Chapter 23
The cabin's air was heavy with the smell of rubbing alcohol, burnt coffee, and old wood. Dust motes floated lazily in a strip of sunlight slicing across the bed where Quinn lay, unmoving.
Trent stood on one side of her, hands on his hips, looking like a man seconds away from punching a wall. Tina was on the other, arms crossed, eyes locked on him with that "try me and see" expression.
> Trent: "Is she dead? Tell me right now if she's dead, because we're not sitting here playing doctor."
Tina: "She's not dead, Sherlock. You think I'd be standing here arguing if she was dead? What do you think I am?"
Trent: "Someone too stubborn to admit she doesn't know when to take a person to the damn hospital."
Tina: "Oh, please. You take her to the hospital, and guess what happens? 'Hi, officer, we were just chilling at a crime scene last night and barely made it out. Could you treat my friend and also maybe arrest us?'"
Trent threw his hands up. "You did what on her? Did you even check her pulse right? Or did you just… put a wet towel on her forehead and pray?"
Tina's jaw dropped.
> Tina: "First of all, I did check her pulse, and her breathing, and her pupils. Second, don't disrespect the wet towel. That's classic medicine, okay?"
Trent: "Classic medicine is antibiotics. You gave her the spa treatment."
Tina: "At least I didn't almost get us killed trying to drive here like a Fast & Furious extra.
Trent's eyes narrowed. "Say that again."
Tina leaned forward, enunciating each word like she was delivering a sermon:
> Tina: "You. Drive. Like. You. Got. A. Death. Wish."
Somewhere between their verbal jabs, Quinn's head throbbed back to consciousness. At first, it was just sound — muffled voices bouncing around her skull, like she was underwater in a heated swimming pool full of sarcasm.
Her eyes fluttered open. The ceiling fan above spun lazily, blades clicking like it was judging her life choices. Shapes swam in her vision, then sharpened: Tina, mid-eye roll; Trent, gesturing wildly like a man negotiating with the devil.
Her body acted before her brain fully caught up. She shot upright, heart pounding, grabbed the heaviest thing within reach — a glass flower vase on the nightstand — and held it like she was about to turn the cabin into a WWE ring.
Both Trent and Tina instantly froze, mid-argument.
> Trent: "…Is she—"
Tina: "—about to hit me? Oh, hell no."
Quinn's voice cracked as she barked, "Where am I?!" Her eyes darted from one to the other, pulse still in survival mode.
Trent took one cautious step back, hands up like he was talking down a bank robber. "Okay, let's all breathe—"
Tina didn't even flinch. She tilted her head, smirking like she'd been waiting for this moment all morning.
> Tina: "Drop the flower vase, Spider Girl. You're not in Lily Estate anymore."
Quinn blinked, looking down at the vase like she'd just realized it wasn't a grenade. Her arms dropped a little, but her glare stayed locked on them.
> Quinn: "Spider Girl? Really?"
Tina: "I was gonna say 'Final Destination girl,' but this felt more optimistic."
Trent: "She's been calling me Dominic Toretto all morning, don't take it personally."
Quinn's brain was still catching up, but the fact that it was daylight — and that she was alive — hit her like a slow wave. She lowered the vase onto the bed, rubbing her temple.
Tina crossed her arms again. "You're welcome, by the way."
Trent gave her a sharp look. "No. I'm the reason she's here. If you'd had your way, she'd be—"
> Tina: "Fine? She is fine."
Trent: "She's not fine, she's—"
Quinn: "—right here, by the way. Hi. Still alive. Still listening."
The room fell silent for a beat, just the hum of the fan and the faint sound of birds outside.
Quinn leaned back against the pillow, smirking despite herself.
> Quinn: "If you two keep arguing, I might just grab that vase again."
Trent and Tina glanced at each other — and for once, didn't have a comeback.
LILY ESTATE – MORNING AFTER
The sun wasn't warm this morning. It just hung there, pale and judgmental, spilling light over the ruins of Lily Estate. The air was still choking with the bitter cocktail of smoke, ash, and gunpowder. Somewhere beyond the police barricades, the distant wail of an ambulance rose and fell like a grieving parent.
Draya stepped back from the press cluster, the echo of her own voice still ringing in her head from the live statement. Her face had been stone for the cameras, but the moment she was out of frame, the weight hit her chest like a steel door slamming shut.
