#moneymakers

The honest truth is just that even if Renee could put up a fight, he’s not sure he has the right to even try.

…at least not for himself. But he’s not alone facing the fall, is he?

Unsteady, he looks up at Conrad.

He’s distraught, clearly. Back pressed to the wall, hands clutching the bedsheets next to him. The swelling in his face has gone down, but his eye, cheekbone and jaw are all discolored a dark purple, contrasted by tan skin void of much color. Lower lip wobbling, he grimaces as if anticipating he’ll need to look away at any moment.

He must be holding his breath, because the word he mouths makes no sound at all. It’s not hard to read.

“Don’t, don’t, don’t…”

Similar enough to the final words of Renee’s last chance for some sort of meaning that it makes the air seep out of his lungs.

Don’t shoot.

Chest aching, Renee winces with the effort it takes to stifle another sob.

Laz wanted to save Conrad’s life, a guy he had no relation to and couldn’t possibly care for on any deeper level. Why this was important enough for Laz to sacrifice his livelihood over should be a mystery to Renee, but the thing is, it isn’t, not really. Not if he thinks about it. Laz had about as much trust in law enforcement as Renee does, and yet he made that compromise. Wire or not, Lazarus was trying to save the both of them, each in their own ways, and even after being dealt a fatal blow, he did not want Renee to die. He did not want his own murderer to die.

He did what he did because at his core, he was good, and pissing on his intent just to maintain a sense of betrayal and unfairness is beginning to seem like a worse sin than the noose itself.

“… don’t, don’t.”

For once, it’s not rage or panic. It’s not out of his control. His hands still shake, but he feels something settle in him, a cold resolve to face it for once, to drop the excuses, to hand himself over to it.

Renee stops running.

Drawing in a sharp breath, he looks Davin in the eye, points the gun at his forehead, and draws those ten pounds back.

Tk.

Davin doesn’t flinch. Not so much as a twitch of his hands.

Renee should’ve known, really, but somehow, even the revelation of a cleared chamber doesn’t make him angry. Teeth clenched hard as he locks on those dead eyes, he keeps pulling the trigger, over and over. His aim is unsteady, but the two of them are close enough that every shot would’ve still been fatal.

Davin remains unblinking at every hollow click of the hammer. No surprise, but no smug smile either; instead there’s reservation in his expression. A look of disappointment - or acceptance.

Tk, tk, tk, tk, tk.

The point is made. The drive wavers, if only for a moment, and although he refuses to show any uncertainty in his face, the weight of the unloaded weapon drives his arm down slightly. He adjusts his hand on the cold grip.

Davin narrows his eyes, drawing in a long breath through his nose. “… yeah,” he sighs out. Low, finite.

Renee jumps him.

He pushes himself to his haunches with the cast on his arm and kicks off the wall, clashing into Davin shoulder-first, knocking him back. Although the impact isn’t hard, it disorients Renee all the same, and before he can straddle Davin’s waist, the other has wrapped an arm around the back of his neck, pinning his head to his own chest. With a grunt, Renee tries to kick off the floor to pry himself free, only to feel Davin’s legs wrap around his backside. By sheer luck, Davin’s free hand is on the opposite side of where Renee was impaled, out of reach – but when his fist connects with Renee’s naked midriff, he hunches up none the less.

Proximity is your friend when you’re prone on your back, and Davin is intent on keeping Renee from gaining the edge. It’s a mess of kicking at the floor and hits that don’t have a chance to properly land. Renee’s good arm burns as he pushes against the man’s chest, desperate to free himself, to the point that he feels it cut off his air. Another punch to his gut makes him grunt, but it's just air.

He takes the hit, and the next one with it. Owed to morphine or his recent blood loss,  he barely feels it, but there’s also a sluggishness to Renee’s movements. No matter how acidic his muscles get from exertion, Davin’s grip doesn’t falter.

Cheek pressed to the man’s sweater, Renee is blind when he reaches up. He claws at the floor, then hits skin, fingers tangled in long hair – then something markedly slick beneath tougher folds, something that breaches under his nail with the subtle sensation of a pop.

Guessing from Davin’s half-shout of pain, it’s his eye.

As Davin bucks under him, grabbing for the offending hand, there’s a split second where his hold falters just enough for Renee to duck out from under his arm and finally right himself, immediately grasping for Davin’s left hand to prevent a strike to his injuries. Blood follows the small wrinkles on the corner of Davin’s shut eye in an expression marred by disbelief and rage.

Renee draws his arm back, shaking fingers coiling in a closed fist. His knuckles split Davin’s lip.

The second punch never lands.

Davin plants a foot in his stomach and shoves, and with a firm grip on the wrist-end of the cast, prevents Renee from bracing.

