Ten seconds after Agent Lowell leaves, the door to Chief Allison’s office cracks open, and a small, blonde woman inches her way inside.

 

“Lacey! What the—”

 

She holds up a hand, placing her index finger over her mouth. “Shhh. Come on, we’re leaving.”

 

“Leaving? Lacey, I’m pretty sure I’m being arrested.”

 

She frowns at this. “Have they read you your Miranda Rights?”

 

I have to think for a second. Did I get read my rights? Lowell just told me to sit my ass down and then left. “No. No, I wasn’t read my rights.”

 

“Then we’re leaving,” Lacey repeats, as though the whole thing is obvious and totally above board. “Charlie’s here, and we need to be gone before he sees any of us. Zeth’s coming in a second. We have to get downstairs without heading back through the west wing of this floor; that’s where the cops are. Is there a way?”

 

There is a way. An elevator down the eastern corridor, out past accounting. I nod, getting to my feet. If Charlie’s here, then I definitely want to hightail it. A small part of me resists, though. I was told to wait here by a member of the police force. And not just the police force—by a member of the DEA. If I go against what I’ve been told, I’m crossing a line. A line I’ve never crossed before. I won’t be able to come back to work, that’s for sure.

 

“I’m not so sure about this,” I say. “How did you even get in here?”

 

“It’s probably better if you don’t ask,” Lacey says, her mouth pulling up to one side in some semblance of a rueful smile. “It wasn’t the easy way, that’s for sure.” She spins around, suddenly startled by a noise out in the corridor. Her shoulders visibly relax, and then I see Michael and Cade arrive behind her.

 

“Hey, precious,” Cade says, smiling at me. Whereas Michael’s always been a little too formal with his greetings, it appears Cade is going to be exactly the opposite. Michael huffs and hurries into the room.

 

“No time for details. Let’s move.” He doesn’t give me an option. It’s kind of a relief. Taking the choice out of my hands makes running out on Agent Lowell seem a little more acceptable. I’m ushered out into the corridor, and there’s only one question on my lips:

 

“Where the hell is Zeth?”

 

 

 

 

*******

 

   

 

 

 

 

“I always thought it would be Sam who fucked things up so badly that I’d ’ave to put a bullet in ’im. I ’ave to say…I never thought it would be you.”

 

Sam. Yeah, Sam. The guy gets caught doing something nefarious every single time he leaves his front door. He didn’t even know where to aim his gun to hit me in the heart. Sadly, the same can’t be said for Charlie Holsan. Charlie knows exactly where my heart is. His FN Herstal Five-Seven—one of the hardest handguns to procure, but the most efficient at its job—is butted right up against my ribcage. And whereas Sammy would never have had the stones to pull the trigger, I know Charlie most certainly does. He has that wild light in his eyes again—the crazed mania that makes me think he’s been hitting the blow especially hard.

 

“I knew if I put the hurt on that little cunt of yours, you’d come runnin’,” he says, his mouth pulling into a broad smile. It would have been ill-advised for him to call Sloane anything, but to call her that… Every other word that comes out of my mouth is a curse word, but I never say that word. It’s an ugly word, used by ugly people. I curl my hands into fists, getting ready.

 

“You always were vicious, Charlie, but I never thought you were the kind of man to sell women. I sure as hell never thought you’d turn on me, either.”

 

Charlie sniffs, narrowing his eyes at me. “I’m the kind of man who likes to make money. That’s the only kind of man I’ve ever been.” He squints at me a little harder. “You think me selling those bitches is any worse than you putting bullets in the backs of people’s skulls? At least the girls are alive by the time I sell ’em on. Mostly. How many people have you killed for me, Zeth? How many people have you wiped clean from the face of this earth?”

 

I nod my head, staring him down. “More than I can count. But they were all evil, murdering bastards like you. And I may have been executioner, but you were the one handing out the orders. Their blood’s on your hands, too. I’ve never harmed an innocent person.”

 

Charlie’s head kicks back, his mouth open wide as he laughs. “If that helps you sleep at night, son, then who am I to fucking argue?”

 

“I sleep just fine, Charlie.” I press myself into the barrel of his gun. I am so fucking over this. I am done with his crazy paranoia, the threats, wondering which of his asshole henchmen is loitering around the next corner, waiting to put my girl in danger. “You tried to run Sloane off the road, didn’t you?” I snarl.

 

Charlie shrugs, pulling his mouth down at the corners. “This is Seattle. It’s been known to rain a lot. It ain’t my problem if your woman can’t handle a car when it’s wet.”

 

“Fuck you, Charlie. While you were out fucking with Sloane, your woman was at home slashing her wrists. She’s one floor down in a fucking coma; have you even been to see her?”

 

Charlie reacts quickly, pulling back and swinging, punching me hard in the stomach. I double over—I can’t help it—and the air leaves my lungs in an agonizing gasp. I can feel the wound in my stomach tearing even further. It was bad before, but now it’s really fucking bad. A wave of nausea washes over me, making me retch. “You’d be wise not to mention that,” Charlie bends over so our eyes are level. “I know you were there. I know you had something to fucking do with that.”

