“Stitches are holding,” he says. “You tore some scar tissue, but nothing that needs to be redone.”
He cleans the wound thoroughly. The antiseptic burns, sharp enough to pull a breath from my chest. He works fast, rewrapping everything with practiced ease.
He hands me two pill bottles.
“Oxy for pain, Risperidone for mood stabilization. Take them separately.”
I swallow the oxy.
He checks my vitals, gives Beau a nod, and packs up. “Avoid unnecessary strain.”
“Define unnecessary,” Travis says.
The doctor ignores him.
The second he leaves, I am already on my feet. I pull on a shirt, ready to go.
Beau is leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed, evaluating me like he is deciding whether I pass inspection.
“You need to look presentable. We’re going to a strip club, not a morgue.”
“Same thing the way we do it,” I mutter.
Beau’s mouth twitches. “Still. Dress well. They notice sloppy men.”
I roll my shoulder. Bone shifts under the strain, gauze pulling tight. Pain spikes, then eases back into a steady burn.
“How’s the pain?” Beau asks.
“Manageable.”
Beau tosses me a black button-down, a suit jacket, and a loaded pistol. Two extra clips follow, lining up on the table like silver teeth.
Beau notices me eyeing the setup and raises a brow. “You wanna get in, you gotta look the part. Black Ridge ain’t the kind of place you walk into dressed like that.”
I grunt and pull on the button-down. The fabric is crisp, expensive, and stretches tight across the bandages.
“You think they’re gonna recognize us?” I ask, fastening the buttons.
“Oh, I’m counting on it,” he says. “But we’ll give them a good five minutes of doubt. Long enough to put a hole in someone.”
Travis paces near the bunker’s steel exit, glancing nervously at a matte-black rifle propped against the wall like it is whispering his name. He looks entirely out of place in this world, too twitchy, too normal.
“So…” he begins, hesitating as he steps closer to us. “What exactly is my role in this? Because I’m feeling real bullet-magnet adjacent right now.”
He points vaguely toward the guns. “Do I get a weapon? Or am I just moral support? Maybe hold the coats?”
Beau doesn't answer. He just turns, reaches into the wall-mounted weapons case, and tosses him a compact Glock like he is handing over a pack of gum.
Travis catches it with both hands and stares down at the pistol like it is a bomb. “Cool. Great. Love that for me. Definitely ready for this.”
“Keep the safety on,” Beau warns, checking his own gear. “You panic and you will shoot yourself.”
Travis groans and flips the gun over awkwardly. “Please tell me I at least get a bulletproof vest?”
Beau shrugs. “Sure. But with your face, you’re probably getting shot in the head.”
Travis freezes. “Why would you say that?”
