Chapter 22 : Final Cuts
The operating room lights were familiar now.
I lay on the surgical table watching Dr. Vargas prepare his instruments, the same clinical efficiency as two weeks ago but with a different energy. This wasn't the major reconstruction—the architectural work, as he'd called it. This was refinement. The final polish before the product was complete.
"How are you feeling?" Vargas asked, adjusting something on the tray beside him.
"Ready to be done."
He smiled beneath his surgical mask. "Understandable. This session will be shorter—six hours instead of eight. We're addressing the jawline definition, some minor asymmetry correction from the first procedure, and a small neck tightening to complete the profile." He held up a photograph—my face from yesterday's pre-op examination. "You see here? The left cheekbone sits slightly higher than the right. Normal surgical variation, but I prefer symmetry. We'll correct that."
The anesthesiologist appeared at my left side, the same silver-bearded man from the first surgery. His presence was oddly comforting—a known quantity in a process full of unknowns.
"Any questions before we begin?" Vargas asked.
"Just one." I met his eyes. "When I wake up, will I recognize myself?"
"You'll recognize the foundation. The man beneath will still be there." He paused. "But you'll also see someone new. That's the point, yes?"
It was.
The anesthesiologist adjusted my IV line. "Count back from ten."
I started counting. Ten. Nine. Eight.
The world dissolved into chemical darkness.
[ALBUQUERQUE — SAME DAY]
Badger pulled into the parking lot of the Crossroads Motel and killed the engine.
The place was a dump—exactly the kind of anonymous, cash-only establishment that made Albuquerque's criminal underworld function. No security cameras that worked. No manager who asked questions. No guests who remembered faces.
Combo was already waiting in room 12, sitting on the edge of a bed that probably hadn't been cleaned since the Clinton administration.
"You're late," Combo said.
"Traffic." Badger dropped into the room's only chair, a plastic thing that creaked under his weight. "What's the situation?"
"Reyes wants a meeting. Says he's got a bigger job, something that needs more hands than we've got."
Badger frowned. Their operation—Pete's operation, really—was designed to stay small. Information trading, not heavy lifting. Low risk, steady income, minimal exposure. Expanding meant complications.
"Pete said to keep things tight while he's gone."
"I know what Pete said." Combo's jaw tightened. "But Pete's been gone almost three weeks. And Reyes is talking serious money."
"How serious?"
"Five grand for a week's work. Watching a warehouse, reporting who comes and goes."
Five thousand dollars. More than they'd made in the entire month Pete had been away. But something about the offer felt wrong—the kind of job that seemed easy until it wasn't.
"Who owns the warehouse?"
Combo shrugged. "Reyes didn't say. Just said it's observation only. No contact, no involvement, just eyes and notes."
Badger pulled out his phone and stared at the screen. No messages from Pete. No updates from California. Just silence, stretching into its third week.
"We wait," Badger decided. "Tell Reyes we need a few days to consider. If Pete's back by then, we let him decide. If not..." He trailed off.
"If not, we decide ourselves."
"Yeah."
The motel room felt smaller suddenly. Outside, Albuquerque continued its slow spiral toward whatever chaos Walter White was cooking up in the desert. And Pete—wherever he really was—remained unreachable.
"You think something's wrong?" Combo asked quietly.
"I think Pete's the smartest guy I know. Whatever he's doing, he's got reasons." Badger stood up. "We hold the line. That's what he'd want."
Combo nodded, but the doubt in his eyes didn't fade.
[TIJUANA — EVENING]
Consciousness returned in layers.
First, the sounds—steady beeping of monitors, distant conversation in Spanish, the mechanical hum of medical equipment. Then the sensations—pressure across my face, the familiar weight of bandages, a dull ache that radiated from jaw to forehead.
I tried to open my eyes. The lids felt glued shut, swollen from surgery. A crack of light filtered through, blurry and indistinct.
"Señor Torres." A woman's voice. The evening nurse. "La cirugía terminó. Todo salió bien."
Surgery finished. Everything went well.
I tried to speak, but my throat was dry from the breathing tube. What emerged was a croak that barely qualified as human language.
"No hable todavía. Agua."