 

I spit onto the floor, unsurprised when I see the pink tinge to my saliva. “She was already well on her way when I arrived, asshole. You’re just gonna have to accept it; the years of lies and drugs and cheating—you made her so fucking unhappy that she wanted to die.” I’m pushing an unhinged man’s buttons, but it’s what’s going to get me out of this situation. I’m just waiting. Waiting for the right moment to snatch his gun and shoot him with it. In the meantime, Charlie brings the weapon crashing down so that the butt impacts with the back of my head. My vision shatters into a kaleidoscope of color and shapes.

 

“Oh! Oh my god!” I hear the squeak of tennis shoes on linoleum and the clatter of something crashing to the ground. Someone’s come across Charlie and me in our compromising position, and they’re freaking the fuck out.

 

“Stop where you are, love,” Charlie says. I look up and a nurse is frozen, stock-still, with an upturned tray at her feet, and small drug vials rolling on their sides down the corridor toward us. She looks like she’s just shit her scrubs. Probably because Charlie’s pointing the gun at her. I can’t go for Charlie’s weapon now; it’s too risky. He might shoot the nurse. But now that he’s distracted, I can pull my own gun. I grab it from my waistband, hissing through my teeth at the jaw-dropping pain that rips through my stomach. “Drop it, Charlie.”

 

Charlie angles his head toward me, grinning. He looks even madder now, the whites of his eyes showing. He starts to laugh. “Oh, this is just fucking perfect, isn’t it? You’re gonna ’ave to shoot me in a hospital. You’re gonna get caught and sent back to fucking Chino, ’cept this time they’ll fling your ass on death row. No early release for good behavior with that one, son. And what if you don’t kill me? Imagine all the nasty, depraved shit I can be doing to your little doctor while you rot away.”

 

He’s still pointing his gun at the nurse, but I’ve had enough. Years. Years I fucking spent in that hellhole for him, for a crime I didn’t commit. That injustice pales against the threat he’s making toward Sloane, though. He can’t be allowed to hurt her; I won’t fucking let him. Not ever. I roar, launching myself at him; I hit hard, sending him crashing into the wall, and the nurse screams. A screen of red drops down over my vision, and I’m pounding my fists into Charlie’s face, his side, his stomach. I’ve dropped my gun, but I don’t care. I don’t care about the pain. I don’t care if I lose every last drop of blood from my body. I will kill this motherfucker if it’s the last thing I do.

 

Charlie swings the gun back round, smashing it into the side of my face. Pain explodes inside my head, but I keep going. I keep swinging. I only stop when Charlie manages to regain a footing and he spins, pointing the gun at me again. I grab up the Desert Eagle, and then I’m pointing that right back at him.

 

“FREEZE! DROP YOUR WEAPONS!”

 

My heart is slamming in my chest, and my head is spinning. I can barely see straight, but it doesn’t take much to spot the two DEA agents over Charlie’s shoulder. They both have their weapons drawn, and Lowell is staring, wide-eyed, at us as though she’s just hit the mother load. “DEA! PUT DOWN YOUR WEAPONS!” she yells.

 

Charlie looks at me and starts laughing again. “I’m afraid I don’t quite feel like it,” he shouts. “You see, we’re in the middle of a conversation here.” He pivots and fires in one swift motion, way too quick for the cops to react in time. The nurse at the other end of the hall starts screaming again, and the guy behind Lowell falls back, arms and legs out straight as he sails through the air. A cloud of pink mist blooms behind him, and that’s it for Denise Lowell’s lover.

 

They call the FN Herstal Five-Seven the cop-killer for a reason. This is why. Its rounds will pierce anything, even police-issue body armor. I doubt Lowell’s partner was even wearing any, though—wouldn’t want to ruin the line of his suit—and now the fucker is dead. This shit is now officially way out of control.

 

I do the only thing I can; I turn and I run.

 

 

 ******

 

 

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

We’ve almost traveled the length of the hospital before we come across Zeth; we hear shots, shouting, and then there he is, his forehead covered in a sickly sheen of sweat.

 

“Oh my god! What the hell is wrong with you?” I head for his shirt, to lift it up, to see what damage he’s done—running! He was running!—but he slaps my hand away.

 

“Later, Sloane. Later, okay?”

 

“Hey! Hey, stop!” A shout echoes down the corridor, and the next thing I know Zeth has grabbed hold of my hand and I’m being dragged in the opposite direction, away from Agent Lowell. “STOP RIGHT THERE!” she hollers.

 

We have a good thirty feet on her, though. We skid around the corner, all five of us, and I push ahead, tugging Zeth down the left-hand turning that will take us to the service stairwell; we’re never going to make the elevator in time. I slam through the emergency exit and begin to race down the concrete steps, my heart thundering in my ears. This is stupid, this is stupid, this is SO fucking stupid. The chant is like a metronome, keeping my legs moving. I am running from the law. Never, ever, ever in my life did I think this was who I was, or would be for that matter.

