Chapter 11: The Ghosts We Carry

The moon hung low in the night sky, casting an eerie glow over South Beach as Trevor Blade limped back to his houseboat. The once-familiar sight of the Steel Justice now felt like a distant memory, the boat draped in yellow crime scene tape, fluttering in the breeze like a mocking reminder of everything he’d lost. The police had long since left, but the hollow feeling remained.

Trevor stepped onto the deck, pushing past the tape and making his way inside. The air was thick with the stench of sweat and blood—his blood. The pain from his bullet grazes throbbed, but it was nothing compared to the ache inside him. Each step felt heavier than the last as he moved through the cabin, his eyes scanning the remnants of their life together. The photo of Ashley on the wall, her smiling face, now felt like a cruel joke.

He moved to the small bathroom, grabbing a bottle of whiskey from the counter before sitting on the edge of the sink. His reflection stared back at him, gaunt and weary, the face of a man who had been pushed beyond the breaking point. The wound on his arm oozed blood, staining his shirt. With a grunt, Trevor reached for the needle and thread, biting down on the leather strap he’d prepared.

The needle pierced his skin, sending sharp jolts of pain radiating through his arm, but Trevor barely flinched. Pain had become his constant companion, a reminder that he was still alive, still fighting. His fingers worked with practiced precision, stitching the wound closed, his mind drifting as he sewed himself back together.

Once finished, Trevor tossed the bloody thread into the sink and took a long pull from the whiskey bottle. The burn of the alcohol was welcome, numbing him from the inside out. He staggered back into the main cabin, dropping onto the worn couch with a heavy sigh.

His hand trembled as he lifted the bottle to his lips again, taking another drink. But it wasn’t enough to drown the noise. It never was.

The screams began, low at first, barely more than a whisper. But they grew louder, sharper, cutting through the quiet night. Trevor’s eyes closed as the familiar nightmare descended, dragging him into the dark.

Laura. John. Kelly. Their voices, their faces, all blurred together in a hellish chorus of the past. The faces of the people he’d failed to save. His first wife, Laura, her lifeless body crumpled in his arms, the blood still warm on his hands. His best friend John Newton, his war buddy from ’Nam, the man he couldn’t protect, and the man he had to pull the plug on. And Kelly—John’s sister, the last piece of his friend that Trevor had sworn to keep safe—taken by the same violence that had consumed his life.

Now there was Ashley. His heart clenched at the thought of her lying in that hospital bed, motionless, fighting for her life. He’d failed her too. The Latin Kings had nearly taken her from him, and every fiber of his being screamed for revenge.

The screams in his head reached a fever pitch, the weight of his failures crushing him. Trevor’s grip tightened around the bottle, his knuckles white as he slammed it down onto the floor, shattering the glass. The sharp crack echoed through the cabin, silencing the voices, if only for a moment.

His body sagged, exhausted, the whiskey doing its job as it pulled him into a restless sleep.

Trevor was awoken by the creak of footsteps on the deck. His hand instinctively went to the gun by his side as he sat up, eyes alert and scanning the dimly lit cabin. A figure appeared at the door, hesitating for a moment before stepping inside.

“Mr. Blade?”

Trevor’s eyes narrowed as Danny stepped into the light. The kid looked nervous, his face pale and drawn, but there was a determination in his eyes that Trevor hadn’t seen before.

“Danny,” Trevor rasped, lowering the gun. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I—” Danny hesitated, glancing around the wreckage of the cabin. “I came to see if you were okay. I heard about the accident... I needed to check on you. On Mrs. Blade.”

Trevor’s jaw clenched as the memory of the crash flashed through his mind, the image of Ashley’s broken body burned into his brain. He let out a heavy breath, shaking his head. “Ashley’s in the hospital. In a coma.”

Danny’s face fell. “Oh no... I’m so sorry.”

Trevor didn’t respond, his gaze distant as he stared at the broken glass on the floor. He could feel Danny’s eyes on him, the weight of the unspoken questions hanging between them.

