Chapter 15: The Killing Days
Five days blurred into a single sustained effort.
Day thirty-eight: a medium-sized deal through Badger's Santa Fe contacts. Two parties who'd been circling each other for weeks, neither willing to make the first move. I brokered the introduction, provided the neutral ground, took my percentage. $2,100 by sunset.
Day thirty-nine: Raymond wanted more. His operation was expanding, and the Torres connection had whetted his appetite for Albuquerque distribution channels. I matched him with a mid-level buyer named Garza who'd been complaining about supply problems. Another introduction, another commission. $1,800.
Day forty: Jesse went dark.
I noticed it around noon. No response to my morning text. No activity on his usual channels. Phone straight to voicemail. At first I assumed he was busy—the first cook would demand attention, and Jesse wasn't the type to multitask effectively.
But the silence stretched. Hour after hour. No word from anyone in his circle.
I knew what was happening.
The RV. The desert. Krazy-8 and Emilio arriving to check out Jesse's new partner. Emilio recognizing Walter from the DEA ride-along. The confrontation. The phosphine gas. Two men dying in a metal box while Walter White crossed a line he could never uncross.
Right now, in a basement somewhere, Krazy-8 was locked to a pole with a bike lock. Waiting. Hoping for rescue that wouldn't come. Planning an escape that would fail because Walter White would find the broken plate and make a different choice.
I forced myself to focus on work.
Day forty-one: Combo's network produced an unexpected opportunity. A buyer in the South Valley needed product fast—his usual supplier had gotten busted, and desperation made people careless. I connected him with a reliable source and took premium commission for the rush job. $2,300.
Running total: $13,600. Ninety-one percent of target.
The numbers helped. Cold math to counter the horror I couldn't prevent.
Day forty-two: Jesse finally called.
His voice was wrong before he said a word.
"Pete." Just my name. Flat. Hollow.
"Jesse. I've been trying to reach you."
"Yeah. I know. I was... busy."
Silence stretched across the phone line. I could hear him breathing—shallow, uneven, the breathing of someone who hadn't slept in days.
"You want to talk about it?"
"Not on the phone."
"I'll come over."
"Yeah. Okay."
He hung up without saying goodbye.
Jesse's house had the feel of a crime scene.
Not literally—there was no blood, no bodies, no evidence of violence. But something had died here. The air tasted different. Heavier. Like the walls had absorbed trauma and were slowly leaking it back.
Jesse sat on the couch. Same position as always. But his eyes—
His eyes were different. Older. Haunted. The eyes of someone who'd seen things that couldn't be unseen.
"Shit went bad," he said without preamble. "Real bad."
I sat down across from him. Didn't push. Didn't ask questions. Just waited.
"The cook was fine. Better than fine—Mr. White's method is like nothing I've ever seen. Purity you wouldn't believe." Jesse's voice was mechanical, reciting facts to avoid feeling them. "But then these guys showed up. Krazy-8 and his cousin Emilio. They knew Mr. White from somewhere."
"What happened?"
"They were gonna kill us." Jesse's hands clenched in his lap. "I was outside when it went down. Heard the yelling. Then I heard... I don't know. Coughing. Choking. When I got back to the RV, Emilio was dead and Krazy-8 was barely breathing."
I stayed silent. Let him tell it at his own pace.
"Mr. White made some kind of gas. Chemistry shit. Just... mixed some things together and killed a man." Jesse finally looked at me. "He was gonna kill Krazy-8 too. Was gonna shoot him with Emilio's gun. But it jammed."
"So Krazy-8's alive?"
"He was." Jesse's jaw tightened. "We took him somewhere. Tied him up. Mr. White said we had to figure out what to do."
"What'd you do?"
"I don't know, man." Jesse's voice cracked. "I wasn't there for that part. Mr. White handled it. Said it was taken care of. I didn't ask what that meant."
But I knew. In a basement in a quiet neighborhood, Walter White had strangled Krazy-8 with a bike lock while Krazy-8 begged for his life. The first intentional murder. The first step on a path that led to Gus Fring's nursing home and a bomb that killed the only person who'd ever truly beaten Walter at his own game.
