The first flicker of sirens hit the ramp, red and blue spiraling up the concrete coil. Deputies spilled out, guns drawn, the whole drama cranked to eleven for the benefit of the security cameras. Seneca let them cuff the man again, reading off his Miranda rights like he’d done it a hundred times before. They never even questioned why the infamous Bloody Scythes enforcer was babysitting the judge. Maybe they were grateful. Maybe they knew better than to ask.
A paramedic checked my throat and declared me “contused but intact.” I nodded, signed the release, and waited for the adrenaline to recede. Seneca hovered at the periphery, never taking his eyes off the commotion, never fidgeting, just cataloguing every detail. After the deputies loaded the would-be assailant into a cruiser and the paramedics packed up, I finally turned to face him.
“You’re supposed to report to the jail next Monday,” I said, doing my best to sound judicial instead of rattled.
He shrugged. “Wouldn’t miss it. But you should know—that wasn’t random. That was a message.”
“From who?”
He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. People want leverage. You’re the only one they’re scared of.”
I thought of my father, my grandfather, and the blood feud I’d just learned was still alive back east. I thought of the photo I’d locked in my drawer. “You’re not afraid of me,” I said, more challenge than question.
Seneca fixed me with a stare that was neither challenge nor threat, just recognition. “You don’t scare easy either.”
For a heartbeat, we just looked at each other, two predators circling the same empty space. Then he kicked his bike upright, dusted off his cut, and said, “Take the rest of the night off, Judge. You earned it.”
He rolled out of the garage in a slow, echoing thunder. I watched the taillight fade, then stared at my reflection in the car window. My hair was a mess, my throat already blooming with red, but I was alive, and for the first time in months, I didn’t feel alone. I slid behind the wheel, locked the doors, and sat in the dark a little longer, memorizing the silence before it got shattered all over again.
Chapter four
Seneca
The next morning, I returned to the courthouse like a dog returned to a buried bone. The place was quieter than usual. A thin fog of janitorial cleaner hung in the air, and the security guards at the front desk were so bored they barely even gave my patch a second look. Still, I felt the eyes. County buildings have a way of amplifying every stare, every sideways glance, until the whole place hums with a nervous static.
I dressed for the occasion, which is to say I wore the same battered leather and plain black tee that had served me through court, combat, and the shittier parts of New Mexico. My hair was combed back and my beard trimmed, but there was only so much you could do to hide the fact that I was a professional problem. My boots hit the tile like pistol shots, echoing down the corridor until even the clerks looked up from their screens.
The payment window was down the main hall, past the faded mural of pioneer justice and the bust of the dead judge who’d put several of my old crew away. I stopped in front of the glass partition and waited for the woman on the other side to acknowledge me. She was maybe forty, the kind of face you don’tremember even if you’ve seen it twice a day for a decade. When she looked up, she flinched, just a little, then gave a professional smile.
“Can I help you?”
I slid the payment slip across, along with a Ziploc bag full of fifties and hundreds. “Wallace. I’m here to clear a fine.”
Her eyes widened at the amount, then narrowed at my hands as if expecting a trick. I let her count it out, bill by bill, and watched her fingers tremble just a shade above the baseline. She kept darting glances up, as though I might reach through the slot and rip her larynx out if she miscounted. The silence got awkward fast, so I broke it.
“Is Bellini in today?” I asked, keeping my voice neutral.
The clerk looked at me like I’d asked if I could use her computer to order a kilo of heroin. “She’s in chambers. Only by appointment.”
I nodded, once. “Figures.”
She finished counting, printed a receipt, and slid it toward me, her hand withdrawing like a snake after a failed strike. I took the paper, folded it, and shoved it in my pocket. The whole process left me hollow, as if I’d paid a ransom rather than a debt to society.
The moment I turned from the window, I saw my attorney, Jenna Smart, waiting at the end of the corridor, half-hidden behind a column. Her face was composed, but her left hand gripped the handle of her briefcase hard enough to blanch the knuckles. She was dressed for court, but her jacket was off and her hair—usually flawless—looked like she’d been running her hands through it for an hour.
We locked eyes. There was a flicker of recognition, then something colder. She broke gaze first, turning on her heel and walking down the marble hall toward the exit.
I didn’t follow immediately. I stayed by the window, back to the glass, and watched her reflection in the polished tile. She moved like someone being pursued. I waited until she was almost to the doors before I started after her.
Outside, the day was dry and bright. Jenna stood on the edge of the plaza, fiddling with her car keys, staring straight ahead. She didn’t turn as I approached, but her whole body braced like she was expecting a blow.
“Counselor Smart,” I said, close enough for my voice to carry but not close enough to be a threat. “You’ve been avoiding my calls.”
She answered without looking at me. “Nothing left to discuss. You’re paid up, you’re a free man except for the thirty days, congratulations.”
I could hear the lie in her voice, the way it rushed and clipped at the end. “You went to see Bellini,” I said. “Before the ink on my receipt was dry. Why?”
Jenna turned then, slow, deliberate, like a gunslinger at high noon. Her eyes were rimmed with red, but her mouth was set in a perfect line. “Professional courtesy,” she said. “There’s been some chatter about your case.”