“What happened?” Danny asked quietly, stepping closer. “The Latin Kings... did they do this?”

Trevor’s eyes snapped to Danny, the anger simmering just beneath the surface. “They did more than this, kid. They nearly killed her.”

Danny swallowed hard, the gravity of the situation sinking in. “I... I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice barely above a whisper. “But... Mr. Blade, was it worth it? All of this?”

The question hung in the air like a challenge, one that Trevor had been asking himself for days. Was it worth it? The violence, the bloodshed, the endless cycle of revenge? Had any of it truly made a difference?

Trevor’s hands tightened into fists, the sharp sting of glass cutting into his palm. He stood up, his eyes locking onto Danny’s with a cold, unwavering gaze.

“If Ashley thought it was worth it,” Trevor said, his voice low and firm, “then it’s worth it. Even if it kills me.”

Danny stared at him, the weight of Trevor’s words sinking in. There was no arguing with a man who had nothing left to lose. He nodded slowly, stepping back toward the door.

“I just... I wanted to help,” Danny muttered, his voice faltering.

Trevor’s expression softened for a moment, the rage giving way to something else—something closer to regret. “You can’t help me, Danny. Not with this.”

Danny lingered for a moment longer, his eyes flicking to the shattered remnants of Trevor’s life scattered around the cabin. Then, without another word, he turned and slipped out into the night, leaving Trevor alone with the darkness.

Trevor stood there, the silence closing in around him once more. He glanced at the broken whiskey bottle on the floor, the last of the liquid pooling in the cracks of the wood. With a sigh, he dropped back onto the couch, staring up at the ceiling, his mind a battlefield of ghosts and regrets.

Chapter 12: The Shadow of Death

The sun was setting over South Beach when Johnathan Angel stepped out of his rental car and stared up at the towering hospital before him. The salty breeze from the ocean did little to calm his nerves as he made his way inside. His usual air of confidence was muted tonight, weighed down by the knowledge that his friend Trevor Blade’s world was falling apart—and Johnathan was here, too late to stop it.

He walked briskly through the sterile halls of the hospital, passing nurses and doctors who barely noticed him. He had no trouble finding Ashley Blade’s room; her name was whispered in the halls like a grim reminder of the violence that had come crashing into this otherwise peaceful place. Johnathan pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The sight of Ashley lying motionless in the hospital bed sent a jolt through him. Machines beeped rhythmically, tubes connected to her arms, her chest rising and falling with the help of a ventilator. She looked so small, so fragile—nothing like the strong, vibrant woman he had once known.

Johnathan pulled up a chair beside her bed and sat down, his eyes lingering on her pale face. He cleared his throat, his voice thick as he spoke.

“Hey, Ashley,” he began softly. “It’s Johnathan. I know you’re in there somewhere, fighting. Your mom and sister... they send their love. They’d be here if they could, but... well, you know how it is.”

He leaned back in the chair, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re tough. Tougher than most. You’ll get through this. And when you do, Trevor’s gonna need you more than ever.”

His voice trailed off as he looked around the room, the quiet hum of the machines the only sound in the stillness. After a long moment, he stood, placing a hand gently on Ashley’s arm.

“I’ll do what I can,” he said softly. “For you and for him.”

Johnathan left the hospital with a heavy heart, the weight of the situation pressing down on him as he made his way to the South Beach police station. The night had fully descended by the time he arrived, the station bathed in the harsh glow of fluorescent lights. Inside, the air was thick with the tension of a city teetering on the edge, the police officers on edge from the recent violence.

Johnathan made his way to the front desk, flashing his badge. “I’m Johnathan Angel, Internal Affairs, NYPD. I’m following up on a lead for a friend.”

The officer at the desk raised an eyebrow. “Internal Affairs? South Beach is a long way from New York.”