"Are you okay?" The question felt inadequate. Absurd, even. But it was what people asked.
"No." Jesse shook his head slowly. "I'm not okay. I watched a man die, Pete. Watched him choke on poison and fall down and just... stop. And I couldn't do anything. I just stood there."
"That's not your fault."
"I brought them there. Emilio and Krazy-8. They were my contacts. My network." Jesse's hands were shaking now. "If I hadn't introduced them to Mr. White—"
"They would have found trouble somewhere else. That's who they were."
"Maybe." Jesse didn't sound convinced. "But I didn't have to be the one who led them to it."
I moved to sit next to him on the couch. Not touching—Jesse wasn't the type who wanted comfort that way—but close enough to be present.
"What happens now?"
"We keep going." Jesse's voice was hollow. "Mr. White says we've got buyers lined up. Says the first cook proved the concept. Says this is just... the cost of doing business."
"And you believe that?"
"I don't know what I believe anymore."
We sat in silence for a long time. The house settled around us—creaks and groans of old wood, the hum of appliances, the distant sound of traffic. Normal sounds in an abnormal moment.
Eventually, Jesse said: "You gonna tell me I should quit?"
"Would you listen?"
"Probably not."
"Then no. I'm not gonna tell you that." I chose my words carefully. "But I'm gonna tell you this: whatever happens, whatever you do or don't do, I'm here. When you need to talk. When you need to not talk. When everything falls apart or somehow works out. I'm here."
Jesse nodded without looking at me. His eyes were fixed on the wall, seeing something far away.
"Thanks, Pete."
"Yeah."
More silence. Then Jesse reached for the remote and turned on the TV. Some reality show about people competing for money by eating bugs. We watched it together, not talking, not really paying attention.
Sometimes presence was all you could offer. Sometimes it was enough.
I left around midnight.
Jesse had fallen asleep on the couch—exhausted, finally, after days of running on adrenaline and fear. I covered him with a blanket from his bedroom and let myself out quietly.
The walk back to my motel took me through streets that felt different now. Everything felt different. Two people had died this week. Walter White had crossed the line from desperate father to murderer. Jesse had witnessed violence that would reshape him for years to come.
And I had sat in coffee shops and brokered drug deals and counted money while it all unfolded.
$13,600. One more deal and I'd hit the target. One more deal and I could contact Dr. Vargas and schedule the surgery that would give me a new face and a new name and a new life.
But what about Jesse?
I'd told myself I couldn't stop the Walt-Jesse partnership. Couldn't prevent the deaths and disasters that canon demanded. All I could do was prepare for the aftermath, position myself to help when things finally collapsed.
Now the collapse was beginning, and Jesse was already drowning.
I thought about the storage locker full of cash. The burner phones. The network of contacts and associates I'd built over the past five weeks. All the infrastructure of escape and reinvention.
None of it would help Jesse. None of it would undo what he'd seen or prevent what was coming.
But maybe that wasn't the point. Maybe the point was being here. Being present. Being the friend who didn't ask questions and didn't judge and didn't try to fix what couldn't be fixed.
At the motel, I counted my cash one more time. $13,600. $1,400 to go.
Tomorrow, I'd run one more deal. Hit the target. Contact Dr. Vargas and schedule the consultation.
But first—first I'd check on Jesse again. Make sure he'd eaten something. Make sure he knew someone gave a damn about more than his distribution network.
The killing days were over. The aftermath was just beginning.
And I had a choice to make about what kind of person I was going to become.
Note:
Please give good reviews and power stones itrings more people and more people means more chapters?
My Patreon is all about exploring 'What If' timelines, and you can get instant access to chapters far ahead of the public release.
Choose your journey:
Timeline Viewer ($6): Get 10 chapters of early access + 5 new chapters weekly.
Timeline Explorer ($9): Jump 15-20 chapters ahead of everyone.
Timeline Keeper ($15): Get Instant Access to chapters the moment I finish writing them. No more waiting.
Read the raw, unfiltered story as it unfolds. Your support makes this possible!
👉 Find it all at patreon.com/Whatif0