The hood buckles with a deep, torn sound. Heat punches through the vehicle.
Justice leans in. “Dar fia.The thing’s going to explode.”
The words punch through my gut and open a pit under my ribs. I reach for him.
He grabs my wrist and yanks me into the rain, then shoves me behind his body so he takes the line of fire. My bare feet slide on glass. My stomach lurches. The night tastes burnt and wet.
I look past him toward the front of the car and see bodies on the pavement, sprawled in angles that don’t move. The strobe of muzzle flash keeps lighting them and erasing them. Gunfire still erupts from every direction. My heart hammers so hard it hurts.
He jerks his head. “We’ll move closer to that brick building and duck down out of sight. In the alley.” He still sounds calm. How the fuck does he sound calm? I make myself small behind his body and let him cover me, his arm steady as he fires in controlled bursts. We angle for the building. The sidewalk is wet from the unrelenting rain. My pulse runs hard enough to blur the edges of my sight.
His body jerks.
“Justice,” I gasp.
He drops to one knee.
“Justice.” I grab the collar of his button-down and haul him toward the wall, feeling exposed in the hospital gown. Heat leaks through his shirt and coats my palm. A man cuts in from the curb and sprays rounds past us towardthe truck behind, protecting us. “Down.” I shove Justice flat as another burst hits the street and bites stone from the curb.
“I’m fine.” He looks more pissed than hurt, but blood blooms across his white shirt. It’s deep red and keeps spreading.
Another man rushes up with scars laddered across his face. “How bad?”
“Shoulder,” Justice murmurs, and he glances across his forearm. I edge into the mouth of the alley and press to the brick, trying to breathe. “Stay put,” he orders, and I nod while my legs fold.
I crouch and pull myself tighter. The concrete is cold on my bare skin. Gunfire ripples up the sidewalk between us and I yelp and duck farther into cover. The air shakes. Grit sprays my cheek. Justice sits up and both men return fire in a clipped, controlled rhythm. Casings tinkle on the pavement. Someone cries out across the street and then stops.
How many bullets do they have? My throat closes. I count breath in fours and fail on three. The alley smells of wet cardboard and bleach. A drain gurgles. Sweat stings my eyes. I wipe it with the back of my hand and smear dirt across my face.
I freeze and then really look around. I’m in an alley. No headlights. No footsteps. No one’s pushing in on this line. Finally, my instincts take over. I pivot on my heel, jump up, and run.
“Ella,” Justice bellows from the curb, voice hard enough to make me want to stop, but I don’t.
I’ve been in survival mode since my dad died so many years ago. I clear a pile of garbage bags and my bare footslips on a wet label. I ignore the pain. A rat scurries from under a crate and vanishes between bins. I keep moving, my lungs burning from the cold.
I go deeper into the alley and turn right at the next building, blinking rain from my eyes. It’s still dark. I’m small and fast, and I know these streets better than anyone. I memorized the map years ago. I thread through a run of service corridors, cut behind dumpsters, pass locked gates, and keep my steps quiet. The gunfire fades. Even the chasing steps drop off. My breath evens enough for me to think. Justice Beathach isn’t going to be happy about this. I’ve slipped him twice now.
Hopefully that gunshot to his fine body is as through and through as it looked.
An old Chevy Caprice waits under a dead streetlight, paint sunburned to chalk. The lot is empty. I slide in, drop low in the seat, and check the mirrors. Nothing moves. My hands know what to do without looking. Plastic bites my palms as I tear it away. The column is rough under my fingers. The air tastes of dust and copper and stale cigarettes. I work the old wires together, holding my breath. When the starter catches, the engine coughs and settles into a tired idle. I keep it gentle so it doesn’t stall, ease it out of the space, and roll.
I keep well clear of the blocks near the gunfight. I hit green lights and empty lanes, drift through the skeleton of downtown, and point west. The road climbs toward the hills. The city thins, trades glass for scrub and low buildings. Fog hangs over the ridge in a light band. I push past the last strip mall and head more toward Half Moon Bay.
My heart rate finally slowing, I park in a narrow pullout that smells of eucalyptus and salt. I kill the engine,ditch the car, and move on foot for about ten blocks in and out of cut-throughs and quiet streets—avoiding all cameras. I keep to hedges and shadows, pass behind a mural wall, wait under a fire escape while a dome camera pans, then cross when it looks away. I mapped every CCTV in this pocket years ago. I follow the gaps I made for myself, hit an isolated laundromat, and quickly yank on jeans and a sweatshirt, as well as a mismatched pair of tennis shoes, from the lost and found bin.
Then I head back out.
Dawn lifts at the edges first. The sky goes pale and the streetlamps blink out one by one. The Cinderfalls Community Home rises at the end of the block, low and wide with a fenced field and a cracked blacktop. I stop and breathe until the shaking in my hands backs off. The retirement home won’t open for hours.
That’s fine.
My tree waits at the front edge of the property. Roots push up the soil, while the bark is rough and familiar. I climb to the middle third of the massive tree, where the trunk splits clean and a set of branches hook just right. I settle with my back wedged into the pocket and my feet braced. Another branch crosses at my shoulder. I’ve slept here more than once. The leaves hold the morning light and soften the wind. I tuck my chin into my collar and listen for engines, for boots, for voices that don’t belong. Nothing comes. My eyes burn. I let them close, just to count to ten.
I take several deep breaths and let myself drift. The branch holds. The leaves hush the street. Sleep nips at the edges and I give it a little space.
The day wakes slow. Light picks out rooflines andfence posts as the traffic builds, first a few cars go by, then a steady stream. My bruises still ache. I need an energy hit and have to get to my citrines.
Across the way the shift change starts. Night nurses in navy scrubs file out with tired eyes and slight limps while orderlies tug hoodies over polo shirts and bump shoulders on the sidewalk. A janitor with a red cart locks the maintenance door and checks each pocket for keys. Physical therapists arrive with gym bags and tape peeking from side pockets. A social worker in flats calls a ride share and rubs her temple. The rhythm of it says morning, not panic. It has to be around eight.
