"Seatbelt," I say.
"Drive the car, Killian."
I slam it into reverse. We shoot backward out of the lot, tires spinning on the loose gravel. I swing the nose around and gun it toward the service road. I kill the headlights. We drive by moonlight, the road nothing more than a strip of lighter grey in the darkness.
"We've got a tail."
Alessandro’s voice is calm. Too calm.
I look in the rearview. Twin beams of light cut through the dark behind us, bouncing violently as a vehicle hits the potholes at speed. They are closing fast.
"Range?" I ask.
"Two hundred meters. Closing." Alessandro turns in his seat. He braces the Škorpion against the headrest, aiming out the shattered rear window.
"Hold on."
I floor it. The Ford protests, the engine whining, but the heavy chassis holds the road. I drift around a corner, the rear end sliding out before the tires catch. We hit the access road that runs parallel to the train tracks. It’s straight. No cover.
Crack-crack-crack.
Automatic fire. Rounds impact the trunk, a sound like a hammer hitting a metal drum.
Alessandro doesn't flinch. He waits for the bounce to settle, then squeezes the trigger. The Škorpion barks, a rapid stutter of noise that fills the cabin with the smell of burnt powder. Brass casings ping against the dashboard and the windshield.
Behind us, the headlights swerve.
"Hit?" I ask.
"Windshield or radiator," Alessandro says. He ejects the magazine, checking the load by feel in the dark. "They're slowing down."
I risk a look. The pursuing car has veered off the road, plowing into the embankment. One headlight dies. The other points uselessly at the sky.
"We're clear," I say.
I keep the speed up for another two miles, weaving through the industrial maze until I’m sure we’re ghosts. Then I slow down. The adrenaline starts to recede, leaving behind the cold, damp reality of the night.
And the pain.
It starts as a warmth spreading across my left side. Just below the ribs. At first, I thought it was sweat. Then I thought it was rain blowing in through the broken window. But it’s sticky. And it’s getting hot.
I shift my weight, and a sharp, tearing sensation radiates from my flank. It feels like someone touched a soldering iron to my skin.
I’ve been shot.
I don't look down. I keep my hands at ten and two. If I look, I’ll have to acknowledge it. If I acknowledge it, I have to tell Alessandro. And if I tell Alessandro, he’ll try to fix it, and I am not ready for his hands on me. Not yet. Not while the smell of what happened in that container is still clinging to him.
"Where are we going?" he asks. He’s scanning the road, the Škorpion resting on his knees.
"Safehouse," I say. My voice is tight. "Off the grid. It’s a property my grandfather bought in the seventies. Cash. No paper trail."
"You sound certain."
"It doesn't exist, Alessandro. No deed. No title. No utility bills. It’s a brick box on a dead-end street by the river. Only three people know about it. Me, Rory, and Da."
I take a hard right, the tires splashing through a deep puddle. The water sprays up, hitting the side of the car.
"Only three people knew about the coin, too," I say quietly.