“I assure you,” Johnathan said with a faint smile, “this case ties into my work. I need to speak with the chief.”

A few minutes later, Johnathan found himself in the office of Chief Louis Delgado. Delgado was a grizzled veteran, his face lined with years of hard decisions and close calls. He sat behind his desk, arms crossed, eyes narrowed as he studied Johnathan.

“What’s an IA detective doing in my town, Angel?” Delgado asked, leaning back in his chair.

“I’m following up on a lead involving the Latin Kings,” Johnathan replied, taking a seat across from the chief. “There’s been a lot of movement down here, and my investigation in New York overlaps with what’s happening in South Beach.”

Delgado raised an eyebrow. “Overlaps how?”

Johnathan leaned forward, his tone serious. “I’m looking for Marco Ruiz. He’s involved in a bigger operation that’s been flying under the radar, thanks to some political connections. I’m here because a close friend of mine, Trevor Blade, is caught up in this mess. His wife is in a coma, and I need to know what the hell’s going on.”

Delgado sighed, rubbing his temples. “We’ve got our own problems down here. We picked up one of Ruiz’s guys last night, after the shootout at the Neon Kitty. Bloody, scared out of his mind, and I’m pretty sure he pissed himself when the cops got him. He’s been in holding ever since.”

Johnathan’s eyes sharpened. “I need to talk to him.”

Delgado hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Fine. But I don’t want any IA politics messing up my case. You clear?”

“Crystal,” Johnathan replied, standing up.

The interrogation room was dimly lit, the single bulb overhead casting long shadows across the trembling figure of Carlos Medina, a low-level member of the Latin Kings. His face was pale, bruised, and still streaked with blood from the previous night. His eyes darted around the room like a caged animal, terrified of what might come next.

Johnathan stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He moved calmly, deliberately, setting the recorder on the table before sitting down across from Carlos.

Carlos swallowed hard, his voice shaking. “I already told you everything. I didn’t mean to be there—”

Johnathan held up a hand. “We’re not here to talk about you. We’re here to talk about Trevor Blade.”

Carlos stiffened at the name, his face draining of what little color remained.

Johnathan’s eyes narrowed. “I’m going to turn off the recorder. You’re going to tell me everything. The more you cooperate, the better this goes for you. Understand?”

Carlos nodded, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts. Johnathan reached over and flipped off the recorder, the small click echoing in the quiet room.

“Start talking,” Johnathan said, his voice low and steady.

Carlos hesitated, fear flickering in his eyes. “I... I don’t know where Marco is. I swear. After last night, man, I just—”

Johnathan’s fist slammed onto the table, making Carlos jump. “Tell me what happened at the Neon Kitty.”

Carlos stammered, his words tumbling out in a rush. “We were there, right? Just hanging out, minding our own business. And then he showed up. Blade. He’s like... like Death, man. He just walked in, and everything went to hell.”

Johnathan leaned forward, his voice a whisper now. “Keep going.”

Carlos wiped the sweat from his brow, trembling. “He... he killed everyone, man. I don’t even know how he did it. One second, Jorge’s laughing, and the next, Blade’s putting bullets in people left and right. Blood everywhere. I tried to run, but the cops got me. I didn’t even see Jorge after that—he was... gone.”

The room was silent, save for Carlos’s labored breathing. He shifted in his seat, his legs shaking violently beneath the table. “I’m telling you, man. He shouldn't have tried to pull Danny out. They didn't even care about the little shit, but his actions made them aware of where he was. Someone was already looking for him!”

Johnathan’s eyes narrowed. “Danny? Someone was looking for him? What do you mean?”

Carlos swallowed, his voice barely above a whisper. “The hit on him and his wife... it wasn’t retaliation for Danny. That hit came from higher up. Someone big. Marco just made it happen.”

Johnathan’s heart raced, the pieces clicking into place. “Who ordered it?”

Carlos looked at Johnathan, fear flooding his eyes. “I don’t know. But Marco’s the one who pulled the trigger.”