Back clipping the frame of the fold-out bed, Renee crumples to the floor, pitching over.

Above the chaos, Conrad’s voice rings out in a hoarse attempt at a shout. “Somebody! Shaun—”

Beside him, Davin gets to his feet, hissing out a curse as he presses the root of his hand against his face. “You goddamn—” He paces a few steps in the small room, only to pivot and land a hard kick that clips the gauze on Renee’s stomach.

Renee’s body sinks, a ragged cry tearing from his chest. Vision dark, he clutches his abdomen in time for a second kick to knock his head back. His hand flails blindly for a source of stability as his sense of orientation is flipped on its axis.

Conrad’s voice is desperate. “Stop, just stop—”

He gasps like a fish out of water, but doesn’t wait until he’s caught his breath before planting a hand on the floor to push himself up. The room spins madly as he draws his legs under him. He doesn’t make it a step before he loses his balance and barely manages to catch himself on the corner of the other bed, stumbling on. Warmth saturates the bottom edge of the gauze, runs down his stomach in two different lines before it soaks into the elastic of his boxers. Even though he can’t feel the adrenaline, he’s relatively sure he wouldn’t be standing on his feet if it wasn’t there. His hand leaves a print on the striped wallpaper when he braces against it, .

Conrad has both hands pressed to the wall behind him, wide eyes wrought with horror.

Strands of long, black hair pulled loose from the bun is plastered to the streaks of red trickling down Davin’s face. Something dilutes the blood on his cheek, a clear, almost gel-like substance. The split skin of his lip gapes as it curls into a snarl, a bit too animated for comfort. Even if he still seems composed, he’s stopped bothering to mask the extent of his hatred. He wants Renee to see it. And when Renee’s gaze is drawn to movement at his side, a hand adjusting the grip on his pocket knife, it’s clear that he wants Renee to see that, too. A little shift in the angle lets the warm light of the overhead lamp catch in the smooth metal.

This really is it, he thinks. Absurd that he’s not remotely bothered. Winded and in pain, yes, barely keeping himself upright, destined to lose – but his head is probably as clear as it could be.

Renee shifts to face Davin more let on, resting his head against the wall, and lets out an exhausted snicker – humorless, but not by much. “You’re gonna fuckin’ lose that eye.”

Davin goes for him. It’s not a lunge, it isn’t reckless; the man closes the distance dead-set and tenacious, flipping the knife to a reverse grip a moment before he swipes, blade hissing in a wide arc.

Renee can’t retreat, but he manages to deflect the knife’s trajectory by meeting Davin’s arm mid-swing with the cast – and then Davin yanks down hard, splitting fragments of plaster to create a long groove in the cast until the tip of the blade runs over the back of Renee’s exposed hand, dragging it forward as long as it takes to slash through a tendon in his ring finger.

Renee barely has time to croak out in at the sharp flash shooting up his arm before Davin shoves him back against the wall. He can guess what comes next: an attempt to stab, or at the very least incapacitate further.

A frantic gasp whistles through his teeth as he returns the shove with as much weight as he can muster and hooks one leg behind both of Davin’s. Somehow it works, but as Davin loses his balance and keels backward, he hooks a hand around Renee’s neck and pulls him right along.

Their bodies collide with the floor, with each other. Renee can’t say for sure which part of his body hurts more in the fall; he ends up on his back, but he’s barely conscious by then, losing valuable time as he struggles to bring the world into focus.

Davin plants a knee on his stomach.

Midway through a shout, Renee’s voice gives out for good. His body bucks weakly under Davin’s knee, and the cluttered blur of movement above him is barely distinguishable – not until the ceiling’s light catches on something shiny.

Conrad screams, “No!”

Renee catches Davin’s wrist just in time to prevent the nick to his throat from going farther than skin deep. An airy hiss seeps out of him, shaky with the effort of pushing away. There’s no conscious thought in his head – his whole being is centered in that desperate, primal drive.

But his body is failing him.

It all happens in the blink of an eye.

As Davin grips the butt of the handle to lean his weight into the knife, he lets out a rough growl. “Fucking junkie.”

Instinctually, Renee shuts his eyes and turns his face away. In the same moment the blade sinks into the side of his neck, all the weight suddenly vanishes from his torso.

Reeling to the sound of bodies impacting the floor, he tries to sit up, only to discover he can’t lift his head. He rolls over and clutches his throat –

And he feels his own swift heartbeat in the spout of blood gushing against his palm.

💵

It took most of Conrad’s energy to get a running start, the pain in his leg nearly making him cry out once he crashed into Davin. He used his body’s momentum to drag them both down, and by the time he rolls across the floor, stars dance like a snowstorm across his vision.

