Chapter 4 Resonance of Pain
The storm had descended on Chicago with unexpected ferocity, transforming the city into a landscape of ice and howling wind. Aveline pulled her coat tighter as she made her way through the abandoned meat packing facility, her breath forming clouds in the frigid air. The anonymous tip had come directly to her office—information about Gray's organ trafficking operation that could identify his co-conspirators.
In retrospect, she should have known it was too convenient, too perfectly timed. But the possibility of finding evidence that could end this case had overridden her usual caution.
The first sign of trouble was the heavy metal door swinging shut behind her with a decisive clang. The second was the sound of the lock engaging, followed by the mechanical whir of industrial refrigeration systems powering up.
"Dammit," she muttered, spinning around to examine the door. No handle on the inside. No emergency release. Just solid steel and rapidly dropping temperature.
Aveline pulled out her phone. No signal. Of course.
The cold was already seeping through her clothing—her elegant wool coat designed for Chicago winters, but not for industrial freezers designed to preserve meat for months. She estimated the temperature would drop below zero within minutes.
Methodically, she searched the space for another exit, for tools, for anything that might help. The room was nearly empty except for several metal hooks hanging from ceiling tracks and frost-covered shelving units. No convenient maintenance hatches, no forgotten tools.
As the temperature continued to plummet, Aveline's movements became more deliberate, fighting against the cold that threatened to slow her reflexes. She had perhaps thirty minutes before hypothermia would begin to set in, less if the temperature dropped below what she estimated.
She was examining the hinges of the door when she heard it—a faint metallic scraping from the other side.
"Stone? You in there?" The voice was muffled but unmistakable.
"Hawk?" Relief flooded through her, though she kept it from her voice. "The door's locked from your side."
"I can see that." There was a pause. "Stand back from the door."
Aveline moved to the side, expecting gunshots or some attempt to force the lock. Instead, she heard more scraping, followed by muttered curses.
"What exactly is your plan?" she called, unable to keep the edge from her voice as her teeth began to chatter.
"Working on it," came the terse reply. "Lock's electronic. Trying to bypass it."
Minutes ticked by, each one dropping the temperature further. Aveline paced to keep her blood flowing, but the cold was becoming painful, her extremities beginning to numb.
"Hawk," she finally said, her voice steady despite the cold, "if you don't get this door open in the next ten minutes, you'll be recovering a body instead of a witness."
There was a moment of silence from the other side.
"Not gonna happen," he replied, his voice tight with determination. "Just hold on."
Another minute passed before she heard a hiss of pain from beyond the door, followed by the smell of burning metal. Curious despite her deteriorating condition, Aveline moved closer.
"What are you doing?"
"Something stupid," Hawk answered, strain evident in his voice. "But effective."
The lock mechanism suddenly sparked, and the door swung open. Hawk stood there, his face tense with concentration and pain, holding his right hand awkwardly.
Aveline stumbled out, the relative warmth of the corridor feeling like a furnace against her chilled skin. As Hawk pulled the door shut behind her, she caught sight of his hand—specifically, the index finger that ended at the first knuckle, replaced by what appeared to be a small electronic device where flesh should have been.
"You melted the lock," she realized, staring at his hand. "With your... finger."
Hawk flexed his hand, a grimace crossing his features. "Prototype. Not exactly bureau-approved equipment." He glanced at her, taking in her pale face and trembling form. "Can you walk?"
Aveline nodded, though her legs felt wooden. "How did you find me?"
"Tracked your phone." He shrugged off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders, adding another layer of warmth. "After what happened with Gray, I figured you might be a target. Set up an alert for your location."
She should have been angry at the invasion of privacy, but at the moment, she could only feel grateful for his paranoia.
"We need to get you warmed up," Hawk continued, guiding her toward the exit with a hand at her elbow. "My car's outside."
---
Hawk's apartment was nothing like she had imagined. Located in an old industrial building converted to lofts, it was spacious but spartan—functional furniture, minimal decoration, and meticulously organized. The only personal touches were a collection of model ships displayed in a glass cabinet and a chess set with a game in progress.
"Bathroom's through there," Hawk said, gesturing to a door as he adjusted the thermostat. "Hot shower will help with the cold. I'll find you something dry to wear."
Aveline nodded, too exhausted to argue or maintain her usual defenses. The hot water was blissful against her chilled skin, gradually restoring feeling to her numbed extremities. By the time she emerged, wrapped in a towel with her wet hair combed back, her mind had cleared enough to process what had happened.
She found clothes laid out on the bed—a gray FBI academy sweatshirt and sweatpants that would be comically large on her frame. As she dressed, she noticed a small wooden box on the nightstand, partially open to reveal what looked like maintenance tools for Hawk's prosthetic finger.
Curious, she moved closer, noticing a photograph tucked inside the lid of the box. A young woman with Hawk's blue eyes smiled at the camera, her arm around a younger version of Hawk himself, both in military uniforms.
"Coffee's ready," Hawk's voice came from the doorway, startling her. He had changed into dry clothes as well, his expression unreadable as he noticed her looking at the photograph.
"I'm sorry," Aveline said, stepping back from the nightstand. "I didn't mean to pry."
Hawk crossed the room and closed the box with deliberate care. "My sister, Claire. Marine Corps. Afghanistan, 2014."