The silence stretched between them. Johnathan’s mind raced, and a cold realization settled over him. This was all connected. It was something much bigger, and Marco Ruiz was connected to the man he was looking for.

Johnathan stood up, flipping the recorder back on. “You’ve been helpful, Carlos,” he said, his voice measured. “Now let’s see if you survive this long enough to make it worth something.”

As he walked out of the interrogation room, Johnathan knew what had to happen next.

He had to find Trevor before it was too late.

Chapter 13: The Inferno

The low hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Trevor Blade stood in his garage, his eyes fixed on the scattered pieces of metal and scrap that lay across the workbench. The night was still young, but the weight of what was to come pressed heavily on his mind. The garage was his refuge, a place where he could focus the raw fury coursing through his veins into something useful—something deadly.

For hours, he had been working on a new project, though what exactly it was remained a secret even to himself until the pieces began to fall into place. His hands moved with the precision of a craftsman, welding, bolting, and hammering until the rough shape of a vest began to emerge. It wasn’t pretty, but it didn’t have to be. All it needed to do was keep him alive long enough to finish what he started.

Sweat dripped from his brow as he tested the weight of the vest, the thick plates of scrap metal interlocked tightly, covering his chest and abdomen. It was crude, homemade, but it would stop a bullet—or at least, that was the plan.

Satisfied with his progress, Trevor turned his attention to the other side of the workbench. There, lying in a pile of rusted tubes and canisters, was the second weapon he had been working on: a makeshift flamethrower. It was a beast of a contraption, pieced together from old fuel tanks and a propane torch, and as Trevor lifted it, he felt the weight of his vengeance settle over him like a second skin.

He aimed the nozzle at a scrap of wood he had propped up in the corner, testing the trigger. A roaring jet of flame shot forward, engulfing the wood in an instant. The heat was intense, the smell of burning metal and fuel filling the small garage. A grim smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. It worked.

He extinguished the flame and set the weapon down, his heart racing with anticipation. Tonight, Marco Ruiz would pay. Tonight, Trevor would burn it all down.

Later that night, the construction site on the outskirts of South Beach was bathed in the cold light of the moon. The skeletal frames of half-built buildings loomed in the darkness, casting long shadows over the gathering below. The site was eerily quiet, save for the low rumble of a limo engine idling near the center of the lot.

Inside the limo, a man in a sharp suit sat beside Marco Ruiz. The man’s face was unreadable, his expression calm as he watched the scene unfold. His armed guards stood at attention, far more professional than any gangsters Trevor had ever seen. They moved with the precision of trained soldiers, their eyes scanning the area with cold, calculating efficiency.

Trevor watched from a distance, crouched in the shadows, his eyes narrowing as he studied the men below. This wasn’t just some petty drug deal. Whoever this man was, he had the power and influence to back up Marco’s operation. And that meant he was a threat.

Trevor’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel of his Mustang, his heart pounding in his chest. He could feel the weight of the vest pressing against him, the sharp edges of the metal digging into his skin. The flamethrower lay beside him on the passenger seat, ready for when things went south.

With a roar, Trevor slammed his foot on the gas, the engine of the Mustang roaring to life as he sped toward the construction site. The guards barely had time to react before the reinforced car crashed through the front gate, metal crumpling beneath the force of the impact. Trevor spun the wheel, sending the car into a hard drift, his tires screeching as he pulled the handbrake, spinning out in a cloud of dust and debris.

Before anyone could react, Trevor leaned out of the window, his gun in hand. The sharp crack of gunfire shattered the silence, bullets ripping through the air as Trevor fired at the gathered men. The guards dove for cover, returning fire with military precision, but Trevor was ready. The homemade vest absorbed the impact, the bullets pinging harmlessly off the metal plates as he continued his assault.

