In a hospital ward.
No one knew how long she had been unconscious when Ginny slowly opened her eyes. All around her was a soft yet blinding white light, the air reeked of disinfectant, and the steady beeping of machines filled her ears.
A hospital?
She tried to lift her head to look around, but a dull ache and a heavy pressure answered her, reminding her exactly why she was lying in a hospital bed.
As her thoughts gradually cleared, it all rushed back.
The truck running the red light, the masked gunmen, the muzzle pressed to her forehead…
Her last memory was of Rorschach taking down the man holding her at gunpoint—and then everything had gone black.
Thinking of Rorschach, Ginny could not help turning her head to search for him. When she finally spotted the man sitting in a chair to her right, the stone in her chest dropped.
The partner who had saved her at the critical moment was sitting there with his head bowed, fast asleep.
As she recalled the way Rorschach had handled the attackers and pulled her out from under that gun, a strange feeling rose quietly in her chest.
"If this guy were mute, girls would probably line up for him…"
"Like what you see?"
A teasing voice snapped her out of her daze.
Rorschach suddenly lifted his head and gave her a knowing look. "And don't go getting too grateful. I dragged you out of that mess purely because we're coworkers. Don't read anything else into it."
Realizing he had been faking sleep the whole time, Ginny froze, then quickly shot back, unwilling to lose ground, "I actually prefer it that way. And for the record, I could've handled that hitman without you. I already had my hand on my gun."
"Yeah, and the next second you were out cold."
Rorschach chuckled, then explained, "The doc says you've got a mild concussion. The blood was just from a scalp scrape. Nothing serious. Barring surprises, you'll be out in a couple days."
Ginny nodded, then suddenly tensed. "You didn't tell my family, did you? They can't know about this. If my dad finds out, he'll drag me straight back home!"
Seeing how panicked she looked, Rorschach held up a hand to calm her. "Relax. From the time the ambulance showed up to when you hit the bed, it wasn't even two hours. How would your family find out that fast? And…"
He spread his hands, annoyed. "Quit making that face. Do you have any idea how many people would kill to have parents who care about them that much?"
"You don't get it, Rorschach. You couldn't possibly understand what that feels like…"
Ginny blurted out, then cut herself off halfway.
Realizing she had put her foot in her mouth, she glanced at him nervously and apologized. "I'm sorry, Rorschach. I didn't mean it like that. Really, I didn't."
"Didn't mean it like what?" Rorschach frowned, puzzled.
"Well…"
Ginny explained in a small voice, "About your mom. I heard it from Frank. He said you grew up in a single‑parent home, and that in high school, the mom who raised you all by herself was…"
"Shut up."
Rorschach cut her off with a low growl, eyes hard. "Frank told you that?"
Ginny hunched her shoulders and nodded, barely daring to breathe.
"Motherf*cker. That old bastard really will blab about anything."
Rorschach cursed under his breath, then seemed to think of something and asked suspiciously, "So that's why your attitude toward me suddenly changed these last few days?"
"Uh…" Ginny answered awkwardly, "Not exactly. I just realized you're not as bad as I first thought. I wanted to show you a little more… kindness."
"Kindness?"
Rorschach let out a speechless laugh. He gave her a once‑over and shook his head in mock disgust. "Don't waste your time. You're really not my type."
Ginny actually laughed at that, more angry than amused. She shot him the same disgusted look right back. "Great. Because if you were my husband, I'd be poisoning your coffee."
Rorschach snorted. "Believe me, Ginny—if I were your husband, I'd drink it."
"…"
————————
Because of the shooting, the department generously gave Rorschach and Ginny a week off.
Partly to give Ginny time to recover—concussions could go either way.
And partly because… Rorschach looked down at the crumpled business card in his hand and tossed it straight into the trash.
The chief had just shoved it at him, ordering him to attend mandatory counseling sometime that week.
The reason was simple enough. In the past few days, Rorschach had killed the traffickers in a child‑abduction case, then destroyed a nationally known heavyweight champion, then shot a supermarket robber, and last night had turned five cartel gunmen sent to hit a cop into corpses.
Yes—afterward, the department's investigation had easily confirmed the shooters' identities.
It had not been hard. In Chicago, if you saw a gunman with a Mexican face, odds were overwhelmingly high he was a dealer, not someone selling tacos.
As for exactly why they had gone after Rorschach—who could say? With the reputation he had for ruthless methods, he had made plenty of enemies in this town. There was no shortage of people who wanted him dead.
In any case, putting that many bodies on the ground in just a few days—even if every one of them was a criminal—meant he had to go sit on a therapist's couch. Nobody wanted a cop in the building who had gotten hooked on killing.
But Rorschach had no time for therapy. There was something far more urgent on his plate:
The damn Salamanca family had taken the bait.
He pulled out his phone and called the Irish brothers.
After telling one of them where to go and wait for him, Rorschach fired up his old pickup and headed for the spot he had arranged with Tuku the night before.
Toward evening.
Inside a waste‑disposal plant somewhere on Chicago's West Side.
After half an hour of waiting, Rorschach finally saw the man arrogant enough to send a hit squad to wipe him out—Tuku Salamanca.
Tuku was the nephew of Hector Salamanca, head of the clan, and the big dealer in charge of dumping the family's product in Chicago.
His arrival was heard before it was seen. Two modified convertibles came roaring in from the distance, their suspensions bouncing in time with the wheels and the thunder of blaring hip‑hop.
The cars screeched to a halt. A short, thickset, tattoo‑covered bald man in a loud Hawaiian shirt kicked his door open and jumped out, raising an Uzi and dumping a full burst into the sky.
"Rorschach Butcher! You f*cking pig! You ruined my fight, then killed my men! Tell me, you son of a bitch—how do you want to die today?!"
Wobbling like he had overdone his own product, Tuku waved the submachine gun at Rorschach and ranted.
"…"
Staring down the barrel pointed between his eyes, Rorschach took a slow breath to steady himself—then lashed out with a kick.
Pain exploded in Tuku's knee, his body pitching forward. In the same instant, the weight vanished from his trigger hand.
Somehow, in that sliver of a second, the Uzi in his grip had ended up in the hands of the cop in front of him.
"You—"
"Shut the f*ck up."
Rorschach shoved the muzzle straight into the Mexican's mouth. "You are, without question, the most pathetic drug dealer I've ever seen. Say one more word, and I'll blow your head apart right now."
"…"
(End of Chapter)
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