Chapter 24 : 𝕮𝖆𝖓 𝖍𝖊 𝖙𝖆𝖑𝖐 ?

𝕸𝖆𝖋𝖎𝖆'𝖘 𝕹𝖊𝖒𝖊𝖘𝖎𝖘

☆☆☆

“ Sneak me out of here.”

Nevena’s pulse skipped. “What—really? Why?”

Junior nodded. “Just like in the movies. Take me away from here—maybe to your country. I want to go shell hunting—but Mom won't even let me think of it.”

☆☆☆𝕸𝖔𝖇𝖎𝖑𝖊 𝖁𝖆𝖓, 𝕰𝖛𝖊𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌 6:32𝖕𝖒☆☆☆

Breanna is alone—muscles tense, her fists slamming into the heavy punching bag with savage rhythm—like it owes her blood. Each strike louder than the last.

The bag groans under each blow.

THWACK. THWACK.

The sound isn’t rhythmic—it’s violent, erratic just like Breanna's breathing.

Sweat glazed her skin, her tank top clinging like a second, suffocating skin.

Her knuckles, though wrapped, are blotched with seeping red while her veins pushed against skin—

“Why?” She screamed, as if rage could drown her guilt.

Straightening, she grits her teeth, growling as she strikes the bag—right hook, left jab, elbow, another punch.

The gruesome image from that afternoon won't leave her.

She can still see it—

☆☆☆☆☆𝕱𝖑𝖆𝖘𝖍𝖇𝖆𝖈𝖐🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸☆☆☆☆☆☆

Breanna and Lowell had gotten to the Subway—they searched the loading train to Eastport but they couldn't find Martinez.

She suggested they comb the whole subway since he hadn't boarded the train.

They frantically scanned every nook and cranny,

Behind them, the train huffs and puffs, blowing its horn—and then it rolls, slow and steady, toward the tunnel horizon.

Lowell turned in frustration and that was when he spotted Martinez crawling along the roof of the departing train.”

“Holy shit” he cussed.

“What is it ?” Breanna asked, turning.

He pointed at the deck of the leaving train, “That bast*rd is escaping”.

She swirled her gaze immediately and spotted Martinez as he descended down the roof of the train, mixing with other passengers.

“Good lord—wonder why it was hard to spot him”

Lowell sprinted off on the platform, hoping to catch the train as it picked momentum.

He caught up to a door handle and jumped in.

Breanna sees this, and bolts towards the yellow line, her hands waving helplessly. But it was too late.

The last car {compartment} vanished past the platform edge,

The train had entered the non-stop zone—its next halt was a city away 'Eastport'.

Her stubborn nature didn't let her quit, she increased her pace.

Just as the train entered the tunnel, she caught up with it.

With the help of passengers extending their hands to her, she hopped in.

Inside, the third-class compartment was chaos incarnate.

Lowell’s face was turning purple, Martinez’s fingers sunk deep into his throat like claws, the two of them tangled on the ground like animals.

He’d found Martinez, and the two collided in a savage tangle.

His service revolver glinted between them in their scuffle, jerking in all directions as it fired wildly into the ceiling and train walls.

Blood sprayed someone's cheek—one of the civilians trying to separate them, and he slumped on the floor.

The compartment was thrown into a stampede.

Passengers screamed, pushing and elbowing their way, to escape the compartment ahead.

No one wanted to catch the next bullet or willing to separate them again.

The narrow corridor immediately got jammed—with bodies clawing for safety.

People pressed shoulder to shoulder, crashing against steel walls.

Breanna heard the shots and screams and instinctively dashed toward that compartment, her service pistol gripped tight in one hand.

“Move—MOVE” she screamed.

Her badge flapping uselessly at her belt,

No one listened, instead they crammed against her, shoving her back.

Gunshots had already gone off four times. Bullet holes poked the roof.

The first round had killed a man while the second clipped a teenage girl’s arm.

Someone clawed at Breanna's holster. Another screamed right in her face while Someone else grabbed her arm, pushing her away.

Her badge clattered off her belt, but it meant nothing in a stampede of fear.

Another wide shot burst through the air, causing more passengers to scream and push.

And that was when she caught a glimpse, through the bobbing heads and flailing arms—

Lowell, barely conscious, clawed at Martinez’s hand crushing his windpipe.

Martinez was on top of him, blood dripping from his temple, eyes wild and locked on him like a predator.

He had his arm secured around Lowell's throat while the other held a gun

“GET OFF HIM, YOU SICK BASTARD!”

The scream had ripped from her lungs, hoarse and raw.

But it had meant nothing—just another voice swallowed by the clatter of the moving train and terrified passengers.

