I glanced back. The door was half open. Nobody was in the hall. A nurse’s cart rattled in the distance.
I went and nudged it shut until it clicked. The beeping of the machines seemed louder now, the room smaller.
When I turned back, he looked worse. Breaths shallow, eyes wide. His good hand lifted off the bed a few inches and reached for me.
I was at his side before he could wheeze the words.
“Hey. Hey,” I said. “It’s just me. We’re good. You’re safe. Nobody’s here but you and my charming personality.”
“Closer,” he rasped.
I bent until my head was near his. I could smell the antiseptic on his skin, the hospital soap, the faint underlying scent that was just Miami.
“The bike,” he whispered. His voice was shredded. “Evan… the bike. It’s cursed.”
If it’d been anyone else, I would’ve laughed. Miami believed in vibes, not curses. He loved ghost stories but didn’t put stock in them.
“Cursed how,” I asked softly.
“Not… the metal,” he said. Every breath sounded like it hurt. “What was inside. Could… feel it. Even… engine off. Like it was… humming under my skin.”
Yeah. I had felt that too.
“What was in it?” I asked.
He swallowed, eyes fluttering. “Took it out,” he managed. “After… Redline. Felt wrong leaving it… in there. Felt worse leaving it… in the frame.” He coughed once, winced hard, blinked through tears he would pretend later didn’t happen. “Stopped at… convenience store. Stole some asshole’s… backpack. Put it all in there.”
“Of course you did,” I said. “So where is the bag now?”
“Here,” he whispered. “They brought… my shit. Before surgery. I… I made sure. Last thing before… blacking out… Ichecked. Bag was… okay. Still zipped.”
His eyes rolled a little, fighting to focus.
“Tell me what it is,” I said. “What’s inside?”
He tried. I saw the words on his lips, but they were ghosts.
“Vinci…” he breathed. “Vincino. Bolivar. Cartel. Russians. Gio…” His voice broke. He sucked in air, strained. “All in there… all… all of them. Black book. Names. Routes…”
My heart thudded once hard against my ribs like it was trying to break out.
“A black book?” I pushed. “You talking code, ledgers, what?”
He tried to say more. The words came out as broken fragments. “Syndicate… Yakuza… money… deals… someone… playing… both… both sides…”
Then his strength gave out. His head lolled a little to the side. The monitors beeped quicker, then settled. A nurse would probably come if it went too crazy. For now, it just registered the strain of him trying to talk.
“Hey.” I shook his shoulder lightly. “Miami.”
His lashes fluttered once. Twice. Then his body surrendered and he slid back down into whatever medicated, exhausted sleep they had him in.
“Of course,” I muttered. “You drop a bomb and then take a nap. Classic.”
My mind was racing. Every word he had managed ran laps in my skull. Vincino. Cartel. Russian. Giorlando. Black book.
If he was right, if he had pulled whatever was in that bike and put it in a backpack, then it was not just the wreck that made him a target. It was the fact that he had walked away from that bike with a briefcase full of war strapped to his shoulders.
I stepped back and scanned the room.
