Clint stared after her, boots rooted to the threshold as though cemented there. A sick feeling crawled into his gut, coiling around the knot that had formed earlier, both sensations twisting together into something leaden and poisonous that sat just below his ribs.
“Clint…?” Axel approached, confused, glancing back toward the stairs. “What happened? Who was that woman? She was crying.”
Shaking his head, Clint dragged his hand over his mouth. “She said her son was shot,” he mumbled hollowly.
“Shot?” Axel swallowed. “In the… drive-by?”
“I don’t know. Probably.”
Axel leaned against the wall, his throat working. “That fucker hurttwokids?”
As his own son’s face rose in his mind, Clint drew Axel to him and pressed his lips to his head. “He will fucking pay,” he whispered, his voice razor thin and taut.
Leaning back, Axel’s brow pinched. “But wasn’tthisthe shooter’s address? What the hell is going on?”
“I don’t know,” Clint whispered as he took out his phone.
“Who are you calling?”
“Devlin.” After two rings, Devlin Grant answered. “It’s Clint. Can you check on something for me? A young boy was brought in by ambulance not very long ago. A hit-and-run victim. Can you tell me if he…” his voice trailed off as Devlin delivered the grave news: the boy had died before reaching the hospital. Clint had expected as much, but receiving the confirmation was like a punch in the gut, knocking the wind out of him.
Axel stared at him, tears rising. “He’s dead… isn’t he?” His chin trembled, already knowing the truth. He hung his head and pressed his hand to his eyes.
Exhaling slowly, Clint asked Devlin, “Were any shooting victims brought in? There was a drive-by a short while ago. Maybe another young boy…?”
“There was,”Devlin told Clint, a strain in the young doctor’s voice. The twins, his two brothers-in-law, were barely older than the boy who had died.“Two victims. A young black man in his early twenties. He didn’t make it. And a thirteen-year-old boy…”The hesitant pause made Clint want to throw up.“His older brother brought him in. Bullet wound in the chest. He… He’s extremely critical. He’s… not expected to pull through.”
Clint trembled, the distraught woman’s words haunting him;My son called… his little brother… was shot.
“What is it?” Axel whispered, a tremor in his voice. “The woman’s son… is he…?”
“Does, um…” Clint cleared his throat, not ready yet to answer Axel’s question as he spoke to Devlin. “Does anyone know anything about the drive-by? Maybe the older brother?”
“I don’t know,”Devlin said.“He… He’s not in any condition to talk right now. There is speculation around the hospital that the young black man may have been the target of the drive-by, but I don’t know if that’s true.”
“Has anyone been called on his behalf?” Clint asked. “Did he have family? Anyone?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Rumor has it he was part of a street gang. But I don’t know if that’s true.”
Clint frowned. “Okay. Thanks.” When he ended the call, Axel stared at him, his entire body tense.
“What’s going on?” he asked thickly. “The woman’s son…?”
Lowering his eyes, Clint shook his head. “It doesn’t look good. The boy was shot in the chest. He’s in critical condition. Devlin said that… that he isn’t expected to make it.”
“Oh, my God,” Axel whispered sickly, and leaned against Clint.
His breath shaky, Clint held him tightly, lips pressed to his hair. “Devlin thinks the third victim might be the target of the drive-by. He’s dead.”
Axel raised his head and sniffed, wiping his eyes. He stepped back, glancing at the apartment. “I still don’t understand whythiswas the address linked to the shooter’s car.”
Clint's gaze drifted to the open front door of the apartment. His weathered face tightened as what had seemed like fragmented puzzle pieces—the hysterical mother, the blood-spattered car, the timing of it all—began to lock into place with an audible click in his mind. The revelation spread through him like ice water in his veins. “Maybe…” he whispered, his fingers curling into a tight fist at his side, “… it wasn’t the shooter’s car.”
“What?” Axel shook his head, his brow knit in confusion, a vein pulsing visibly at his temple. “Who else would hit akidand just keepgoing?”
Clint stared at the open doorway—a dark maw of devastation framing the chaotic interior of an abandoned life—as a slight arrhythmia fluttered his pulse beneath his worn jacket. “A panicked kid,” he mumbled, “trying desperately to save his dying brother.”
Clint's words hit hard—like the knockout blow of a prized fighter—and sat heavy in Axel's chest, a leaden weight pressing against his lungs until each breath became shallow and labored. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, drowning out the sounds of the city as they sped through the streets toward the hospital.
