Page 113 of Claim

Cormac had been counting on that.

Probably not on being dead, or bleeding out on a warehouse floor, before he could enjoy the result, I’d guess.

Fuck.

And here I was, parked in a curtained cubicle off the main corridor. Somewhere out of the way. A place to put people they don’t want seen but can’t legally disappear yet. Despite how most of those coming into A&E lined the corridors in beds or chairs and could use this room more than me. That didn’t matter. I could call this five-star service. And as I sat there on my own, I catalogued the damage because that’s what I do when I’m trying not to lose my fucking mind.

My hands were split where I’d driven the shank too hard, plastic biting deep until skin gave way. One rib, already cracked from prison fights, had fractured again when I hit the ground rolling. Breathing hurt if I inhaled too deep. So I didn’t. Gave short pulls only. Enough to get by.

Had a bit of a graze, too. The doctor called it a superficial gunshot wound. Then he cleaned it, dressed it, sent me for imaging anyway because they had to. That first bullet? It had clipped me and carried on. Straight into Tristan. I hadn’t planned for that. Hadn’t thought beyond duck or die. Guilt sat heavy and ugly in my chest. Kicking his chair had meant to get him out of the line of fire. Throwing the pole had meant to hit Cormac’s aim enough for him to miss me. But in doing both, it went straight through to Tristan instead.

If I hadn’t moved…

If I’d taken it full on…

Tristan wouldn’t have been hit.

But if I hadn’t moved, I’d be dead. And if I was dead, Tristan wouldn’t have been far behind. That was the truth of it, whether I liked it or not.

I banged my head back against the wall. Hard enough to sting. Not enough to knock anything loose. And kept looking at the curtain as if it might part and someone would finally tell me what the fuck was going on.

I hadn’t seen him. Couldn’t see him. Wasn’t allowed. Who the fuck was I to him, anyway? All I knew was that he was in surgery. Had been for hours. No updates. No reassurances. No mercy. I asked once. To stop me spiralling. They told me they’d let me know when they could.

So I sat there. Cuffed. Bleeding through bandages that needed changing again. Staring at nothing. Prisoner in all but name. Only this time, the walls were white; the doors were automatic, and the thing I was waiting for wasn’t a sentence.

It was whether the man I loved was still alive.

I must’ve drifted, because voices murmured behind the curtain and something scraped softly. I snapped awake as the officers let someone through. I swallowed. Straightened as much as I could, cuffs biting, ribs screaming, bandages pulling, every movement a reminder of how fucked I was.

Then the last man I’d expected walked into my space.

Charles Hale-Fitzroy KC. Tristan’s old man. Perfect lines. Perfect tie knot. Perfect rigid posture. But his hands betrayed him. There was a faint tremor in them. A man holding himself together by habit alone.

A father on the brink.

If I’d ever known what a father looked like. Mine ran out when I was nine.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked me as the curtain shut again.

I nodded. Small. Tight. Didn’t look away.

He smoothed his tie as if composing himself.

“I know who you are, too.” He stayed near the edge of the cubicle, positioned for distance or escape. As if proximity itself carried risk.

I didn’t blame him.

“I know you from files.” He stared at me, or through me; I wasn’t sure. “I know everything you’ve done. Everything you’ve been. I’ve read your history. I’ve written recommendations about men like you. I’ve encountered you throughout my career. People like you leave patterns. Damage. A trail of harm that’s easy to chart if you know what to look for.”

He spoke as if delivering a lecture. As if I were an example, not a person.

“I have studied you. Prosecuted you. Watched courts sentence you not only for what you do, but for what you inevitably become.”

I dropped my gaze. I knew exactly what I was to him. Not a threat. Not even a villain. Nothing more than a category.

“I know you hurt people. Maim them. You corrode communities. You move poison and profit from the damage it does. You are a criminal.”

I swallowed. Waited for the part where this turned into something useful.