LOUD. SHARP. THEN THE whole world exploded with pain. My right shoulder was sagging, bringing the rest of me down with it. It was turning colors. Bright, bright red. This couldn’t be good.

I crashed against the table behind me, into the drug money piled high. For all the things money can do, it didn’t do shit to catch me or to stop the deafening hum in my ears. My body folded into the concrete, right shoulder first, of fucking course. Pain, so raw and real, darkened the room in a wet red.

The smell of blood filled my nose. Not just mine, but Alex’s, too. Dead. But I wasn’t. Not yet.

I blinked hard into the growing darkness, trying not to black out, scrambling to get my feet under me, because Slim was here. The fucker had shot me. If I didn’t pass out, if I could hear anything else besides this high-pitched hum, maybe I could get out. Alive. To Paige.

“Paige.” Her name ripped from my mouth at a whisper. The single-minded focus she gave me surged enough adrenaline to bring me to my feet.

To open my eyes to Slim’s gun pressed to my forehead.

My mouth went dry. Agony gritted my teeth together. The cold steel of Tony’s gun weighted my good arm. I didn’t want to use it. But I knew I would have to.

Sweat poured down Slim’s face to his numerous chins. Spit flew from his moving mouth. I could almost hear his shouts, so I tried to match his volume with my own.

“I didn’t kill her! Someone came in the door behind me!”

Maybe he heard me. Maybe not. I didn’t want to stick around and find out while I waited for him to take the next kill shot.

I released the safety, pointed, squeezed the trigger.

Self-defense. Self-defense. That was what I repeated to myself over and over as I ran past him toward the maze of steel beam shelves. I didn’t even know if I hit him.

Was that what Hill had wanted us to do? Kill each other so both me and his competition were toast without Hill’s skeletal hands doing any of the dirty work?

The roof creaked and groaned, its echoes throwing sound around every dark corner. Even if I did shoot Slim, would the rest of Hill’s men just let me walk out of here?

When I came to the metal door, I heaved it open and threw myself out into the bright sun. The glare burned the inside of my skull, so I closed my eyes and ran in what I hoped was the direction of my car. If they were going to shoot me, might as well do it now while I was blind and half deaf.

Tears streaked down my cheeks as I tried to pry open my eyes, blurring everything into watercolor soup.

A shot rang out from my right. Dust kicked up around my feet and bit into my gun hand. Too close. I took a sharp left turn, still toward the fence but not toward the hole in the ground and my car behind it.

Another shot rocketed past my left ear.

I zigzagged right, gripping my useless arm against my chest to lessen the constant jarring.

Almost to the fence.

I should’ve plowed ahead. I should’ve dove for freedom underneath the fence. Eyes on the road, soldier, Dad would always say. I’d never listened because my life had never been a fucking war. Until now.

I risked a look behind me. Several feet away, Slim knelt in the dirt. Red splotches grew from the center of his blue and white striped shirt. His pudgy face was slicked with sweat and dead pale. He held both hands out in front of him as if he wanted to stop the bleeding but didn’t know where to start. A wet-sounding gasp sprayed more blood down his multiple chins. And then he toppled face-first onto the ground.

My steps slowed. Had I done that to him or had it been the other bullets zinging around? Shit. There was nothing I could do. I needed to go.

When I dropped to my knees, night floated around the sun. A groan tore from my throat at the pain. Clutching my bad arm, I wormed and twisted under the fence. Inch by inch. It seemed to take hours. Halfway through.

But something gripped my ankles and dragged me backward.

I kicked. I squirmed. I flipped around to aim and shoot some unlucky bastard in the throat. Self-preservation—it was a tricky, guilt-ridden line to walk, but I wasn’t about to give up on life now.

A shadow fell across my middle, but the sun’s glare behind it dipped everything in blinding yellow. My brain, the prickly fuck, flashed me an image of zombie Slim, but the shadow was too long, too beanpole. No, this was another type of zombie. The worst kind. The live kind.