A straw touched my lips. I sucked greedily, the cool water soothing the rawness in my throat. Better. Not good, but better.
"El doctor viene mañana por la mañana. Descanse."
Doctor tomorrow morning. Rest.
I let my eyes close again. The painkillers were doing their work—the discomfort was present but manageable, less intense than after the first surgery. My body had learned what to expect, and the second round of trauma was meeting a more prepared system.
Six hours of surgery. Another face being refined while I floated in chemical unconsciousness. Another step closer to Marcus Webb.
The thought should have felt momentous. Instead, it felt like checking a box on a very long list.
Dr. Vargas arrived at eight the next morning, tablet in hand, satisfaction evident in his posture.
"Excellent results," he announced before I could ask. "The symmetry correction was successful. The jawline definition is precisely where I wanted it. And the neck work..." He showed me the tablet—before and after photographs that meant little through my still-swollen eyes. "You'll see for yourself in two weeks. But I'm very pleased."
"How long until travel?"
"Two weeks for the swelling to subside enough for normal appearance. Three weeks for comfortable travel." He made a note. "You've paid in full. Your accommodations are covered through the recovery period. Is there anything else you need?"
I thought about the empty path ahead. New face, but no identity to match. No documents, no history, no legal existence as anyone other than Skinny Pete—a name and face I was actively erasing.
"I need a contact," I said carefully. "Someone who can help with... documentation."
Vargas's expression didn't change, but something shifted behind his eyes. "I see."
"Just a referral. I understand you don't want to be involved directly."
"No, I don't." He considered for a moment. "There's a man named Miguel. He operates a print shop on Calle Revolución—legitimate business, but he provides additional services for clients with specific needs. I don't know him personally. I've only heard the name from other patients."
"Expensive?"
"Quality documentation always is. But I'm told his work passes scrutiny." He stood. "That's all I can offer. What you do with the information is your business."
"Thank you."
Vargas nodded once and left. His work was done. Mine was just beginning.
The days blurred together in a rhythm of recovery.
Morning: vital checks, bandage inspection, liquid breakfast graduating to soft foods. The swelling peaked on day two post-surgery, then began its slow retreat. Colors cycled through my bruises—purple to green to yellow—each shift marking progress toward normalcy.
Afternoon: walks in the courtyard when the heat permitted, watching Lucky make his daily rounds of the flowers. The hummingbird had become a ritual, a point of stability in the chaos of transformation. Four o'clock, every day, that green blur appeared and worked through the garden before disappearing over the wall.
Evening: Spanish practice with the night nurse, whose name was María and whose patience with my grammar errors seemed infinite. She taught me phrases the textbooks didn't cover—street Spanish, the kind of language that would mark me as someone who'd actually lived in Mexico rather than just studied it.
"Tu acento está mejorando," she said on day four. Your accent is improving.
"Gracias. Tengo una buena maestra."
She smiled. Small victories mattered when everything else was waiting.
I'd stopped taking NZT during the surgery period—mixing the cognitive enhancer with anesthesia and painkillers seemed like asking for complications I couldn't afford. But on day five, with the major swelling receding and my medical cocktail reduced to basic pain management, I reached into the invisible bag and pulled out a familiar capsule.
The effect was immediate. Clarity rushed back like water filling a vessel. The world snapped into focus—colors brighter, sounds sharper, thoughts connecting in patterns that had been absent for three weeks.
God, I'd missed this.
I spent the enhanced hours planning. The document forger—Miguel—would need payment I didn't have. My $900 wouldn't cover quality work, and quality was essential. Cheap forgeries failed scrutiny. Failed scrutiny meant questions. Questions meant exposure.
So: find money in Tijuana, or find an alternative approach.
Options crystallized in my NZT-enhanced mind. Sell NZT? Risky—I didn't know the local market, didn't have contacts, and a gringo trying to move mysterious pills in cartel territory was a good way to end up dead. Information trading? Possible, but I lacked the network I'd built in Albuquerque. Direct work? Manual labor wouldn't pay enough fast enough.
Which left one viable approach: use what I had to create what I needed.
Deal Sense could read people. NZT could process situations faster than normal humans could track. And I had three weeks to figure out how to leverage both in an unfamiliar city.
The planning began.
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