Badass in Disguise Chapter 196

Saturday morning sunlight filtered through the grimy windows of a rundown apartment building in Princeton's poorest neighborhood. I stood behind Walter Morrison and Philip Thornton as we climbed the creaking stairs to the fifth floor. The stairwell reeked of urine and cheap disinfectant.

Walter knocked on apartment 507. No answer. He knocked again, louder this time.

"Maybe no one's home," Philip suggested, straightening his expensive suit jacket.

I reached past them and turned the doorknob. It wasn't locked. The door swung open, revealing Silas kneeling beside a frail woman in a narrow bed, cleaning what appeared to be vomit from her nightgown.

"I'm sorry," Silas said without looking up, his voice flat. "I'll be at work in twenty minutes."

He froze when he turned and saw us standing in the doorway. His eyes widened with recognition, then narrowed with something between anger and shame.

"Sorry," Philip said quickly. "The door wasn't properly closed. We should have knocked harder."

The apartment was a single bedroom with a tiny living room and what looked like a kitchenette and bathroom so small you'd struggle to turn around in them. The walls were painted a dingy yellow that had faded and peeled in places. The sparse furniture was clearly secondhand, but meticulously clean. Deep knife marks scarred the front door from the inside.

Despite the poverty, someone had tried to make the place habitable. The floor was swept, the few dishes stacked neatly in a drying rack. A blanket and pillow on the living room couch suggested that's where Silas slept, giving the bedroom to his mother.

"Dr. Morrison?" Silas's mother asked weakly from the bed, her voice a thread of sound.

Walter stepped forward, medical bag in hand. "Mrs. Murphy."

Silas's jaw tightened as he took the soiled cloth to the tiny bathroom.

Walter moved to the bedside, his manner shifting to professional efficiency. I watched from the doorway as he examined Mrs. Murphy, his expression growing more troubled with each passing minute.

"She worked two jobs when she was younger," Silas said from behind me, his voice low. "Factory during the day, cleaning offices at night. Her body started breaking down years ago."

Walter nodded grimly. "And the kidney disease?"

"Two years ago. Medicare covers the dialysis, but..." Silas shrugged, the gesture conveying everything words couldn't.

I studied Mrs. Murphy more carefully. Early-fifties, probably, though she looked much older. Her body had been broken by hard labor and what looked like abuse—old scars visible on her arms, a badly healed fracture in her left wrist.

"Your father?" I asked quietly.

Silas ignored that question.

Walter finished his examination and turned to me. "Jade, can you think of anything that might help? Something to ease her pain, perhaps extend her time?"

I glanced at Silas, then back to Walter. "Everyone out," I said. "I need a few minutes."

Walter nodded and ushered everyone from the bedroom.

When we were alone, I pulled my small medical kit from my bag and selected a vial containing an experimental pain management compound I'd developed. It wasn't FDA approved, but it worked better than anything on the market.

I gently moved the blanket aside and carefully unbuttoned part of Mrs. Murphy's nightgown, exposing a small area of her abdomen. After cleaning the spot, I injected the compound. "This will help with the pain," I explained. "It targets nerve receptors without suppressing respiratory function."

Within minutes, her breathing eased, and the tight lines around her eyes relaxed.

"Better?" I asked.

She nodded, looking at me with new interest. "Thank you. Are you a doctor too?"

"In a way." I repacked my kit. "I'll leave more medicine with your son."

"Silas is a good boy," she said, her voice stronger now that the pain had receded. "Always has been. Takes care of me, works so hard." Her eyes filled with tears. "He deserves better than this life. Dealing with his father's beatings, taking on so much responsibility at such a young age."

I sat on the edge of the bed. "How many children do you have?"

The question seemed to surprise her. "Two boys. Silas and..." She swallowed hard. "And Job. He was taken when he was just a baby. We never found him."

My pulse quickened. "How old would Job be now?"

"Twenty-five, if he's alive."

Two years older than me. Same as Dusk.

"Does he have any distinguishing marks? A birthmark, maybe?" I asked. "Something that might help identify him."

"A mole behind his left ear," she replied. "Like a tiny dark star."

I nodded, processing this information. Dusk didn't have a mole there, but Shadow Organization often removed identifying marks from their operatives. I'd never specifically checked for a removal scar.

"I hope he's alive," she whispered. "I hope someone was kind to him."

I stared at the wall for a long moment before answering. "I'm sure they were."

As I stood to leave, she caught my sleeve. "Are you Silas's friend? From school?"

"Yes."

"He's had it rough," she said, her voice dropping to ensure Silas couldn't hear from the other room. "His father used to beat him. The kids at his old school bullied him. He stopped talking much, never had friends. He's new at your school. Could you talk to him sometimes? Please?"

I glanced toward the door where Silas stood, clearly having heard every word.

"I can," I said simply.

---

That night, I sat in my study, Captain curled at my feet as I hacked into Shadow Organization's DNA database. It wasn't easy—they'd upgraded their security since my last intrusion—but nothing was impenetrable to me.

I found it within an hour: Job Murphy's DNA profile and the genetic comparison to Tamara Murphy. 99.7% match—biological mother confirmed.

I stared at the screen, memories flooding back. Dusk—or Job, as he'd been born—had been my only friend in that hellhole. We'd trained together since childhood, promised to escape together someday, live normal lives under new identities.

Instead, I'd buried him.

If Dusk had lived, Silas and his mother might have had a very different life. Perhaps with money for proper medical care, a decent place to live.

I deleted the files and purged all traces of my search. Then I sat in the darkness, letting the weight of this knowledge settle over me.

Captain sensed my mood, whining softly as he laid his head on my lap.

---

Sunday afternoon, I found Silas at an auto repair shop, wearing oil-stained coveralls as he worked under the hood of a Chevrolet.

A well-dressed man stood nearby, gesturing angrily. "You haven't fixed shit! I'm not paying for this!"

Silas wiped his hands on a rag. "I fixed the problem with your transmission. Test drive it yourself."

"Get out of my way," the man snarled, reaching for the door.

Silas stepped in front of the car. "You need to pay first. The car's fixed. I just tested it myself."

"Move, or I'll run you over," the man threatened, climbing into the driver's seat.

I pulled my car alongside, put it in reverse, and slammed into the Chevrolet's front quarter panel.

The impact was satisfying—precision damage to the body without risking deployment of the airbag. I shifted gears and hit it again. And again. Each impact deformed the car further.

By the fourth hit, the owner was trapped inside, the door frame now too warped to open easily. His face had gone white with shock as he frantically yanked at the jammed door handle. Through the cracked window, I could see him desperately looking toward Silas, his mouth forming pleas for help. His hand reached out in a pathetic gesture, as if the same person he'd just threatened could somehow save him from this situation.

Silas stared at me, his expression a mixture of disbelief and something else—something I couldn't quite identify.