The scene devolved into chaos. Gunfire erupted from all sides, the crackle of automatic weapons filling the night as Trevor pushed the Mustang to its limits, dodging incoming fire as he circled the lot. Bullets thudded into the car, shattering windows and tearing through the body, but Trevor remained focused, his mind locked on his target.

The Mustang took heavy damage, but Trevor managed to park it behind a large dump truck, the vehicle providing temporary cover as the gunfire continued. His breaths came in ragged gasps, the heat of battle thrumming through his veins as he reached for the flamethrower. The guards were closing in, their footsteps heavy on the gravel, but they had no idea what was coming.

With a flick of the trigger, the flamethrower roared to life. A jet of fire burst forth, catching the nearest guard in a wave of flames. The man’s screams echoed through the lot as the fire consumed him, his body writhing in agony before crumpling to the ground. Trevor turned the weapon on the others, watching as they scrambled for cover, but there was no escape from the inferno. One by one, the guards fell, their bodies engulfed in flame, their guns clattering to the ground as the heat of the fire overtook them.

Trevor moved with cold precision, the flames illuminating the night as he torched everything in his path. The once-silent construction site was now a battlefield of burning bodies and twisted metal, the air thick with the stench of gasoline and charred flesh.

But through the chaos, Marco Ruiz had slipped away.

Trevor’s eyes darted toward the limo, his heart racing as he spotted the car speeding toward the exit. The man in the suit sat in the back, his expression calm even as Marco barked orders to the driver. They were making a run for it.

With a curse, Trevor dropped the flamethrower and sprinted back to the Mustang. The car was a mess—its body riddled with bullet holes, the engine sputtering as he gunned it to life. But it would have to do.

The tires screeched as Trevor peeled out of the lot, giving chase. The limo was fast, but Trevor knew these streets better than anyone. He swerved through traffic, the Mustang weaving in and out of lanes as he closed the distance. The engine roared in protest, a testament to the damage it had taken, but Trevor pushed it harder, the adrenaline fueling him.

The chase tore through the empty streets of South Beach, the moonlight casting long shadows over the city as the two cars sped through the night. Trevor’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the wheel, his eyes locked on the limo ahead. He could see Marco’s face in the rearview mirror, the panic etched into his features as the Mustang drew closer.

But just as Trevor prepared to ram the limo, the Mustang shuddered violently. A warning light flashed on the dashboard, and Trevor felt the engine sputter. He glanced down and saw the trail of fuel spilling from the back of the car—one of the bullets had punctured the gas tank.

“Shit,” Trevor muttered, his heart sinking as the car began to slow. The limo pulled ahead, disappearing around a corner as the Mustang gave one final shudder and died.

Trevor slammed his fists against the steering wheel, the rage building inside him as the limo’s taillights faded into the distance. He had been so close. But now Marco was gone, and the Mustang was dead on the side of the road.

For a long moment, Trevor sat in the driver’s seat, his breath coming in short, angry bursts. The flames of his anger burned hotter than ever, but he knew this wasn’t over. It couldn’t be.

He would find Marco. And when he did, there would be no escape.

This chapter extends the ambush scene with a detailed chase, introducing Trevor’s homemade gear and the chaos that ensues. Let me know if you'd like any adjustments!

Chapter 14: Chasing Shadows

The late afternoon sun cast a warm glow over the marina as Johnathan Angel walked down the creaking wooden docks, his eyes scanning the rows of boats that bobbed gently in the water. The salty breeze whipped through his hair, and for a brief moment, he could almost forget why he was here. Almost.

But the sight of Trevor’s houseboat—now riddled with bullet holes, police tape fluttering in the wind—snapped him back to reality. The Steel Justice sat in the water like a wounded animal, the once-proud vessel now a grim reminder of the violence that had ripped through Trevor’s life.

“Trev,” Johnathan muttered to himself as he stepped onto the deck, shaking his head. “What the hell did you get yourself into?”

