A moment later, Dispatch crackled again.“That plate’s linked to a registered alias—Shoji Tanaka. Known associate of the Shiranokai syndicate. One of the Yamaguchi umbrellas. No priors, but flagged by Organized Crime. Want us to deploy backup?”
Rick didn’t answer right away. His jaw tensed. If this were Yakuza business, it was bigger than a simple scare. And if Ash was their target… Uniforms would only slow him down. Or get themselves killed.What the hell did you get yourself into, kid?“Negative. Do not engage. Maintain radio silence unless I call it in.”
“Understood. Be careful, Detective.”
He dropped the mic into its cradle, shoved his foot down on the pedal. The Eldorado surged forward, the engine growlinglow and mean. Streetlights whipped past in kaleidoscopic blurs—green to red, red to nothing. Neon signs smeared against the windshield. His pulse ticked faster than the speedometer. Ash didn’t know. He had no idea what was behind him. And Rick wasn’t going to let him find out too late.
The city peeled past in fast-motion: the soot-streaked arches of Bellemoor Street, the stone viaducts of Gershwin Avenue. Rick kept his hands steady on the wheel, his gaze cutting between the rearview and the road ahead. The sedan stayed locked in, never gaining, never backing off. It moved like a bloodhound trained to kill on command.
Ash swerved hard across an intersection, cutting into an underpass where steam coiled from manhole grates like the breath of something ancient. Shadows clung to the gutters. Trash rolled across the asphalt with dead leaves. They were in Silver Cove now, the neighborhood of rust and silence. Rick felt the change. Narrower streets. Fewer lights. No foot traffic. The air itself went quiet, holding its breath. This was bad ground.
The Harley vanished around a sharp corner, its echo swallowed by brick and darkness. The sedan followed a beat later.
Rick slapped the dashboard and gunned it. No more half-measures. No more keeping distance. If they made a move, he’d be there to intercept it, teeth bared.
He tore around the corner, tires screeching. Up ahead, Ash’s building came into view: the old firehouse, the one with the red-brick façade, tall arched windows framed in weathered white stone, and a laundromat at the ground floor that never seemed to have a soul inside. A lone lamppost cast a pale yellow cone over the curb, washing the scene in uneasy stillness.
The Harley rolled to a stop. The black car’s brake lights flashed as it rolled up behind Ash. For one sharp second, everything froze.
Then the sedan’s doors flung open, and the night exploded.
Two men jumped out, guns drawn. No words. No warnings. Just the gleam of steel in the streetlight and the sharp, vicious crack of gunfire.
Ash dove, fluid and fast, vanishing behind a dented trash bin with preternatural speed. Bullets shredded the dark where he’d stood, ripping into the bin, sparking off metal, punching holes into brick. The stench of gunpowder hit a breath after.
Rick’s foot slammed the brake so hard it jolted the frame. He was moving before the tires had even stopped skidding, coat flaring behind, hand on his sidearm as he dropped low behind the open door.
“Police!” he barked, already squeezing off a shot. The roar of his M1911 thundered down the street.
One of the gunmen twisted toward him in a blur of motion and answered with a spray of fire. Rick ducked just in time—rounds pinged off the doorframe, glass spider-webbing in the rearview, shards catching in his coat sleeve. He came up firing again. One clean shot—center mass. The man jerked as the bullet struck high in the chest. He staggered, arms splayed, and slammed back into the hood of his car. Blood geysered from his thorax in a warm mist, splattering across the windshield like red rain. He slid down the chrome in a smear of color, weapon tumbling from lifeless fingers.
The second man turned on Rick. He saw it happening in slowed frames: the way his target pivoted clean, the narrowed eyes, the deliberate tightening of his finger on the trigger. His heater roared. Rick felt the bullet hit before he even heard the sound.
White-hot pain tore into his shoulder, knocking the wind from him. He dropped hard, sprawling behind the bumper. Asphalt scraped his palms. He grunted through clenched teeth, the world tilting sideways. But he didn’t let go of the gun.
He rolled. Fired once, twice more. Heard the satisfying clunk of impact as the shooter’s firearm skittered across the pavement with a metallic scream. The man cried out, staggering.
Rick forced himself up, lightheaded, warmth soaking into his shirt. He was running before his legs even fully agreed, lurching forward on sheer adrenaline. The pain blurred at the edges, swallowed by heat and rage.
The yakuza scrambled for his gun. Too slow.
Rick slammed into him like a freight train. They crashed onto the sidewalk, Rick’s full weight crushing the man down. He drove an elbow into his back, wrenching his arms up, snapping the cuffs around his wrists with practiced brutality. Bones creaked. The guy squealed. Rick didn’t give a fuck.
The man bucked beneath him, wild-eyed, face slick with sweat and anger. No fear.A professional assassin. Rick pressed a knee into his spine, panting like a steam engine.
“Who sent you?” he growled, the question edged with feral ferocity.
The guy only laughed. It bubbled up, ugly and wet, blood foaming at the corners of his mouth.
Rick shoved the gunman’s face harder into the concrete, his shoulder howling in protest. Blood soaked through the torn fabric of his coat, hot against flesh gone clammy. The raw stink of copper clung to his nostrils, mingling with cordite and the faint ozone tang of spent rounds.Sirens? No. That high whine in his skull was just his pulse, a tom-tom hammering behind his eyes. He gritted his teeth and dug the heel of his hand into the man’s spine.
No resistance. The guy twitched once and went slack. Rick rifled his pockets, pulled the wallet. Makoto Akiyama, twenty-five.Barely out of college,Rick thought grimly, looking at the pale, bruised face smeared across the pavement. Clean-shavenunder the grit. Dark hair matted to his forehead, cheek bleeding where it had kissed the sidewalk.
Footsteps approached. Not the clumsy scuffle of backup, not the thudding boots of uniforms. This was something quieter, feline, the whisper of long limbs sliding from the dark.
Rick didn’t have to look. He felt it. The air pressure changed, like the moon had crept too close. Static crawled across his skin.Ash. Safe.
He emerged out of the shadows, sharp-edged and eerie-calm, lilac eyes gleaming under the yellowed streetlamp. Not a scratch on him. No bruises, no blood. Only the faint rise and fall of his chest, too steady to match what they’d just survived. He met Rick’s gaze, stepped in, and studied the pinned man. “You were sent to kill me,” he said, voice smoke over ice. “Why?”