A fist slammed into my jaw before I knew where it came from. My cheek scraped against dirt while even more pain lit fireworks through half my head. Dazed, I kicked at the ground, still trying to escape.

Movement in the corner of my eyes. Instead of another fist, a white handkerchief plucked the gun from my hand. And fired.

I jumped then froze, willing the rest of my pain receptors to hurry the fuck up. Finally the realization came that I hadn’t been shot again. This was much worse.

Hill’s head blocked out the sun. He stared down his long nose from eyes that seemed unnaturally deep inside that domed head. The handkerchief wrapped carefully around my gun rippled around his black suit jacket sleeve with the wind and blended into his white glove. The matching gloved hand gestured as if signaling for a table for two at an upscale restaurant.  Somehow, while lying in the dirt with a gunshot to my shoulder and a dead drug dealer feet away, this struck me as funny. A laugh slid out of my mouth in a hiss because it hurt. Everything hurt. I had to wonder just how much blood I’d already lost to make me think this was anywhere near funny.

“Is something on your mind?” Hill asked.

“The usual,” I said and groaned. “Just wondering what you’re like on a dinner date. Do you do what you just did there? Signal across the table to the lady you’re trying to woo so the waiter won’t hear? One finger for one hit of H and two fingers for two hits? Do you have to get them high first so they’ll have sex with anyone, including you?”

Sure, dis the guy with the gun. Since the upper half of my body lay slanted inside a shallow grave, I must’ve been leaking a shitload of blood. Either that or I figured I didn’t have a lot to lose. Even though I really, really did. I just wanted out of here so I could get to Paige.

“Ah.” He nodded down at his hand. “No, two fingers doesn’t mean two hits. It means V for victory.”

“Who won?”

He met my stupid question with a toothy grin that slimed up my insides. “I think we both know.”

My gut clenched at how much truth filled that single statement. “So...how does this end?”

“End?” He shrugged. “I let you go.”

Let me go? I nodded as if I expected nothing less, because surely there was a catch. “Seems fair.”

“I thought so, too,” he said, pulling a cell from his suit pocket. “I’ll call the police first, of course.”

I glanced behind him at Slim’s hulking dead body and then at my gun in Hill’s hand. The gun with my fingerprints all over it and minus two bullets. Two bullets, one for each new hole in each dead body.

Holy shit. He was framing me for murder. Alex and Slim. Panic flared through my chest, sticking my lungs together, because this had the very real potential to be so much worse than death.

“It’s your word against mine,” I said.

Hill shook his head slowly as if he was sorry he was such a dirty lunatic. “We have it on film. You aiming at Slim’s sister. A gunshot. Your struggle with Slim. I conveniently don’t have a camera aimed in this direction, but once the police find the bodies, they’ll think you finished Slim off, too.”

He’d been videoing me like I’d been videoing him, but the problem was I had no idea if I caught anything that would help clear my name. And what if Hill or his employees found the camera? I didn’t exactly have a chance to grab it on my way out.

What would Paige say if she thought I was a murderer? Would she believe me when I said I didn’t do it or would doubt always itch at the back of her mind? And what about Rose? Would this drive her over the wobbly line into addiction again? This was all so fucked up.

I stood to face him. “Was this the plan all along? To set me up?”

“Drugs are big business. Politics is big business. In this city, they’re bound to overlap.”

“What the fuck does that even mean?”

“The Clearys have enemies in very high places, Sam, with some very deep pockets. They asked me to rake your entire family over the coals, but I hardly had to lift a finger to do it. Your brother asked me for a donation to your father’s campaign. Me. So I did, then on a hunch, I called the Federal Election Commission with an anonymous tip about campaign finance fraud.”

“Fraud?” Jesus fuck.

He nodded, a grim smile stuck to his skeletal face. “I also needed someone to take the blame for getting rid of my competition. Two birds, one stone. I’m sure your sister will appreciate that analogy.”

“Did you decide all this before or after you made her into a whore?”