The boat was a mess—glass shattered, bloodstains still visible on the deck, and the distinct smell of gunpowder lingering in the air. Johnathan took a moment to absorb the scene, his mind racing. He needed to find Trevor, and fast.

As he moved toward the cabin, something caught his eye—a figure looming in the distance, lingering near the edge of the marina. Johnathan squinted, his hand instinctively moving toward the gun holstered at his side. But as he stepped closer, his intuition told him this was the Danny he had heard about.

“Hey!” Johnathan called out, his voice carrying over the sound of the water slapping against the docks. “Danny?”

The young man froze, his eyes wide with panic as he turned to see Johnathan jogging toward him. For a split second, it looked like Danny was going to bolt, but Johnathan wasn’t about to let that happen.

With a few quick strides, Johnathan caught up, grabbing Danny by the arm before he could run. “Whoa, whoa, easy there, kid. Where you think you’re going?”

“I-I didn’t do anything!” Danny stammered, his eyes darting around as if he were expecting someone to jump out and arrest him on the spot. “I swear, I don’t know anything!”

Johnathan sighed, rubbing his temples. “Relax, Danny? Is it? I’m not here to bust you. I’m looking for Trevor. Have you seen him?”

Danny hesitated, his eyes still wide with fear. “Yeah, it's Danny. I... I saw him earlier. But I don’t know where he went.”

Johnathan narrowed his eyes. “You saw him? When?”

“This morning,” Danny replied, his voice shaky. “He... he looked rough. And I’m pretty sure he was armed to the teeth. But he didn’t say much, just took off. South, I think.”

Johnathan raised an eyebrow. “South? Driving south... and heavily armed. Yeah, sounds like Trevor. Any idea what he was planning?”

Danny shook his head frantically. “No, man! I don’t know! All I know is he looked pissed, and he wasn’t exactly talking.”

Johnathan sighed, running a hand through his hair as he tried to piece it together. “Okay, Danny, breathe. I’m not gonna shoot you or lock you up, alright? I just need some answers.”

Danny gulped, visibly trying to calm down. “It’s just... everything’s crazy, man. I mean, who the hell lives on a boat anyway? How’s that even... y’know... practical?”

Johnathan couldn’t help but crack a small smile. “Yeah, well, you’d be surprised. Trevor is unconventional. Ashley too. Guess they figured a houseboat was their version of a white picket fence.”

Danny gave a weak chuckle, glancing at the shot-up vessel. “Yeah, well, looks like someone forgot to tell them boats can get shot up just like houses.”

Johnathan nodded, his smile fading as he looked back at the wrecked houseboat. “Yeah... and that someone is probably still out there.”

For a moment, the two of them stood in silence, the weight of the situation sinking in. Johnathan could see the fear in Danny’s eyes—fear for Trevor, fear for what was coming. But there was something else there too, something that gave Johnathan hope.

“You care about him, don’t you?” Johnathan asked softly.

Danny looked down, shuffling his feet awkwardly. “Yeah... yeah, I do. I owe him. He’s... he’s like the only person who’s ever had my back, y’know? Him and Mrs. Blade.”

Johnathan nodded. “I get it. But right now, he needs us. If he’s driving south, armed to the teeth, that means he’s heading into something big. And that means we don’t have a lot of time.”

Danny swallowed hard. “What do we do?”

“We find him,” Johnathan said, his voice firm. “And we make sure he doesn’t get himself killed in the process.”

Danny nodded, his fear giving way to a flicker of determination. “Okay... okay. But if he sees us coming...”

Johnathan smiled grimly. “Yeah, well, that’s the part we’ll have to figure out when we get there.”

As they turned to leave, Johnathan cast one last glance at the Steel Justice. It was hard to imagine Trevor and Ashley living here, their own slice of peace amidst the chaos of their lives. But now it was just another casualty in a war that was far from over.

Trevor was out there, somewhere. And Johnathan would be damned if he didn’t find him before it was too late.

Last edited by Machismo (10/13/2024 1:27 am)