Steam erupts from the hood. The driver’s head, smeared with blood, slumps against the wheel.
There’s a long silence before the screaming starts.
Pedestrians who’d been standing around slack-jawed as the chaos began are now realizing how close they came to true danger. One of them drops a coffee cup and runs off, another pulls her child into the nearest building. The rest run in the opposite direction.
I catch sight of the delivery truck driver stepping out of his vehicle unharmed, surveying the damage with a look of total surprise.
I rush to Max, who’s lying on his stomach, and drop to my knees next to him. The exit wounds are bad—there’s too much blood, spreading too fast, a dark red puddle growing underneath him. His breathing sounds wet as his lungs fill with fluid.
“Max.” I roll him over gently. “Stay with me.”
His gray eyes find mine. He’s fading fast.
“Teodora,” he manages. “Take care of her.”
“I will.”
A weak nod. “Tell her… her father was…” He coughs up blood. “The best man I ever knew.”
His grip loosens.
His eyes go still.
Then he’s gone.
In that moment, I realize that the war on the horizon is no longer a distant threat.
It’s here.
CHAPTER 39
GABRIEL
Amanda arrives seven minutes after the shooting, five minutes after my text.
She comes around the corner on foot, heels clicking fast on the pavement, black overcoat flapping open, phone pressed to her ear.
“Gabriel—” She stops short when she sees the blood on my shirt.
We’re at the corner of 52nd and Lexington, a block down from the shooting. Down the road, I spot more NYPD squad cars arriving.
“Jesus,” she says, her gaze lingering on the bloodstain on my shirt. “Are you?—”
“Fine.”
“But Max…”
She glances down the street toward Max’s body lying on the pavement, thankfully now covered. Detectives are taking notes while other cops are cordoning off the area, taking pictures, andtracking down witness statements. EMTs prepare to lift Max into an ambulance and take him to the coroner’s office.
“Christ,” she says, shaking her head. “What a goddamn mess.”
“You don’t know the half of it.” My driver pulls up next to us. “Now come on before the police spot us and want to ask questions.”
Amanda doesn’t argue. My driver steps out and opens the door for her. She slides into the back seat, and I quickly follow, my driver pulling away, just as another patrol car rounds the corner, lights flashing.
My head pounds as I try to make sense of what the hell just happened.
“Talk to me,” Amanda says. “One second you’re on your way to a meeting with Max Federov, the next he’s lying dead on the ground. How?”