“Your sister is a shrewd businesswoman. She saw a need, and she found a way to fill it. I didn’t make her do anything. The drugs or the sex. Money runs out without more customers. Which I’ve now doubled, thanks to you. And Slim.” He flicked up the barrel of the gun and aimed it at me while he dialed three digits on his cell. “Now, we’ve wasted enough time. I suggest you get in that car of yours and go.” Smiling like the devil, he held the phone to his ear. “Two dead bodies are at the abandoned warehouse east of the city. A red Chevy Impala drove away at high speed. 1967, isn’t it?”

Fucker.

I dropped to my hands and knees. Like a toppled penguin with a bleeding orifice, I squirmed underneath the hole in the fence. No time for pain. No time for wooziness caused by rapid blood loss. Time to go. I scooped up the crowbar from the ground and tossed it into the front seat before scrambling in afterward.

And soon a red 1967 Chevy Impala was fleeing the scene of a crime because I couldn’t outrun my car. Shit. Shit. Shit. I was so fucked. I beat my steering wheel and winced.

Where could I go? Not Tony’s. I’d already dragged him along for too much what-the-fuckery. I could go to the police myself. Try to explain my side of the story before they even saw Hill’s video. That was as good a plan as the zero others I had.

I plowed over dirt roads on the way to the highway, my ears burning for the sounds of sirens. None yet. I could be at the police station in ten minutes. Would it look like I was turning myself in or that I was trying to do what was right like I had been since this whole shit storm started?

But what was right had almost been blurred out of existence. I thought I had been doing this for Rose, but Hill had shaken the ground right out from under my feet more times than I cared to admit. Had I agreed to work for Hill to pay off Rose’s “debt” to try to save Rose? Or to free myself of some of the guilt I felt about her addiction in the first place?

As if it really mattered right now. I swerved onto the highway and tried my best not to floor it. At the first sign of flashing lights, I would turn off, but this was the fastest route to the police station. Unless I ditched my car and took the metro. Now I was thinking like a true criminal.

A shifting in the backseat drew my attention to the rearview mirror. My whole existence fell right through the leather cushions and smashed against the road. Plastic-wrapped bricks of heroin, quadruple-stacked, spread the length of the backseat.

A gift from Hill. Why hadn’t I shot him when I had the fucking chance?

Keep driving. Ditch the car and let the police find the heroin. Ditch the car and take it all with me...somehow. As proof? Proof that I’d been dealing drugs? And then my fingerprints would be all over the plastic wrap. Maybe they already were somehow. Who the hell knew?

The capital city loomed like a crushing tidal wave ahead, and I was driving straight into it. Sweat dripped down my forehead and into my eyes. I needed off this highway. I would take the metro.

At the first stoplight, I turned a sharp left toward I-695. Tires squealed. The bullet hole in my shoulder grew teeth as I leaned with the car.

Maybe before I took the metro to the police station, I could try to dump the drugs. But where? I couldn’t exactly throw them out the window. Jesus H., I needed a plan, or at the very least more time to think. Less bleeding, more thinking.

I should wait to go see the police. I should go to the Library of Congress to see Paige, try to explain to her why, which was something I probably should have done a long time ago. Hell, I didn’t even know for sure if she was leaving for Wichita now that her internship was over. If I got this all straightened out with the police—big if—I might not ever see her again. That tore me up worse than any bullet ever could.

I loved her. Even though I’d fucked up in such a major way, she needed to know that.

Sirens blared. Red and blue lights spun in a sickening whirl in the rearview mirror, a cloud of dust kicking up to the treetops behind them. Well, that was fast.

Instinct put lead in my foot. By some crazy coincidence, Metallica’s “And Justice For All” came on the radio. I cranked it up to drown out the coming sirens.

No time to ditch the car or the drugs. I was so fucking fucked.

Flashing lights pressed closer. I gripped the wheel, barreling between cars, until signs for Capitol Hill appeared. It was impossible to disappear on a straightaway while going ninety plus.

The song came to the part about the hammer of justice crushing you. Not if I could help it. I veered right, toward the Library of Congress, toward Paige. Toward home.