The way he said it—past tense, clipped, final—told her everything she needed to know.
"I'm sorry," she repeated, meaning it.
Hawk nodded once, then gestured toward the living room. "Come on. You need to warm up properly."
In the living room, he had built a fire in a small gas fireplace and arranged blankets on the couch. Two mugs of coffee steamed on the coffee table.
"Your apartment is not what I expected," Aveline admitted, settling onto the couch and wrapping a blanket around her shoulders.
"What did you expect? Crime scene photos on the walls and a shrine to the FBI?" A ghost of a smile touched his lips as he handed her a mug.
"Something like that." She accepted the coffee gratefully, letting the warmth seep into her hands. "Thank you. For finding me."
Hawk sat beside her, maintaining a careful distance. "What were you doing at that facility anyway?"
"Following a lead." She sighed, the exhaustion of the day catching up with her. "Someone sent information to my office about Gray's operation. Claimed there was evidence hidden at the facility."
"And you went alone?" Hawk's voice held an edge of anger now. "After everything that's happened?"
"I was careful," she defended, though it sounded weak even to her own ears.
"Careful would have been calling me," he countered. "Careful would have been not walking into an obvious trap."
"I don't need a lecture on personal safety from someone who melted a lock with his prosthetic finger," Aveline snapped, her own frustration rising to match his. "Which, by the way, you never mentioned having."
Hawk flexed his hand unconsciously. "It wasn't relevant to the case."
"Like hell it wasn't." She set down her mug with more force than necessary. "You've been holding back information since we started working together. What else haven't you told me?"
His eyes met hers, intense and guarded. "We all have our secrets, Stone. You're hardly an open book yourself."
The truth of his words stung more than she wanted to admit. They sat in tense silence for a moment, the only sound the soft hiss of the gas fire.
"IED," Hawk said finally, his voice quieter. "Three years ago. Lost the finger and nearly lost the hand. The prosthetic is experimental tech from the Bureau's R&D division."
Aveline studied his profile, noting the way the firelight cast shadows across the planes of his face. "Does it hurt?"
"Sometimes." He shrugged. "Worth it for the functionality."
Another silence fell, less tense than before but still weighted with unspoken things.
"You're still cold," Hawk observed, noticing the slight tremor that remained in her hands despite the blankets and coffee.
"I'll be fine," she insisted, but couldn't suppress a shiver that contradicted her words.
Without asking permission, Hawk moved closer and placed his arm around her shoulders, drawing her against his side. Aveline stiffened at the unexpected contact.
"Body heat," he explained simply. "Most effective way to treat mild hypothermia."
She should have pulled away, maintained the professional distance they'd established. Instead, she found herself relaxing incrementally into the solid warmth of him, her body overriding her mind's objections.
"This doesn't change anything," she murmured, even as she allowed her head to rest against his shoulder.
"Wouldn't dream of it," he replied, his voice rumbling through his chest against her ear.
As the warmth gradually returned to her limbs, Aveline felt the adrenaline of the day ebbing, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion. Her eyes grew heavy, her defenses lowering with each passing minute.
She was nearly asleep when she felt Hawk's hand move almost unconsciously along her spine, his fingers tracing the curve of her vertebrae through the thick sweatshirt. The touch was gentle, exploratory, sending an unexpected shiver through her that had nothing to do with the cold.
"Your body temperature is warmer than I expected," he said softly, his voice pitched low enough that she could have pretended not to hear if she chose.
Aveline turned her head slightly to look at him, suddenly aware of how close their faces were. "What did you expect?"
"From the Ice Queen of Chicago's defense bar?" A hint of a smile touched his lips. "Something closer to freezing."
She should have been offended by the nickname, but the way he said it—almost fondly—took the sting from it.
"Appearances can be deceiving," she replied, her voice matching his in softness.
His hand had stilled on her back, but remained there, a warm weight against her spine. "So I'm learning."
As they sat there, firelight playing across their features, Hawk's gaze dropped briefly to the collar of the oversized sweatshirt, which had slipped to reveal the edge of a tattoo on her collarbone—intricate linework partially visible above the fabric.
With a self-consciousness she rarely felt, Aveline adjusted the collar, covering the mark. But it was too late—Hawk had seen enough to recognize what it was: not just a tattoo, but one designed to cover a scar. A circular scar consistent with a bullet wound.
Their eyes met, and in that moment, something shifted between them—a recognition of shared pain, of wounds both visible and hidden.
"We should get some rest," Hawk said finally, his voice rough with an emotion she couldn't quite identify. "Tomorrow we need to figure out who set that trap for you."
Aveline nodded, reluctantly pulling away from his warmth. As she did, her hand brushed against his prosthetic finger—cool metal against warm skin.
"Does it ever feel real?" she asked suddenly. "The replacement."
Hawk looked down at his hand, then back at her. "No," he admitted. "But it serves its purpose. Sometimes that's all we can ask for."
The double meaning wasn't lost on either of them—the fragile alliance they'd formed, imperfect but necessary, serving a purpose neither could fulfill alone.
As Aveline settled into the guest room later, wrapped in blankets that carried Hawk's scent, she found herself touching the bullet scar beneath her tattoo, thinking about the photograph of Hawk's sister and the pain they both carried—different wounds, similar scars.
For the first time since they'd met, she wondered if perhaps they weren't so different after all.
