Jordan's hands moved to the cigarette packet Edwards had left on the table. He slipped one out, flicking open his lighter, the flame briefly painting his face in amber.
"I want you to do something for me."
Edwards's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Make Robertson suffer for what he did. That's all I ask. I'm too old to keep running the business. I need other men now."
"Help you?" Edwards asked. "I'm not the kind who kills for sport. Robertson's not an easy target."
"Do you need money for this?"
"If you're asking me that in a hospital..." Edwards let the sentence hang, his voice low.
Jordan glanced around the room, scanning the corners for cameras before stepping out to smoke. Edwards remained behind, deep in thought, the request circling in his mind like a shadow that would not leave.
Jordan Harding had been living with Alzheimer's for almost a year now. In the past, the art of the business—simple things like knowing when and where to hide—had been second nature to him. But now, even that had begun to slip through his fingers like water. They couldn't send him to prison anymore; the man was on borrowed time, his life already a flickering candle.
Edwards sat alone in the waiting room. The ticking of the wall clock grew louder in his ears with every second, not just a sound but a hammer striking rhythm into his skull. A faint buzz joined it—a fly, somewhere in the room—its wings an irritating whisper. His legs began to move restlessly, subtle at first, then more insistent.
Frustration boiled under his skin. Abruptly, he stood, stepped onto the central chair, and plucked the clock from the wall. He set it on the table beside his packet of cigarettes, as if silencing it could reclaim the room's air. Sitting again, he pressed a hand to his temple. Another buzz, sharper now, darted into his ear, and with a sudden slap against the wall he crushed the mosquito.
Time bled forward, slow and heavy, until finally Edwards was the last to be called in.
He opened the door to Iris's room. She lay there, eyes closed, face pale against the white hospital sheets. Machines stood like silent sentinels at her side, each cable and tube another reminder of her fragility. A neat line of stitches in her arm spoke of stabilizers. On her wrist, a thin, faded scar told a different story—one that reached further back.
Edwards stood still, absorbing every detail: the windows drawn halfway open, the small television mounted high on the wall opposite the bed, the special wardrobe in the corner, the private bathroom—luxuries paid for with money, no doubt.
Finally, he took the chair by her side. For a moment, he simply watched her, the absence of her pupils unsettling. "Hey, Iris," he said softly, his voice almost carrying a smile. "It's me, Edwards. When you open your eyes, you'll tell me everything that happened, alright?"
He tapped her hand twice, a small gesture of reassurance, then rose. Before leaving, his eyes scanned the two bedside tables, each with its own quiet clutter, and the large red call button for the nurses. He stepped to it and pressed it, wanting to make sure Iris would be watched, protected.
Then he left.
Outside, a taxi was idling by the curb. Edwards slid into the back seat, his jacket creasing as he settled in, the familiar weight of the cigarette pack in his pocket.
"Motel Mirray, please," he said, handing the driver some bills. "And don't take too long."
The taxi pulled away, its headlights cutting through the city night, carrying him toward whatever came next.
The taxi slipped away like a shadow, and the motel stood in a pool of indifferent streetlight: two shallow stories, a blue roof, white-paneled walls that had once pretended to be new. A single external stair clung to the corner. The parking lot was small and smelled faintly of oil and old rain. Parked where Edwards had seen another car earlier — the same one Paulie had hauled to the lake — the vehicle sat like a culprit waiting to be questioned.
Edwards stepped onto the cracked pavement and simply stared. Windows—one per room—gazed back at him black and blank, like the eyes of a town that had nothing to confess. He moved closer, methodical, his silhouette folding into the geometry of the building until he reached the trunk of the car.
The trunk opened with a soft sigh. Inside lay the instruments of his trade: boxes of ammunition, a compact black shotgun, and a heavy revolver that had already been loaded. He checked the chambers by feel, the way a man checks his bones for weakness. Satisfied, he closed the trunk, revolver tucked into his jacket with the grip exposed for quick theft from pocket, shotgun held across his arms like a horizon line.
He walked the corridor like a metronome, stopping at each door. The walls were solid — not the hollow, cheap kind that carried voices easily — so he knocked twice on one, listened for the telltale hollow echo, then moved on. It was only when he reached a door with light spilling under it and the silhouettes of three men moving like shadows on a stage that his pace changed. This was the room.
Edwards felt the old, surgical calm settle over him. He planted the butt of the shotgun against the glass and drove. The window accepted the blow and shattered inward with a sound that was both small and absolute, a bell cutting the night. He dropped down through the gap, pressing his body against the sill and sliding into the doorway like a blade folding into its sheath.
Inside, the motel room smelled of stale air, cheap detergent, and the faint, coppery sting of fear. A television bleated a sports match into the room—an indifferent soundtrack to something far more human. Three shadows moved; one of them, startled, bolted for the door. Edwards closed the distance in one motion, seizing the throat and turning his momentum to drag the man back into the room. The rest reacted in the brutal, animal way of desperate men.
A figure on a bed was reloading a shotgun; Edwards answered with the shotgun in his hand. He fired once — a controlled, final report — and the man's body convulsed against the mattress. The room vanished around cold, mechanical motions: a shove that sent the first captive stumbling, the snatch of a revolver from a jacket, the spring of a foot that tried to flee into the bathroom.
Edwards worked like a man who had learned how to remove problems swiftly and without romance. He moved and fired, not with a frenzy, but with the clinical efficiency of someone who knew exactly which parts of a room carried threat and which carried none. One by one the three men were stopped—some with single, decisive shots, others with the blunt certainty of a bullet finding its mark. The last one, sheltering by the toilet, went down with a small, almost shocked sound; his hand fell from the weapon he had tried to drag away.
When the reverberation of the final shot faded, silence came in as if the motel itself were holding its breath. Edwards stood in the ruin of the small room and smelled it: iron, sharp and unmistakable, hanging in the air like an accusation. He skirted the bodies with the practiced care of a man who still wanted his shoes unsoiled.
He moved through the motions that had become ritual: taking the small wallet with its loose bills, flipping open the clamshell phone on the TV table to read a number, and dialing. He put the phone to his ear and let the voice on the other end hear what it needed to hear. "The pedophiles are done. Clean them out." The words were thin and legal, used like a scalpel. He hung up, pulled the motel's wall phone from its cradle, ripped the clamshell screen off, and fed it to the toilet, flushing the small, useless device as if it were a confession.
The baseball game rasped on the television, oblivious. Edwards found the remote and aimed it like an executioner's mallet; a click, and the room's small altar of light blinked out. He gathered shotgun and revolver, one in each hand, also grabing a teddy bear that was on the ground, then swung the bedside lamp off. For a moment he stood at the threshold and looked at what he had made: scattered furniture, streaks of red on the white wall, the inert weight of the three men he'd ended. Even in the language of the street, there was a grain of wrongness that lodged like grit.
He turned his back, closed the door, and let the motel swallow them all into ordinary darkness. Outside, the night was complete — no porch lamps, no neon, only the city's distant breath. Edwards walked away with his weapons folded into the architecture of his jacket. His footsteps were the kind that made no promises.
TO BE CONTINUED...