Gasping, he shields his face, only to have his arm pushed away, pinned over his head by the wrist.

Nearby, Renee lets out a groan.

Something in his voice makes Conrad’s blood run cold. He doesn’t have time to process it before Davin hits him with the butt of the knife. It lands on his cheekbone, but he can hear the hard impact through the rest of his skull.

He doesn’t feel the second blow. Just blinks against a world that’s gone muddled, near-quiet, and considerably foggier than it was before.

He wonders when the knife will come down. He’s not entirely sure if he’s fighting it or not.

He wants to, but he can’t feel himself. Not until the pressure on his body changes rapidly – first what feels like the tripling of the weight, and then a sudden, disorienting absence.

Shifting into focus, the sight of Renee yanking Davin sideways with an arm around his throat.

It’s one violent movement, one that swings both their bodies 90, 100 degrees. Renee uses his own weight to pin Davin to the floor, and secures his neck in the headlock with the cast. The front of Davin’s throat isn’t compressed straight’ on by Renee’s forearm, but instead nestles in the crook of his elbow, where the first thing that gets cut off is blood supply.

Davin’s knuckles have lightened in his grip on the knife. He has enough leverage to drive it into Renee’s side, even pinned as he is beneath the other’s weight, and Conrad sees it in the same instant Davin tries.

Lurching forward, he claws at the man’s closed fist with both hands. Davin’s face is obscured by Renee’s arms and his own loosened hair, but he hears the choked-back grunt he lets out, feels his movements become more insistent. The sharp edge opens a gash in Conrad’s thumb. Somehow he manages to hold firm, even when his grasp threatens to slip; Davin’s arm is trapped under Renee’s body, and it prevents him from putting much force into his attempts to follow through with a stab.

Renee’s eyes are shut in a grimace of pain at the effort, teeth locked tight. Blood trickles from his neck onto Davin, filtering through his hair to mix with the blood already trailing down his face. There’s something gruesome in the silence itself. It calls attention to the smallest noises. The strangled attempts at inhaling from one, and the weary, determined hisses from the other.

It doesn’t take more than ten or fifteen seconds for Davin to stop thrashing.

Once it wanes, it wanes fast, almost without warning. One moment, the hand under both of Conrad’s struggles to drive the blade into anywhere it might hurt. The next, his fingers relax, and Conrad grabs the knife, scrambling away as he clutches its warm handle tight. Davin’s legs stop kicking. The raging snarl in his expression slacks into one of tense unconsciousness, eyes rolled back but not all the way closed – the injured one is all red under his lashes.

Conrad doesn’t yell for Renee to stop – he can’t – but the man still releases Davin’s limp body, lets his head drop to the floor, as he grabs his own throat again, panting wildly. Exhausted eyes drift around the room.

Something changes in his expression when his gaze locks on the empty gun, dropped in the middle of the floor sometime during the first half of the struggle. Wordlessly, and without looking at Conrad, he neglects putting pressure to the pulsing wound to reach for it, movements sluggish by the time it’s secure in his white-knuckled grip.

A distant thunder of footfalls on wood, floorboards creaking above them, breaks an eerie silence. They’ve already changed character by the time Renee has managed to crawl onto Davin’s back, heaving breath after breath as he looks down. Already, Davin stirs, a low sigh leaving his chest.

When Renee raises the gun high , Conrad snaps his head to the side, wide eyes locked to a spot on the wall.

He doesn’t see it, but the sound is awful, the dull thud of unyielding metal against a human skull. Just a moment later, the second hit rings out in the void. A deep, growling sort of noise is briefly interrupted by the third strike, but then comes back – like a snore or dragged-out groan. It sounds like it comes from Davin’s chest rather than his throat, sounds entirely distinct from any noise a person would make if they were actually sleeping.

The fourth time, the sound of impact is distinctly wet, and the snoring stops in the same instant.

There’s a short reprieve. Renee gasps. Conrad hears him swallow with effort. Hears him draw in a sharp inhale through his nose.

One final, hard thud.

The much more muted clatter of the gun dropping to the floor. Shifting, a pause, and the sound of Renee’s collapse, the low groan he lets out.

Conrad has to force himself to take his eyes off the wall. The knife slides from his grasp, clattering all too heavy to the floor.

Renee lies on his back, eyes glazed-over and distant. A streak runs from his jaw over the bridge of his nose, one that doesn’t look like it came from his own injuries; but the side of his throat is open, spilling red to the floor.

