I glance behind us again—the Suburban is three cars back. We reach the next intersection and turn right again. I pull another hundred out of my pocket and shove it at him. "Get me across the intersection as fast as possible."
He frowns at me in the mirror. "Impossible. I will crash."
"Just go. Into traffic, on the sidewalk, I don't care. Just go."
He snatches the bill from me, pockets it, and then, muttering under his breath in his native language, guns the engine again. We squeal into oncoming traffic, garnering a chorus of honks, squealing tires, and shouted curses from angry, impatient NewYorkers. My driver curses in a complicated mix of what sounds like half a dozen languages or dialects, jerking the wheel this way and that to dodge cars as he weaves diagonally across the thoroughfare toward the far-left corner. I glance behind, hand on the door handle—here comes a bus. The Suburban is trapped momentarily by a cluster of stopped cars left in the wake of our reckless bolt across the intersection.
The bus halts behind us as the driver brakes in the fire lane.
"You get out, crazy man," the driver says. "I keep the money."
"Good. If that black SUV keeps following you, take them on a ride."
He doesn't answer, not that I expected him to. As the bus rumbles behind us, blocking us from sight, I slip out of the car and duck behind a parked UPS vehicle with its flashers blinking. The taxi takes off, followed by the bus. It's a pretty shitty hiding spot, but it's all I've got at the moment. I see the Suburban slide past. I'm about to breathe a sigh of relief when the SUV's brake lights flick on as the vehicle angles toward the curb. The rear doors fly open, and four men emerge, two from each side. They're dressed in worn blue jeans, solid-color T-shirts, and black body armor. They're carrying fully-automatic subcompact short-barrel assault rifles.
And they see me.
I hear shouts, but I'm already sprinting. I cross the street, back the way I came, and cut through an alley to the next numbered street. I bump into an old man, sending him bowling into a cluster of passersby. Knock a caricature artist aside, pencils, sketchbook, and easel scattering.
Damn this arrogance of mine. I assumed my wealth and secrecy would protect me. I assumed even Pugli couldn't find me—I am dead, after all.
I assumed a lot of things that have turned out to be incorrect. And now I'm on the run myself, after years of helping my Arrows escape their pasts.
The other facet of my arrogance that has hamstrung me is my refusal to ask for help. I know Sol and the boys would come for me in a heartbeat if I asked. But they've just been through too much. I can't ask them to risk their lives again…for me.
I know, that sounds like I'm being nice. But really, it's just that I've invested way too much into those men to risk it all falling apart, now. Pugli wants me—and Lash. The others were just collateral damage.
My heart is pounding, and sweat pours down my face, making my shirt stick to my back. The next several minutes are a blur as I push through my exhaustion, dodging and weaving and ducking and sprinting block after block, turning at random, cutting down alleys.
My pursuers are relentless. And younger than me, fitter, stronger, faster.
Catching up.
I slam into a brick wall and stumble into an alley. I reach the far end when I hear the CRACK-CRACK-CRACK of an automatic, and brick dust showers me as the rounds chew up the wall just behind me.
I round the corner, slippery-soled Italian leather dress shoes skidding on the sidewalk. Trip over a stroller pushed by a pregnant woman, crash into a businessman with a cell phone in each hand.
Curses follow me as I stumble into a run yet again; this is untenable. I'm not fit enough to lose them. At some point, they're going to catch up with me. And knowing the sorts of men Pugli hires, they won't be overly worried about collateral damage. If innocent bystanders are hurt or killed, none of them will care.
Left here, right there. Cut through another alley. I don't know where I am, nor do I have a destination in mind. If I'm being honest with myself, I'm running on blind panic.
I don't want to die.
I'm no weakling; I'm no pacifist. I've hurt people. Shit, I've even killed people before. But gunfights? No. I know myself, I know my strengths, and I know my limitations, and I will absolutely lose a gunfight with four highly-trained operators.
That's the irony of the whole situation. I've spent the last decade seeking redemption for my past sins by rehabilitating people who've fallen through the cracks. Any of those men—and Scarlett and Inez—could handle this situation with ease.
And I'm too damned stubborn and proud to ask for their help.
I'm flagging, now. My legs burn, my lungs are on fire, and I'm dripping sweat. I've come I don't know how many blocks, and I can only be grateful that the one time I can ever quiet my mind is on the treadmill, slogging out mile after mile. Lifting is for stress management, to exorcise the anger that has been a constant companion and demon on my shoulder. Running? Running is meditation.
I just don't usually do it in loafers and a bespoke suit, through the crowded streets of Manhattan, for my life.
I recognize a few things as they flash past in a blur—a cafe here, a specific bodega there, and then I'm wading through the infinite crush of humanity thronging Times Square, knocking over a short, skinny person in a terribly ill-fitting Spiderman costume and then rebounding off of a six-foot-tall topless woman clad in nothing but a top hat, steampunk goggles, a bikini bottom, and glitter.
I can't go much farther at this pace.
I glance behind me as I leave Times Square behind, hoping I've lost them in the chaos.
