Chapter 17: Cover Stories
Jesse's house still had that heavy air, like grief had settled into the walls and couldn't find its way out.
I found him on the couch—same position as two days ago, same thousand-yard stare. The TV played some daytime talk show at low volume, more background noise than entertainment. Empty beer bottles lined the coffee table.
"Hey." I dropped into the chair across from him. "How you doing?"
"Living the dream." Jesse's voice was flat. "You need something?"
"Actually, yeah. Got some news."
He looked at me then—the first real eye contact since I'd arrived. "What kind of news?"
"Family stuff. My aunt in California—she's sick. Real sick. I gotta go help out for a while."
"Your aunt?" Jesse frowned. "Didn't know you had family."
"Everyone's got family, man. We just don't talk about them." I kept my voice casual, exactly the tone someone would use delivering boring personal information. "She's got nobody else, so... I'm it."
"For how long?"
"Month, maybe. Maybe longer. Depends on how things go."
Jesse processed this slowly. I could see him trying to focus, trying to engage with someone else's problems when his own were crushing him.
"That sucks," he finally said. "Sorry about your aunt."
"Yeah. It is what it is." I paused, letting the conversation breathe. "You gonna be okay while I'm gone?"
"Me?" Jesse laughed—hollow, bitter. "I'm great. Living the high life with Mr. White. Making money, watching people die, having the time of my fucking life."
"Jesse—"
"I know. I know." He waved a hand dismissively. "It's fine. I'll be fine. Go take care of your aunt."
I wanted to say more. Wanted to tell him that he didn't have to stay in Walter White's gravity well, that there were other options, that I'd help him find a way out when I got back. But the words felt hollow even in my head. Jesse wasn't ready to hear them. Wasn't ready to believe that escape was possible.
"I'll check in when I can," I said instead. "And when I get back, we should hang out. Normal shit. Video games, pizza, whatever."
"Sure." Jesse's eyes drifted back to the TV. "Sounds good."
I stood, hesitated at the door. There was so much I couldn't say. So many warnings I couldn't give without revealing what I knew.
"Take care of yourself, Jesse."
"You too, man."
I left him there on the couch, surrounded by empty bottles and ghosts. The guilt followed me all the way to my car.
Badger's apartment was a study in controlled chaos.
Movie posters covered every wall. Action figures lined makeshift shelves. A gaming setup dominated one corner, cables snaking across the floor like technological vines. The place smelled like stale pizza and energy drinks.
"Pete!" Badger bounced up from his couch when I arrived. "What's up? Got another job?"
"Sort of." I sat down across from him, keeping my posture casual. "Got some news first. I'm gonna be gone for a while."
"Gone where?"
"California. Family emergency. Sick aunt."
"Oh, man. That sucks." Badger's face fell. "She gonna be okay?"
"Don't know yet. Point is, I'll be gone about a month. Maybe longer."
I watched him process this. Badger wasn't stupid—despite his scattered exterior, he had solid instincts and genuine loyalty. But he also had a tendency to get creative when left unsupervised, and creativity in this business got people killed.
"While I'm gone, you're in charge of keeping things moving. Small deals only—nothing over a grand. Maintain the relationships we've built, don't start new ones. If anything feels off, walk away."
"Got it. Small deals, existing contacts, trust my gut."
"And Combo backs you up. He's your sanity check. If you think something's a good idea and he thinks it's stupid, listen to him."
Badger nodded seriously. This was the most direct I'd ever been with him about operational structure, and he was rising to the occasion.
I pulled an envelope from my jacket—five hundred dollars in small bills. "Operating cash. Emergency fund. Don't spend it unless you have to."
"What counts as an emergency?"
"If you're not sure, it's probably not an emergency." I handed him the envelope. "Keep records of any deals you run. Names, dates, amounts. I'll want a full accounting when I get back."
"Like a business," Badger said, almost awed.
"Exactly like a business." I met his eyes. "Because that's what this is. Not a hobby. Not a game. A business. And businesses survive on discipline."
"I won't let you down, Pete."
"I know you won't."
Combo's meeting was different. Same information, different emphasis.
We met at a taco truck he liked, eating carnitas while I explained the situation. Combo listened without interrupting—that was his style, absorbing information before responding.
"So you want me to watch Badger," he said when I finished.
"I want you to be the stability. Badger's got enthusiasm, which is good. But enthusiasm without restraint gets people hurt."
"And if he wants to do something I think is stupid?"
"Veto it. No arguments, no negotiations. If you say no, it's no."
Combo nodded slowly. "That's a lot of trust."
"You've earned it."
The words hung between us. I remembered the ambush in the industrial lot—remembered the cold certainty of Deal Sense warning me away from Chuco's trap. That same instinct told me Combo was solid. Not because he was smart or ambitious, but because he was loyal in a way that couldn't be faked.
"I was on that corner for three years," Combo said quietly. "Watched guys get shot. Watched guys get busted. Watched guys just... disappear. And then you came along with your observation jobs and your message runs and suddenly I'm making real money without standing on the same block waiting to get killed."
"That's not—"
"I know what you did." He met my eyes. "Maybe you don't see it that way. But I do. So yeah, I'll watch Badger. I'll keep things stable. And when you get back, everything'll be exactly how you left it."
I didn't know what to say. The gratitude in his voice was genuine, almost overwhelming. I'd pulled Combo off the corner because I needed reliable associates, not because I was trying to save him. But the effect was the same.
"Thanks," I finally managed.
"Thank you."
We finished our tacos in comfortable silence, watching the city move around us.
The night before departure, I packed light.
Cash in a money belt—$14,900, everything except the operating funds I'd left with Badger. NZT in the invisible bag, always accessible. A change of clothes. Basic toiletries. Nothing that couldn't be abandoned if things went wrong.
Pete's ID went in my pocket. I'd need it for the border crossing, one last time. After that—after Vargas worked his magic—Pete's documents would be useless anyway.
The motel room felt emptier than usual. Tomorrow, I'd leave this life behind. Not permanently—I'd return to Albuquerque, to the network I'd built, to Jesse and Badger and Combo. But I'd return as someone different. Someone with a face that opened doors instead of closing them.
I lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
Forty-nine days since transmigration. Forty-nine days of learning this world, building resources, accumulating the capital for transformation. I'd survived an ambush, built a network, made nearly $16,000 from nothing but information and careful coordination.
And tomorrow, I'd become someone new.
The last thought before sleep was of Jesse, alone on his couch with Walter White's shadow hanging over him. I'd done what I could. Left the door open for when he was ready.
Now I had to trust that it would be enough.
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