I hate the idea of Jamal bleeding to death in the Laundromax—and that’s when I spot Danny, huffing in behind me. “Get Jamal!”
We’re off to the races. Thank you, O twenty-eight-year-old body.
If I can stop Hassan now, this whole thing ends. And maybe I change the world a little bit for the better for the Phillips neighborhood, too.
He cuts down an aisle with dresses hanging from the ceiling, but I’m just as young and fast—and frankly, as desperate—as he is. “Hassan, stop!”
A woman in his way goes flying, and another pulls her daughter from the path. They glare at me as I run by, as if this is my fault.
Hassan turns another corner—I mentioned that the market is like a maze, right?—and pulls down a display of pots and pans. They scream along the cement floor, skidding in my path, but I kick one, then another and plow through. “Hassan!”
I don’t know why I’m yelling. It’s not like screaming his name is going to slow him down.
We turn again, past a refrigerated unit of frozen meat, then again, past mountains of bedsheets in plastic that go careening into the aisle.
Then he sees daylight—a doorway at the end of the hall, propped open in the summer heat.
I can’t shoot—not with a hundred spectators in every direction. So I dig down and find my forty-yard dash speed.
He hits the door just steps ahead of me, and I barely repress the urge to fly out and tackle him, but at the last second, I see he’s jumped.
We’re at a loading dock.
I fly off the end, arms windmilling, trying to keep from pitching forward.
Not a chance.
I land, trip, then duck and roll as I peel skin onto the gravel.
The wind leaves my body as I come to a stop.
I’m gulping like an Atlantic grouper, listening to Hassan’s stupid feet pound the pavement. No—
Then my breath comes back with a whoosh and I gasp, roll over and force myself up.
The shot comes from behind me, a quick sharp report that echoes through me. It hits my bones and my knees buckle. I grip my chest, where it hurts the most.
Except, nothing.
I’m not hurt, no blood seeping between my hands. I gasp again, breathing hard, and turn around.
Danny is standing in the parking lot, at the edge by the alleyway. Crumpled between us is a man, face down, blood pooling beneath him where a bullet has ripped through him, center mass.
Not far away, just outside his grip is a handgun—what looks like a 9mm.
I stare at him, then at Danny, and I’m doing the math.
One of Hassan’s men had the drop on me.
Danny Mulligan just saved my life.
I walk over to the man, lean down and check his pulse. Just because, well, maybe, right?
Not a chance.
Danny has walked over. He’s staring past me, to where Hassan has vanished.
“Jamal?”