The masked man ducks and takes off down one of the alleys between the shipping crates. Then he turns around and sends off a series of shots at us.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
We dive behind a crate.
The shooter runs across the terminal, weaving between rusted containers like a shadow that can’t be caught.
Dominic gets to his feet and chases him.
I follow close behind.
The pounding of my sneakers echoes on the concrete. My breath burns in my throat.
The man cuts left then right.
He’s fast.
Every few yards he turns around and shoots at us but his aim is sloppy.
“Stop!” Dominic yells.
But the man doesn’t stop.
He leaps over a broken crate and runs down another alley of shipping containers.
As we chase after him, we see he has reached the end where only a cement wall prevents him from escaping. He turns to us, his gun drawn.
“Don’t shoot!” I yell. “We just want to talk to you.”
His gun remains drawn.
“Who are you?” I shout which is probably a dumb question because a masked shooter isn’t going to voluntarily give their name.
His response is a laugh and more bullets shot in our direction. Dominic grabs me and pulls me behind a large container.
Another shot rings out.
Peeking out, my chest constricts as I see our only opportunity for answers stumble forward. Blood seeps through the dark hoodie of the shooter. His knees buckle and he drops his gun as he falls to concrete.
No.
I sprint to the man. Dominic kicks the gun away. Grabbing the man, I roll him over as blood paints the concrete. I rip his mask off.
Pale skin, brown eyes, and the sharp jawline of a young man look back at me.
I don’t know him.
Is this the man behind my assassination?
His lips tremble as blood drips from the corner of his mouth.
“Are you working for the Marconis?” I grip his hoodie tight.
A smirk twists on his lips.
“Cipriani,” he gasps. “Your. Empire. Is. No. More.”
“What are you talking about?”
