While Barry bled quietly into a paper towel, Iris found herself watching the officer across the room.
He was young — early twenties, probably, not much older than her — with blond hair and the kind of easy, open smile that looked like it came naturally rather than by effort. He was chatting with a couple of uniforms near the desk, relaxed in the way people are when they're good at their job and know it.
"That's the one who caught the guy," Iris said. "Soon as we finish our statements, we can go."
Barry followed her gaze. "Oh — that's Eddie. Eddie Thawne. Transferred in from Keystone a few weeks ago. Made detective young." A pause. "Really young."
He didn't say anything else about it, but his expression did the work for him. Barry had chosen to fight crime with evidence collection and trace analysis and the patient, unglamorous machinery of forensic science. Eddie had chosen to run after criminals until he caught them. Both were valid approaches. Barry was not jealous. He just occasionally noticed the difference.
Iris glanced at Eddie for another moment, then turned back. "Are we still making it to Wells's press conference?"
Barry checked the time and winced. "It's probably wrapping up right now."
"Bad luck, then." She patted his arm. "Let's head home."
The first crack of thunder arrived almost on cue — a deep, rolling boom that rattled the precinct windows — and then the rain came down in sheets, turning the street outside into a river of reflections.
The windshield wipers were losing the argument.
Detective Mark gripped the wheel, squinting through the smear of rain, and glanced at Joe in the passenger seat. "Three farms, Joe. Three farms, no Mustang, no Mardon brothers, nothing. I'm starting to think Barry guessed."
"Last one on the list," Joe said, nodding toward a cluster of lights barely visible through the downpour. "We're already here."
"He's smart, I know that. But 'smart' and 'right' aren't the same thing."
"After we look," Joe said. "Then we talk."
They went in.
The farm's interior was dim rather than dark — a few overhead lights left on, enough to read the space by. They moved through it quickly, flashlights sweeping across stalls and equipment until Mark's beam caught the outline of something parked near the back wall, lumped under a tarpaulin.
The two men exchanged a look.
Joe crossed the floor in six strides and pulled the cover back from the front end of the vehicle. The flashlight hit chrome, a logo, the unmistakable fastback silhouette.
Mustang GT500.
Mark crouched at the rear. The tire was new — recently swapped, the old one discarded nearby, flat and torn. "They changed it here."
"Mardon brothers," Joe confirmed.
The shot came from the shadows without warning.
Two rounds, fast — and both of them wide, chewing through the wood beside Joe's head. Both detectives dropped behind cover on reflex, weapons already out. Mark's flashlight found a muzzle flash near the far wall.
Clyde Mardon, cornered and calculating, did the math immediately: the darkness was working against his aim, but it was working against theirs too. He broke from cover, firing wide to keep them pinned, and ran for the door.
"Clyde! You're not going anywhere!"
"I've got a flight to catch, Detective!"
He hit the entrance — bright lights, open ground, the rain hammering down — and spun, raising the gun at the figure running out behind him. Mark, caught in the light, froze for a half-second.
The shot came from inside the warehouse.
A single round, precise and unhurried, punched through the rain and took Clyde in the right arm. The pistol swung wide. The shot went into the mud.
"—"
Clyde's cursing was swallowed by engine noise — the agricultural plane at the far end of the property, Mark already at the controls, already rolling. He switched the gun to his left hand and ran.
By the time Joe and Mark cleared the door, the plane was lifting off the grass strip, climbing into the storm, the running lights disappearing into the low cloud.
Joe holstered his weapon and watched it go. "They had it all arranged."
"Good shot, though." Mark was breathing hard. "That arm hit — that's what saved me. Joe, I saw the barrel come up. Without that shot I was done." He turned. "That was you, right?"
Joe frowned. "I thought that was you."
They looked at each other.
"Mark." Joe's voice had changed. "MArk, there's something on your — look at your stomach."
Mark looked down. Pulled the trench coat open. The dark stain was spreading slowly across his shirt, red and unmistakable, and the world tilted slightly as his body finally decided to inform him of what had happened.
"Oh." His voice came from somewhere distant. "I was hit after all."
"Mark — Mark, stay with me—"
Joe had him under the arms before he finished falling. They made it to the car in under a minute, Joe applying pressure with one hand and driving with the other, the engine screaming toward the hospital lights.
Jude stepped out of the warehouse door, holstered the pistol, and looked out across the rain-soaked farmyard.
"That level of interference," he said quietly, "is that within bounds? Saving someone who would've died — does that get me deported?"
SYSTEM NOTIFICATION For individuals who are not significant to this universe's core timeline, minor alterations are permissible. For timeline-critical individuals, their fate within this world cannot be changed — but they may be removed from this world entirely. That is the only route to preserving them. Note: this constitutes a form of cross-dimensional transit facilitation.
Jude stared at that for a moment.
They can smuggle people across universes?
The System did not respond further.
He turned up his collar against the rain and started walking.
Back at the precinct, Barry had gone upstairs.
The storm hitting the city meant the evidence analysis room's rooftop skylight — which he was almost certain he'd left cracked — was currently admitting several gallons of Central City's finest rainwater directly onto his workstation. He took the stairs two at a time, pushed through the door, and confirmed his suspicion: a steady stream was dripping through the gap onto the evidence table below.
He shook his head, reached up for the pulley chain, and began hauling the skylight closed.
Outside, the lightning split the sky.