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The man on my side shouted and backpedaled. The men in the truck lowered their guns, but too slow. Dante fired two more shots off, one missing, the other catching the man on my side in the chest. He coughed and turned toward the trucks, but only made it a step before falling.
More gunshots tore up the air. Dante dove back into the car, head down, arms covering his head. The men in the truck kept firing for what felt like forever, and I realized I was screaming when they finally stopped. Dante looked at me. “Don’t move,” he said and lifted his head up.
Nothing happened. He cursed and put his gun up, firing off a few shots. I heard tires scream, rubber burning on asphalt. Dante fired off more shots, but I could barely hear them. All I saw was his eyes and his blood, dripping down his side.
Then he stopped shooting and slumped back against the seat.
He stayed like that for a long moment, breathing hard. He cursed and leaned toward me, dragging me up from the floor and onto the seat. “Are you hurt?” he asked, and I had to read his lips to understand.
I shook my head. I touched my body, my chest, my hips, my legs. I didn’t find any blood, didn’t hurt anywhere. “I’m… fine,” I said.
He nodded, his eyes hard. “Get out,” he said.
I looked out the windshield. The trucks were gone, leaving the intersection entirely clear. There were no people out on the block, no other cars coming near. Dante staggered out of the car, pulling out his cellphone as he went. I heard him barking something at it as he came around my side and helped me out. I stared at him as his big arms pulled me down and supported my weight.
His bloody side pressed against mine as I leaned against him. On some vague level I knew I should’ve been the one helping him, not the other way around, but his strong arms pulled me from the car and we both staggered away from it.
I stared in horror at what was left of the SUV. It was riddled with bullet holes, some of them still smoking. The glass was splintered and shattered in multiple places and the engine was smoking. One rearview mirror was broken off and hanging by a wire, like its guts had been ripped open and splayed out.
“Gotta keep moving,” Dante grunted. “Gino’s on his way.”
I nodded and realized my hearing was coming back. My ears were still ringing but at least I could understand what he was saying.
“What happened?” I asked him. “You’re hurt. Dante, you’re hurt.”
“Keep moving,” he barked, dragging me along. He pulled me onto the sidewalk, his hand pressed against his side, a grimace on his lips. I stumbled over an uneven concrete sidewalk block and he growled as he nearly toppled over.
“Dante,” I gasped, wanting to do something.
He only grunted and his grip on my arm tightened. He pulled me faster, stumbling along, his breath coming in ragged groans. He looked pale and angry, rage in his eyes so hot I could almost feel it burning my skin.
Another SUV came peeling around the corner. It stopped next to us and the door opened. Gino sat in the back and came out to help me get Dante inside. I piled in next to them and looked up front to find Steven behind the wheel.
“How bad?” he asked.
“Back to my house,” Dante growled.
“He needs a doctor,” I said.
“The fucking Russians,” Dante said. “They tried to fucking hit me.”
“How bad?” Steven asked again.
“My house,” Dante said.
Steven nodded and began to drive.
I stared at them, eyes wide. Gino gingerly checked on Dante’s wound and nodded before taking off his shirt and using it to press against the wound. Dante gave me a flat look then reached out and touched my cheek.
“They won’t survive this,” he grunted, and pulled his palm away.
I touched my cheek where his hand had been, and my fingers came back bloody.7DanteI stared ahead at the blank television as Dr. Chen’s needle slid into my skin. “Just hold tight,” he said, his voice soft in my ear.
I grunted in response and gripped the cut crystal glass of whiskey I held in my left hand. It wasn’t my first time getting stitches, and aside from the numbing agent the doctor injected directly into the wound, it wasn’t so bad. I grimaced as the skin was pulled but Dr. Chen was skilled and patient. I lifted a glass of whiskey to my lips and took a long sip.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Fine,” I grunted.
He nodded and finished his stitch. He leaned back and looked at his work for a moment. “Not bad,” he said. “I should give you some antibiotics, just in case.”
“Fine,” I said.
“Dante—”
I met the doctor’s gaze. He was older, in his mid-fifties, with black hair turning gray in streaks. His dark brown eyes met mine and he didn’t flinch away, his tan skin nearly leathered from long days spent fishing when he wasn’t in the office. He wore a short-sleeve camp shirt with bomber planes on it, khaki shorts, and sandals. I was pretty sure has was out on his boat when Steven called him in.
