Blood spreads beneath Victor’s skull in an expanding crimson lake. The metallic tang hits my nostrils—copper and iron, sharp enough to make my stomach heave. His left leg bends at an angle that defies anatomy. Bone pierces skin just above the knee. White stark against red. The raw meat smell of exposed marrow rises in waves.
I drop into the slush beside him. My fingers find his carotid, slipping on sweat and rain. A weak flutter against my fingertips.
Still alive.
Barely.
His eyes swim into focus, pupils blown wide with shock.
“The drive.” Blood bubbles on his lips, pink foam. Punctured lung. “Inner pocket … Messenger bag … Hidden seam …”
My hands move. Checking vitals is useless—the damage is catastrophic—but I do it anyway because the alternative is screaming. Coffee-stained notebook splayed open. Pagesfluttering in the wind. Laptop with a spiderweb crack across the screen. The messenger bag lies three feet away.
“Take it. Run.” His fingers claw at my wrist with strength that defies his injuries, nails digging into my skin. “They’ll come—for you next.”
Pressure builds in my throat. Words trapped behind the constriction.
“Don’t talk.” My voice sounds thin, distant. Inside, calculations spiral: survival rate with these injuries is less than one percent. Response time for paramedics in this neighborhood is four to six minutes. Too long.
His grip tightens, bones grinding under skin. “Promise … Evidence—gets out.”
I nod once. Tears sting my eyes, unbidden, blurring the data. My fingers slip inside the bag’s outer pocket. Papers. Receipts. Nothing. Then the inner pocket—finding the small slit he mentioned, barely visible unless you know the pattern. The USB drive sits there. Small and warm, like it’s been absorbing his body heat.
It disappears into my bra while my other hand stays on his wrist. To any observer, I’m checking his pulse. Good Samaritan doing what she can.
“Go.” More blood now. Pooling faster. Darker. Arterial. “Before they come back.”
He’s dying. The realization hits not as a fact, but as a hollow ache in my chest.
“I’m not leaving you.” My throat burns.
“Have to.” His eyes drift shut, then snap open with desperate clarity.
Ice floods my veins. If they tracked Victor here. If they know about me …
“Go.” The word is a gurgle. “Run …”
Sirens wail in the distance—bouncing off glass and steel. The crowd presses closer. Phones out. Recording tragedy for social media consumption. Someone’s livestreaming. Digital vultures circling the carcass.
“Did anyone see what happened?” An older man kneels beside me, hands hovering uncertainly over Victor’s broken body.
“Black SUV. No plates.” I stand. My legs shake violently, adrenaline crashing against shock. “The driver aimed right for him.”
Victor’s breathing grows shallow. Stops. Starts again. Weaker. Then nothing.
The variable becomes a constant.
I back away as more people crowd in. Someone claiming to be a nurse pushes forward. Another calls 911 again. Voices overlapping in chaos.
I walk away. Each step measured. Normal. Don’t run. Running attracts the eye. The drive presses against my chest—seventy-three deaths encoded in silicon and plastic.
Single point of failure.
The thought crystallizes with mathematical clarity. If they take me now, the evidence dies with me. Victor’s death becomes meaningless.
Seventy-three victims stay buried.
High probability they’re already mobilizing to sweep the scene. Near certainty this drive won’t survive if I’m taken.
