Chapter 116: Bargains In The Dark
Jinx leaned back in the chair, her eyes locked on Peter, who held her own revolvers with unsettling calm. The apartment smelled of rum and gun oil, its boarded windows trapping the early '80s heat. A distant neon sign buzzed, casting faint red light through a crack.
“I have a system, Mr. Cooper,” she said, voice smooth as steel. “A code. I finish one job before taking another.”
Peter’s gaze didn’t waver, her guns steady in his hands. “You’ll need to bend that code. Way I see it, you’ve got two choices: work for me, or I kill you. Only one’s smart.”
Jinx’s mind raced, calculating angles. The room was stripped—her hidden blades, her drawer pistols, all gone. Chris stood by the door, his gun trained on her, a smirk playing on his lips. She was cornered, and she hated it. But she was no fool. Peter wasn’t bluffing, and she’d survived worse traps by knowing when to pivot.
"Fine,” she said, rising slowly.
Chris tensed, his barrel tracking her, but Peter waved him down. “Easy.”
Jinx crossed to Peter, her boots silent on the warped floorboards. He stood, meeting her gaze. “If you want me to ditch my employer for you,” she said, cool and deliberate, “your offer better beat his.”
“How much?” Peter asked.
“Five million,” Jinx said, her voice flat, daring him to flinch.
Chris snorted, stepping forward. “That’s insane. You’re out of your mind.”
Jinx didn’t blink, brushing imaginary dust off Peter’s jacket. “That’s the price for my talents. Taking down someone like Addicus Worthington? It’s gotta be worth my time.”
Peter held her stare, unfazed. “Five million’s fine.” He nodded to Chris. “Get the bag.”
Chris muttered under his breath, dragging a duffel from the corner. He shoved it at Peter, who handed it to Jinx. The weight felt real—money, not promises. “Two million now,” Peter said. “The rest when my wife’s safe.”
Jinx unzipped the bag, glancing at the stacked bills. “A rescue? I’m a killer, not a hero.”
“Don’t worry,” Peter said, a grim smile tugging his lips. “You’ll get your body count. Do we have a deal?” He extended his hand.
Jinx studied him, weighing the risk. Addicus was a snake, but Peter was a wildcard—dangerous in his own way. She gripped his hand, her shake firm. “Deal.”
Chris lowered his gun, but his eyes stayed sharp. Jinx slung the bag over her shoulder, already mapping her next move. She’d play along, but trust wasn’t part of her code. Outside, the city hummed—car horns, a faint radio playing Tainted Love. Peter’s plan was bold, but Addicus’s reach was long. She’d need more than money to survive this game.
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Martha pushed open Sharon’s door, the tray in her hands trembling slightly. The room was a cell—bare walls, a single bulb flickering, the air stale with despair. Sharon sat on the bed, her blonde hair tangled, her body less bruised than before. Addicus hadn’t come for days, a small mercy. Martha forced a smile, setting the tray down. “Morning, dear. Brought you breakfast.”
Sharon approached, her eyes scanning the plate—eggs, toast, no knife. She frowned, voice low. “Martha, where’s the knife?”
Martha’s heart sank. She leaned close, whispering, “I’m scared of what you’d do with it, love. I can’t risk that.”
Sharon’s gaze hardened, but her voice stayed soft. “I’m not suicidal, Martha. I need it for him. For when he comes again.”
Martha shook her head, fear tightening her chest. “I can’t, Sharon. He’d know it was me. He’d hurt my family—my grandkids.” Her voice cracked, guilt heavy. She’d seen Addicus’s wrath—bodies vanished, lives erased.
Sharon’s shoulders sagged, but she nodded. “Okay. But can you do something else?”
“Anything I can,” Martha said.
“Find out if my husband’s alive,” Sharon whispered, her eyes pleading. “Peter. I need to know.”
Martha hesitated. Asking questions in this house was like stepping on glass—dangerous, sharp. But Sharon’s pain was a mirror to her own, stirring memories of a life before Addicus’s shadow.
“I’ll try,” she said. “I’ll listen, see what I can hear.”
Sharon gripped her hand, a flicker of hope in her eyes. “Thank you.”
Martha busied herself straightening the bed, her mind churning. Addicus had ordered her to tend to Sharon, but his trust felt like a leash. She’d caught him watching her lately, his eyes cold, searching. The kitchen radio droned—Billie Jean fading into static—covering their whispers, but not her fear. Helping Sharon could cost everything, yet doing nothing felt like betrayal.
She glanced at Sharon, who picked at the food, her face a mask of resolve. Martha wanted to promise more, to say Peter was out there, fighting. But promises were thin in this house. As she turned to leave, a floorboard creaked outside the door—not the house settling, but a deliberate step. Someone was listening, and Martha’s blood ran cold.