“—DAMN IT, HE’S GOING TO KILL HIM!” Her voice had broken, somewhere between a scream and a plea. But it was useless.

Nobody cared she was a cop. Not here. Not now.

With no other option, she fought her way forward, shoving people roughly and striking them with the barrel of her gun—

Pushing forward an inch, she looked again—this time Martinez has the nozzle of the gun shoved under Lowell's chin.

She defensively raised her gun. She wanted just a clean shot to the shoulder or arm—all she needed to destabilize him.

Though she had no clean aim—But she aimed anyway, steading her arm through the bobbing heads and chaos.

A jolt from a passenger snapped her aim—her finger twitched against the trigger, releasing the shot.

“Bang!” The sound ripped through.

The bullet hit Martinez's torso—just above the liver.

A gurgling snarl left his mouth and he recoiled, away from Lowell, a violent gush of crimson spurting from the wound like a ruptured pipe.

Breanna sighed, seeing him roll off Lowell,

He didn’t try to shoot back nor did he curse.

Rather he grinned—a sick, cracked-tooth grin full of blood and madness.

She saw his lips move—as if he was saying something, but it wasn't audible.

She roughly clawed her way into the compartment, her badge forgotten, her heart in her throat.

Instead of seeing him groaning in agony, she saw him rolling toward the open door of the moving train.

His intestines were already uncoiling behind him, due to her shot.

“STOP!” She had screamed, seeing that he was only an inch away from rolling out—onto the rail track.

Martinez jerked at her voice, he turned his head once—with death instinct, looked her in the eye with a smile.

Blood foamed from his lips—but he raised his hand to his forehead.

Breanna had run to catch him, but covering the two step distance, she saw him land—right in front of an oncoming train.

The body didn’t bounce. It was sucked under, like paper. Blood exploded across the tracks like oil spray.

The sound was deafening. The crunch of bones, the whine of metal on flesh, the pop of the skull splitting open.

A leg flung twenty feet. One hand hung from the front of the train like a macabre hood ornament, while his brain matter flung like thrown meat onto Breanna's face.

People screamed. Others looked away, at the same time, the train brake squealed to a halt.

One of the panicking civilians had pulled the emergency bell moments ago.

The scene—burned into Breanna's skull, making her number.

She just stood frozen on the edge of the train door, while the brain matter dripped down her face—onto the metal floor.

The incoming train finally passed, revealing the aftermath of its speed. The rail track looked like someone threw a sack of raw meat into a turbine.

One of Martinez's eyes still lay open on the gravel it landed.

The other torn hand stuck between the rail and wheel like garbage in a drain.

She dropped to her knees—no longer Breanna, just a husk smeared in blood and disbelief.

All the evidence—gone. Wiped under steel. One more corpse added into Antonio’s altar of death—another failure from the police department.

She slowly tilted her head, and there was Lowell—who fought thick and thin to capture Martinez.

He sat slumped against the seat in the pool of his own blood—hand pressed to the torn flesh at his shoulder, barely conscious.

Breanna called for emergency and crawled over to him, ignoring the civilians filming the whole scene.

The emergency arrived and carted away with Lowell, while the morgue collected Martinez's remains.

☆☆☆𝕭𝖆𝖈𝖐 𝖙𝖔 𝖕𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖊𝖓𝖙: 𝕸𝖔𝖇𝖎𝖑𝖊 𝖛𝖆𝖓☆☆☆

Back in the mobile van, Breanna lands a savage uppercut to the bag, letting out a strangled cry of rage.

Sweat and blood dripped onto the mat in dull splashes and the entire rig shook

She punches again—twice, three times, harder, as though trying to erase the memory

They were so close.

Martinez—their only link to Antonio—gone, By her hand and by his choice.

Her fist hits the bag at an angle and she winces. She just switches to her elbow. Kept going until her strength faltered.

She slams her fist into the bag one last time, then lets it hang, her hand pressed against the cool leather.

Slowly she drops to her knees, her arms limp, chest heaving. Her head fell forward, damp hair sticking to her cheeks.

The bag swings slightly, creaking on its chain, echoing the sickening rhythm of regret.

Brennan stays there for a long time, panting, while her blood drips from her knuckles onto the metal floor like a slow metronome.

Her phone buzzed and she picked it, seeing the display on the screen.

“Ma'am! He's conscious”. The caller revealed.

She immediately sprang to her feet with a bolting speed.

“Can he talk ?” A snarling and guttural tone ripped from her throat.

“Yes,” the caller replied.

“Come immediately before he passes out again”

“Yeah sure”, Breanna stammered, ending the call.

“He’s alive”. Her heart kicked once against her ribs and she moved.