Without thinking, Conrad scoots over and presses his palm to the gaping wound. The feeling of warmth coating his hand makes him dizzy, but he carefully pushes down. There’s an obvious paradox here, how in order to stop the bleeding entirely, he’d need to press hard enough to choke – and Renee would die all the same. The stream doesn’t feel as strong as it looked mere moments ago. Exposed flesh vibrates with every intake of breath. Slick fingers wrap around Conrad’s wrist, but Renee doesn’t push him off. His eyelids droop, gaze struggling to focus on his face.

“’m sorry,” he murmurs.

Conrad sucks a breath through his teeth, then finds himself unable to release it.

Blood soaks the floor, smeared thin in the aftermath of the struggle, splatters and stains, and the pools that still expand, creeping forward. He doesn’t want to look to his right – he can see Davin’s arm in his periphery next to Renee’s feet, fingers slack and unmoving.

“Jesus Christ! Jesus—”

Conrad blinks up at Shaun in the doorway, clutching the handle as he takes in the scene.

He’s in a wrinkled t-shirt and loose cotton trousers, freshly awake by the looks of it. Pillow marks line the dark skin of his cheek. Grimacing in the direction of Davin’s body, he grabs a kitchen towel from a nearby counter and kneels down on the opposite side of Renee.

His eyes have slid closed by then, but his face is still contorted in a slight wince of pain.

Conrad struggles to collect himself enough to be coherent, eyes searching for a sliver of certainty in Shaun’s expression. “H-he, he… he cut—he…”

“Take your hand off, Conrad. You can take your hand off.”

Conrad nods, and he tries, but it takes too long for his body to register an intent to move. Gently, Shaun peels his fingers away and replaces them with the bunched-up towel, his other hand adjusting the angle of Renee’s head. Conrad’s hand hovers in the air where Shaun left it, dripping.

There’s another high-pitched gasp from the door. The woman, Imani, presses both hands over her mouth to stifle a cry. “What happened?”

“I need hemostats,” Shaun tells her.

“What happened? Shaun, oh my God, what h—”

“I don’t know. The clamps, love, lower right cabinet – one of the drawers in the middle. They’re labelled. I can’t stop this manually.”

“Oh my God,” Imani breathes again, but she still turns on her heel, rushing out of the room. Cabinet doors slam in the next room, the one with the black cot. When Imani comes back not more than a few moments later, she carries a grey plastic tray, the contents of which clatter with her step. She sets it down by Shaun’s side, and while she stays there, her attention is drawn to the middle of the room again. “Oh my God, Shaun, he’s...”

They’re surgical tongs, some with curved tips, some straight like scissors but with rounded rods instead of blades. Fishing for a specific size, Shaun draws back the cloth staining from Renee’s neck, and without pause, he dips the tongs into the gaping wound, searching.

Conrad looks away again.

“Are you hurt? Are you hurt, honey?”

Conrad looks up at Imani, dazed. Casts a glance down his own body. The stains don’t just cover his hand, but his clothes as well. He’s not sure where it all came from.

Hand pressed to her mouth, Imani lets out another distraught sound. There’s wet on her cheeks as she glances at the body. “Kit, oh God…”

Conrad is midway through turning his head to follow her gaze when she gasps, quickly reaching down to catch his cheek.

“Don’t look.”

Even as he flinches, she kneels down and wraps her arms around his thin frame. His instinctual drive to get away melts into its own opposite. Conrad finds himself clutching the fabric of her shirt to keep her there, to keep her from leaving. Breathing hollow in his chest, he stares at the wallpaper as she gently shushes him.

“You don’t need to see that, honey. I’m sorry. You don’t need to see it. Oh, Lord...”

He’d say something if he could, but his tongue won’t move, and he can’t feel his own face. Renee’s hoarse breathing sounds so, so shallow. It’s unnatural.

Shaun straightens up, shoulders tense. “Small nick in his carotid, but we lose more time if I clamp that, too. I’ll put a line in his other jugular, but we need to act on this now.”

Conrad feels Imani’s chest expand with a deep breath. He shuts his eyes, hugging her closer.

The couple speaks in a low, serious tone.

“Imani, I’m not a vascular surgeon.”

“You’re not,” she whispers.

“And we don’t let people die.”

“We don’t. We don’t.”

“I don’t know what happened here. I can’t…” Shaun clears his throat. They seem to agree to the unspoken, but he repeats himself anyway. “He needs a vascular surgeon.”

Like a switch suddenly flips, a sob rattles through Conrad, agonizing in his chest. The breakdown takes a distant part of his awareness by surprise, but Imani doesn’t miss a beat. She puts a cheek to his hair, swaying lightly from side to side as her thumb rubs his shoulder.

Coarse whimpers fill the empty space, shaken and confused.

In his ear, her mild, steady voice.

“I’ll call 9-1-1,” she tells her husband.