The cold bites as soon as we step outside, the warmth of the SUV like a hug when I climb in.
We slide into traffic buttery smooth, and it’s not long before we’re in the city. Manhattan during Christmas looks soft from a distance and sharp up close.
Halfway up the avenue, something black slides into the side mirror. A dark sedan. Windows heavily tinted. It hangs there for a breath, then inches closer.
It looks eerily familiar.
“Alex.”
“I see it.” We accelerate a little, the city blurring past.
The sedan catches up and cuts in. A hard swerve, too confident. Metal kisses metal—more scrape than smash—the sound reaching my teeth. I clutch the handle, my bandaged arm flaring white hot.
“Hold on,” he says.
He threads us through a narrow gap between a bus and a delivery truck, a lane that doesn’t look like a lane until it is. Horns blare. A cyclist bangs on a hood, shouting a holiday greeting that is not very festive.
The sedan comes again. It taps us on the quarter panel like it’s trying to pick a fight without leaving bruises. Wheels screech, the smell of burning rubber fills the air.
Alex’s hand drops and comes up with a pistol. He opens the window two inches, winter knifing my face. He points and fires three fast shots. The sound is a muffled cough, professional and ugly. The sedan jolts as a tire spits itself to pieces, the car skidding wide and spinning into a snowbank like it meant to park there all along.
Alex speaks into the comm at his collar. “Three shots on a black four-door sedan, eastbound, plate obscured. Disablement achieved. We’re continuing to the hospital. Sweep the side streets two blocks north.”
A voice crackles back. He takes a hard right, then a left, weaving up a side street with wreaths on every stoop and a child in a parka pointing at us like we’re a parade. My heart tries to leave through my throat. I press my palm to my chest.
“Breathe,” Alex says, eyes on the road. “In through your nose. Out through your mouth.”
“I’m fine,” I say, though my insides are shaking.
He glances at my bandage. “Arm?”
“Stings,” I admit. “I’m okay.”
The phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s a response from my earlier text to the hospital.
Stable. Resting. Okay to visit.
Relief hits so fast, it makes me lean back, head against the seat. The world wobbles, then rights itself. My mouth tastes metallic.
The SUV slides into a narrow alley, one block shy of the hospital’s ambulance bay. Alex kills the lights. We idle in shadow, the hospital’s glow throwing halos on the wet pavement.
“We wait two minutes,” he says. “I want eyes on the corners.”
“Okay.” I touch the bracelet. The diamonds throw dots on the roof liner like tiny constellations. The adrenaline snapback hits hard.
First, the tremble in my hands. Then, the cold sweat at the back of my neck. Then a wave of nausea. My stomach rolls. The faint scent of gunpowder invades my nostrils, making everything worse.
“Alex,” I say, or try to.
He turns fast, placing his hand on my shoulder, steadying me. “Eyes on me,” he says. “Cassandra, look at me.”
“I—” My vision narrows, not to black, but to gray with sparkles at the edges. The bandage at my arm burns, a hot ring like something has started it on fire from the inside. Sweat beads at my hairline. I can’t get enough air.
“Hey.” His voice sharpens in an urgent way that gets my attention. He slides a hand to my wrist and checks my pulse. “Comm check, medical,” he says into his collar. “Possible shock. We’re one block east of the ambulance bay. Get me an ER handoff at the private entrance now.”
I try to say the word sister, so he can catch it. It comes out as a breath, her name barely carried on it.
“You’ll see her as soon as we get you checked out,” Alex says. He tips my seat back a notch and props me upright with his hand so my airway stays open. “You’re okay. Stay with me.”