She didn't look at anyone — she didn't want to see the faces of the medics wheeling away covered bodies. Didn't want to count the black bags. Didn't want to hear the faint, panicked gasps from the few survivors who were still in shock.
Her mind wasn't here anymore.
It was back in Jean Luc's office last night.
His face lit by that smug little half-smile.
That damned voice saying—
> "Now you can go… but tick says the clock… tick, tick."
The words crawled through her head like they'd been stitched there.
She'd thought it was his usual cryptic theatrics. She'd thought she had control of the game between them. But now, standing in the aftermath, she couldn't shake the thought:
Was this his plan all along?
Did Jean Luc intend for her to walk into this slaughter? Did he expect her to be one of the casualties?
A crunch of boots on gravel broke her spiral.
"Ma'am?"
It was Ortega, her second-in-command. His voice was steady, but his eyes… those told the truth. Red at the rims, darting just slightly to the smoke curling from the estate.
"You okay?" he asked.
She let out a short sigh, trying to ground herself. "…I'm fine."
"Ma'am, don't do that," he said gently. "Don't shoulder this like it's yours alone. Nobody could've seen this coming. The intel was clean. You followed protocol."
Another sigh, heavier this time, dragging her shoulders lower. She kept her gaze on the ruined archway of the estate, watching officers move like ghosts through the rubble.
You didn't see this coming because you were too close to him, she told herself. Too close to Jean Luc to notice he might have been setting you up.
Ortega stepped beside her. "Look… these men and women signed up knowing the risks. You can't—"
She cut him off. "Ortega."
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Handle things here." Her voice was flat, clipped, but it carried weight.
He frowned. "Where are you—"
"I've got something to take care of."
Before he could press her, she turned and walked away. The ground crunched under her boots as she passed the line of squad cars, medics, and a few curious bystanders pressing against the barricades.
Behind her, Ortega watched, realizing she hadn't been asking him to take over — she'd been telling him goodbye, at least for now.
And she didn't look back.
***************
The silence between Jean Luc and Silas was a silence that didn't just sit in the room — it stalked it. Silas's eyes kept darting anywhere but at Jean Luc, like a man looking for an exit in a burning building but knowing every door is locked.
Jean Luc didn't blink. Didn't lean forward. Didn't need to. His stillness was scarier than shouting. Finally, he broke it with that deceptively soft question,
"Where is this officer now?"
Silas's mouth opened. No words. His lips stayed parted like he was stuck buffering. He could feel his heartbeat in his teeth.
Jean Luc's gaze didn't move from him. Not a single twitch of irritation — which was worse, because it meant he was calculating.
Before Silas could stammer something useless, there was a sharp knock and the door cracked open. Allen leaned in, looking like he'd just interrupted a lion mid-meal.
"Sir… the Latinos just arrived."
Jean Luc's eyes finally broke from Silas to Allen. And then — that smile. Smooth, slow, almost warm if you didn't know what it meant. The kind of smile that said business first, punishment later.
He stood, smoothing his jacket, and walked around the bed. As he passed, he clapped Silas on the shoulder — friendly to anyone watching, but his grip lingered just long enough to say you're still in my hand.
"I'll attend that meeting," he said lightly. "But it's the name of that officer I need once I get back."
Silas swallowed, nodding like a school kid who didn't want to be noticed.
That's when Allen did something stupid and loyal at the same time. He stepped further into the doorway, shoulders squared.
"Sir, no one escaped. No one. Whatever happened, it's done."
Jean Luc paused. Looked at Allen. Looked back at Silas.
For a second, Silas thought he was about to call the bluff, demand proof, maybe even shoot Allen right there. But instead, Jean Luc's smile curved again — thinner this time, sharper.
"Good job," he said, his voice so even it was impossible to tell if he meant it. His eyes, though, stayed locked on Silas.
Then he walked out, Allen stepping aside as if avoiding a tidal wave.
The moment the door clicked shut, Silas exhaled so hard it was almost a groan. Allen moved in, whispering, "You owe me for that one."
Silas didn't answer. He was too busy trying not to shake. Jean Luc's "good job" was still ringing in his ears — and he knew, deep down, it wasn't over. Not even close.