I forced my eyes open, blinking against the rain and the sodium glare of streetlights shattered across the puddles. My side throbbed where the bullet had torn through, but I was alive—barely. Red and blue lights wheeled over the glistening asphalt, and the shout of voices, urgent and authoritative, grew louder as the uniforms converged.
Agent Miller crouched at my side, her hand pressed over mine to stanch the bleeding. Her hair was plastered to her face, jaw tight with focus. "Stay with me, Stamp. Don’t you dare check out."
I managed a weak nod, the taste of copper sharp in my mouth. The storm’s cacophony was eclipsed by the frantic orchestrations of first responders—boots pounding, radios chattering, someone barking orders about a perimeter. I could feel Miller’s hand tremble just slightly—she was good, but not invincible. The world spun in a haze of pain and adrenaline.
Paramedics surged around us, their faces impersonal behind dripping hoods. They peeled Miller’s hand from my side, exchanging swift, clinical words about entry and exit wounds. I tried to catch Miller’s gaze, needing to anchor myself to something real.
“Don’t let them take my case,” I croaked. My voice was ragged, barely more than a whisper, but Miller’s eyes snapped to mine. “Tell them I’m not finished.”
She gave a curt nod. “You’re not. I promise.”
The city could take its best shot. I wouldn’t let it win just yet.
They slid me onto the stretcher, the pain a jagged lightning bolt through my torso. I gritted my teeth as the movement jostled the wound. Rain pattered on the thin blanket they draped over me, soaking through in seconds. Miller bent low, her mouth by my ear so only I could hear.
“Corleone’s men won’t wait. If you know something, tell me now. Before the wrong person asks.”
I tried to focus, mind foggy. Faces and clues flickered: Jacob’s coded messages, the way Corleone’s man had vanished, the matchbook from the Flamingo. I needed time, but time was exactly what I was losing.
The paramedics hoisted me into the back of the ambulance, doors slamming shut. One of them—a young woman with a scar across her eyebrow—stripped back my soaked jacket to cut away my shirt. She worked fast, efficient, hands steady even as the blood smeared her gloves.
As the ambulance lurched into motion, I caught a glimpse of Miller standing beside the car, her silhouette a dark blur against the neon haze. Behind her, the alley yawned open, secrets pooling in its shadows. The man who’d shot me was long gone, but he’d left a trail—one I could still follow, if I survived the night.
The medic pressed gauze to my wound. “Stay with us, Mr. Stamp. We’re almost there."
But my mind was already drifting, wading through the muck of memory and suspicion. Something about the shooter’s words—pawn—echoed. Was I missing the real target? Or was I exactly where they wanted me?
The ambulance rattled through the city streets, siren wailing. Rain hammered the roof, a relentless drumbeat. My vision swam, the world narrowing to the bright ceiling lights, the medic’s shadowed profile, and the ghost of Miller’s promise in my ear. I clenched my fist, feeling the slip of blood between my fingers and the hot surge of determination. One more move. I just needed one more move.
Suddenly, the ambulance jolted to a halt. Tires squealed. Shouts erupted outside—panic, authority, the unmistakable bark of someone who did not belong to EMS.
The back doors banged open. Shadowy figures in rain-soaked coats loomed, harsh lights from a black sedan flooding the interior. The medic froze, her hands raised in alarm as one of the men pointed a gun at her head.
“Out,” the man barked. “Now.”
The medic obeyed, trembling, slipping into the rain. Another man grabbed the stretcher, starting to pull me toward the open doors and the waiting car. The city sped by outside, blurred and unreachable, as I realized I was being taken.
The night’s game had changed.