LOW TIDEThe room had fallen silent now except for the soft hum of jazz filling the space between Damien's breathing. It drifted from the loving area, looping so many times that the melody now felt woven into the very walls. Damien sighed softly as he turned over and stared up at the white ceiling. The place was darker now, lit only by the dim bulb in the dining area. A body stirred beside him and he turned his head. Elara lay curled tightly against him, her messy hair resting calmly over his chest. She had one arm draped across his torso as if fearing he might disappear if she loosened her hold. Her scent had clung to him now–floral and warm, mixed with the faint trace of wine and something sweet. Damien ran a hand through his head as his gaze drifted to the dining table. The food arranged neatly over the top still remained untouched, plates full. A lump formed in his chest as he thought of the mess still waiting for her in the kitchen. She had gone through a lot of stress prepa

BEFORE THE NAME WAS SPOKENThe room was dimly lit, its narrow walls lined with heavy wooden shelves stacked with almost everything–ledgers, liquor bottles, empty jars and sealed boxes. A single bulb hung from the blackened ceiling, casting a tired yellow glow over the dust floating in the air. The metal chair at the center creaked under Brooks' weight as he moved to the side. A bruise darkened the side of his face, highlighting slightly the swelling beneath his eyes. His lower lip was split at the corner, dried blood crusted over the cut. His shirt had been changed now, dotted with sweat and a few bloodstains. His jaw tightened, knuckles scraped raw as he ran a hand through his disheveled hair. A wave of pain constantly crashed through his head–the painkillers were no help. A nurse stood before him, dabbing antiseptic onto a cotton pad. “Just hold still, please," she muttered as gently as she could. “I'll have to clean the bruise and–”She reached for Brooks' face but he quickly

ACROSS THE WATERUpon reaching the far edge of a pier, Damien was met with a narrow motorboat, bobbing lazily against the dock posts. The hull was scratched at the side, its edges worn out from constant use. Its paint had begun to peel, leaving thin strips along the body of the boat. A single rope anchored the boat loosely to a rusted metal ring etched into the wooden pier. A man sat within, one boot placed against the side as he turned the ticking engine off. He stepped toward the pier, the smoke from the cigarette dangling from his lips curling upward into the cold morning air. His eyes traveled to the two as they approached the boat. Clenching his cigarette between his teeth, he looked Damien over slowly, noting his tailored coat, polished shoes and clean features. Then his gaze dropped to the expensive watch on his wrist catching the early sunlight. “Boss," the driver muttered as he glanced at Brooks. “Who's the rich-looking boy?" “Show some respect, Boyd," Brooks answered

A PIG IN BLUEBrooks knelt down beside the body bag, boots planted firmly in the wet mud as the tide rolled past him with a hollow, rhythmic hush. He looked at Damien, studying the man's features. But he just had on a cold expression, void of any emotion. At first he wanted to speak–ask Damien if he truly meant what he said when he denied not knowing Ryan personally. But then he decided against it. His reaction after seeing the body would tell him everything. The wind flapped against the edges of his coat, lifting its sleeves like impatient fingers. He pulled at it, constantly adjusting the fabric as he leaned toward the bag. Breath steady, he grabbed the zip and pulled it down. A horrid stench oozed out of the bag instantly, clouding the air before them. The men recoiled and even Brooks had to take a step back too. But Damien didn't look affected. He just stood there, studying the corpse. Brooks followed Damien's line of sight to the body and really looked at it this time. The

BENEATH THE FLOODLIGHTSRyan jumped, the bullets slicing through muscles and bones as he dropped into the water. His body sliced through the surface with a violent splash and the water swallowed him whole. For a moment, there was nothing but the cold, dark feeling of silence. He felt the river close over his head with a quick surge, pulling him below like it had been waiting for him the entire time. The feeling was calm at first, but then realization sank in–he was drowning. The shock of it tore a broken gasp from his lungs, but his scream dissolved instantly into a spray of bubbles that quickly rushed to the surface. He was sinking fast. The bullets had already ripped through him before he'd jumped and his ribs ached where two rounds had zinged past his flesh. His shoulders throbbed with every pulse of his heart, sending gushes of warm block tricking upward. Red leaked from his wounds with every nauseating movement he took, spiraling to the surface like crimson smock in black wa