 

Down we go, staircase after staircase. My head is spinning by the time we hit the ground floor, and my ears are ringing with the sound of footfall and incoherent shouting.

 

“Keep moving, keep moving!” Zeth roars. I turn and Lacey is right behind me, her eyes wide, a mask of panic frozen on her face. Zeth is behind her, followed by the other men. And three turns of the staircase above us, Agent Lowell leans out into the gap, pointing her….pointing her gun.

 

“Don’t fucking move!” she yells. Zeth keeps on pushing, though; he obviously has every intention of moving. And fast. We burst out of the emergency exit into the rear car lot, straight into a downpour of rain that’s so heavy it instantly soaks me to the skin.

 

“Get to the front lot,” Zeth says, pulling both me and Lacey to the right. I’m already moving, but Michael grabs Zeth by the shoulder.

 

“Give me your keys,” he says. Zeth shrugs him off, but he doesn’t give up. “Zeth give me your fucking keys. Now!”

 

“Just shut up and move.”

 

Michael punches Zeth in the back, so hard he slumps to his knees. A shriek rips out of my mouth—what the hell is he doing? Michael reaches into Zeth’s jacket and pulls the set of keys out, and then he helps Zeth to his feet. Zeth’s pale white and swaying on his feet, but he still looks like he wants to kill his friend.

 

Michael turns to me then. “Wait around the corner. Go! She’ll follow us to the cars. I’ll send someone for you. Just wait there! You’re gonna have to help him. He’s lost a lot of blood.” As if to prove his point, Zeth’s head rocks back and he almost slumps to the ground. Lacey and I grab him under each arm and do as we’re told. This isn’t going to work. This is not going to work. But I still power forward, stumbling under the vast weight that I’m desperately trying not to let fall on top of me. Thankfully Zeth’s able to stagger forward, otherwise we’d be screwed. Michael and Cade tear off, whooping and calling as they go. The building to our left cuts away and we turn, coming into a small courtyard where the generator blocks are kept. Lacey seems to know where she’s going. She urges us forward, leading me right behind one of the brick genny houses.

 

I have to blink three times before I’ll believe my eyes. “Cops!” I turn to Lacey, who looks mildly embarrassed. “Lacey, why are there two fucking cops fucking handcuffed to the doors of this fucking building?” I don’t think I’ve ever said fuck so much, but the situation seems to warrant it.

 

“They’re just unconscious. They’re not dead,” Lacey says, as if this makes it all better.

 

“Oh my god,” I breathe, and I mean it. Devine intervention is the only way I can see a positive outcome in all of this. I feel like dropping to my knees and praying that we get through this. Lacey and I lower Zeth to the floor. His eyes are open, but it doesn’t seem like he’s seeing us. I check his pulse and it’s slow and thready. He’s gonna die, and all because he wouldn’t just stay in his bed. All of this because he wouldn’t fucking listen. I slap him around the face, hard, and it’s only partially to stop him from falling into a coma. The other half is because he fucking deserves it.

 

Michael told us to wait here—that he would send somebody for us. Police sirens wail out in the front car lot, and there’s nothing else that we can do. Lacey and I sit there, and we wait.

 

 

 

 

******

 

 

 

 

A Widow Maker shows up twelve minutes later. It’s Carnie, one of the men I met at Julio’s; I have no idea how he managed to get here so fast, and I don’t ask questions. It’s a miracle that we haven’t already been discovered. Lucky that the unconscious cops haven’t woken up, either, although that’s more of a worrying point. They’ve been out for so long, I begin to worry they actually are dead, but a quick check of their pulses reveal they are very much still alive.

 

Just like us, Carnie’s absolutely drenched; he looks faintly amused at our situation, although his smile vanishes when he realizes it’s on him to lift Zeth. In the end, even he’s not strong enough to do it on his own. He takes Zeth’s arms, and Lace and I get a leg each. It’s so undignified that I’m almost glad the bastard’s finally passed out on us; he would never consciously tolerate such manhandling.

 

Carnie has an industrial van waiting at the rear of the hospital, the engine still running. Down one side, the paintwork reads Encore Dry Cleaning. He’s parked it right up against the bay doors, as though he’s waiting for a delivery of the hospital’s soiled linen. The hospital cleans its own sheets and scrubs, but it’s a reasonable disguise. We manage to haul Zeth into the back—the van is actually piled high with sacks of clean laundry—and then Lacey and I climb in right behind him. “Where the hell did you get this?” I ask Carnie, already suspecting the answer.

 

“I borrowed it,” he replies, and then he slams the doors closed. Everything falls into darkness. A moment later, the van lurches and we’re moving. In the dark, the engine and our breathing seem very loud. I suddenly realize how cold and wet and tired I am. Lacey fumbles around and finds my hand, squeezing it tight.

 

“Is he going to be okay?” she whispers.

 

I squeeze her hand back, and I tell her the truth. “I don’t know. I hope so.”