Chapter 43: Obstacles After Obstacles

Avery gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white as he navigated the beat-up car through the city streets. He found himself longing for his old bike—the one he'd used on countless stakeouts with Lacuna and that insufferable clown. Solo missions had been so much simpler. 

But those days were gone, along with most of his savings. After he spent most of his money upgrading their HQ, this clunker was the best he could manage, even with Slick's help in finding it.

Edward's voice cut through Avery's reminiscing. "Are you sure this heap can't go any faster?" He leaned forward from the backseat, his impatience palpable. "At this rate, we'll miss all the happenings."

Avery bit back a sharp retort. "This is the best my money could buy," he said through gritted teeth. "So just sit tight and we'll get there when we get there."

"Money?" Edward scoffed. "If that's the issue, I could easily—"

A thought struck Avery like a bolt of lightning. Edward was an Artist of the Night gallery—and a successful one at that. The organization had even mentioned he was someone to "take care of." Could it be that Edward was actually rolling in dough while Avery scraped by?

"Hold on a second," Avery said, his curiosity piqued. "What exactly do you do with all your money? You crash at my place, eat my food—you're basically living for free. Where's it all going?"

Edward's brow furrowed, a hint of indignation in his voice. "Free? We're partners, Avery. Partners support each other." He paused, his expression softening. "Besides, I have plenty of expenses. Half of what I make goes to my old home."

"Your old home?" Avery echoed, confusion evident in his tone.

"Yeah, the Sunflower House," Edward replied, a wistful smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Avery nearly slammed on the brakes. "The orphanage? You're kidding me."

Avery found himself reevaluating everything he thought he knew about his eccentric partner. There was clearly more to Edward than met the eye.

…

Wheels shifted uncomfortably in the hard metal chair, his eyes never leaving Sheriff Davis's stern face. The air in the interrogation room felt thick with tension, and Wheels couldn't shake the feeling that he was a mouse being toyed with by a particularly sadistic cat.

Why was he here? The question gnawed at him. Could the sheriff be in league with the Night Gallery, trying to keep them from their boss? 

Sheriff Davis leaned forward, her voice cutting through Wheels' racing thoughts. "Let's talk about Billy Johnson. You brought him to Hilltop Medical Center a few weeks back, didn't you?"

Wheels fought to keep his voice steady. "If this is about Billy, why not ask him directly? We already gave our statement to Deputy Jenkins at the hospital."

The sheriff's eyes narrowed, and Wheels felt his stomach drop. "We have reason to believe there's more to this story than a simple accident," she said, her tone icy. "Perhaps an assault. Or worse... attempted murder."

Wheels fought to keep his voice level. "We just took him to the hospital. That's all we know."

Sheriff Davis leaned back, a predatory smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Interesting. Our sources tell us you've been spending quite a bit of time with Billy lately. Care to share what he's told you about that night?"

"He's grateful we helped him," Wheels countered, his palms growing sweaty. "Wouldn't you be? It's not exactly a mystery why we've been hanging out."

The sheriff's eyes hardened. "That might fly anywhere else, but this is Third Street we're talking about." She leaned in close, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Don't play games with me, Wylie Armstrong. I've been doing this job long enough to smell a lie a mile away."

Wheels felt his heart hammering against his ribs as Sheriff Davis fixed him with an unblinking stare.

"Now," she said, each word carefully measured, "tell me what really happened to Billy Johnson the night you took him to the hospital."

The room seemed to shrink around Wheels. He was trapped between a rock and a hard place, with no easy way out. Whatever he said next could change everything – but the truth might be even more dangerous than a lie.

…

The old car finally sputtered to a stop at the coordinates where Rocco and Bishop's phones had last pinged. Avery killed the engine, frowning as he surveyed their surroundings. Nothing but trees as far as the eye could see, their branches creating a canopy that blocked out most of the fading sunlight.

"Well, this is less than ideal," Avery muttered, stepping out of the car.

Edward followed, his face scrunched up in displeasure. "Please tell me we're not sleeping out here. I didn't pack my silk pajamas or moisturizer."

Avery rolled his eyes. "We're not camping, Edward. We just need to find Rocco and Bishop."

"Then let's get a move on," Edward insisted, glancing nervously at the deepening shadows. "The sooner we find them, the sooner we can get to that birthday party."

Avery bit back a groan. Of course Edward would fixate on that birthday over the missing people. "Right. The birthday party. Let's focus on the missing persons first, shall we?"

The shrill ring of Avery's phone cut through the eerie silence of the forest. He fumbled for it, recognizing Slick's number on the screen.

"Talk to me, Slick," Avery said, his voice tense. "What've you got?"

Slick's words tumbled out in a rush. "Boss, Wheels just sent a message. Looks like Rocco and Bishop might've stumbled onto something big. It's the organization again."

Avery's grip tightened on the phone. "Go on."

"They're using the same playbook as before. Luring in recruits. Lucky says they're throwing around serious cash, but..." Slick's voice dropped. "Everyone who signs up? They vanish. No trace. Just what happened to the recruits of our former boss."

A chill ran down Avery's spine that had nothing to do with the cooling evening air. "This is bad, Slick. Real bad."

Avery closed his eyes, forcing his senses to focus. He filtered out the white noise of the forest—the whisper of wind through leaves, the chirping crickets, even Edward's incessant muttering. Slowly, a new sound emerged from the cacophony.

Voices. Distant, but unmistakable.

"...new batch coming soon," a gruff voice drifted through the trees. "Good thing we cleared out the old lot. They'll be knocking on death's door any minute now."

Avery's blood ran cold. There wasn't a second to waste.

"Edward," he hissed, already moving. "We're going. Now."

He didn't wait for a response, plunging into the undergrowth with reckless abandon. Branches whipped at his face, roots threatened to trip him, but Avery pressed on. The voices grew louder with each step, along with the sickening realization of what they might find.

Avery melted into the shadows, his movements fluid and silent as he weaved through the trees. To his surprise, Edward managed to keep pace, trailing just a few steps behind. It seemed their ordeal at the Lazarus Facility had left its mark on both of them.

Since that harrowing battle with the Butcher, Avery had thrown himself back into training, desperate to reclaim his former strength. This body might not match his previous life's capabilities, but he could feel the changes taking hold. Muscles responding faster, instincts sharper than ever.

But Edward? That was unexpected. The Artist had always seemed so... childish. Yet here he was, moving with a grace that belied his usual demeanor. Had their shared brush with death awakened something in Edward, too?

Avery's keen eyes caught the faint impression of tire tracks in the soft earth. Someone had been using this as a regular route. Following the trail, they soon came upon a dilapidated facility looming in the twilight.

Edward started forward, but Avery's arm shot out, holding him back. There, barely visible in the shadows, stood a mountain of a man. Waiting. Watching.

"Well, well," the stranger's gravelly voice cut through the silence. "Here I was fretting about those pesky Hawks, and all I get is two clueless kids stumbling into the lion's den."

As he stepped into a shaft of fading light, Avery's breath caught. The man's hands were adorned with vicious-looking knuckle dusters, each spike a good five inches long and glinting dangerously.

The stranger's lips curled into a feral grin. "Name's Fixer. And before you get any bright ideas about playing hero, you should know—I used to be a Butcher. So don't think for a second this'll be easy."

Avery's mind raced. A former Butcher? This was bad. Very bad.