“Get in.”
She slides into the passenger seat without a word. The door closes with a solid, expensive thunk, sealing out the noise of the highway.
I slide behind the wheel. The interior smells of old leather and ozone, a near 180-degree contrast to the sweat and gun oil of the truck. I hit the start button. The engine purrs to life, a whisper of German engineering.
I check the mirrors. Clear.
We move.
Merging onto the highway, I keep the speed perfectly legal. The goal is to become invisible. To slip into the stream of taillights and disappear.
The city falls behind us, a receding galaxy of lights reflecting off the low clouds. We trade the concrete arteries of the metro area for the winding, treacherous veins of the mountain pass. The topography shifts as the road climbs. As we gain altitude, the air pressure drops, and our ears pop.
Rain turns to sleet. Sleet turns to snow, fat, wet flakes die against the windshield in suicidal streaks.
Silence fills the cabin.
It isn’t the sharp, jagged silence of the hospital garage, punctuated by gunshots. This one is heavy, dense, the kind that sucks oxygen out of the air.
She remains in my periphery.
She sits with her knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around them. A defensive posture. Protecting the vital organs. Protecting the core. She’s staring out the window, but she isn’t seeing the trees or the snow. She’s seeing the dead kid on the table. She’s seeing the gun barrel.
She replays the scene in her mind, looking for the moment the world broke.
Her hand jams deep into her jeans pocket. Her knuckles are white. She’s clutching something.
Paper? The chart she stole from the trauma bay.
Evidence.
My tactical brain catalogs the risk. That piece of crumpled paper acts as the only physical link between her and the body. If Mercer’s team catches us, that paper upgrades her from “unfortunate witness” to “active threat.” It’s a death warrant.
I should take it from her. I should pull over, light a match, and watch it burn until it’s nothing but black ash in the snow.
But I don’t.
I look at her reflection in the dark glass. She’s holding onto it like a lifeline. It’s her anchor. It’s the proof that she isn’t crazy, that she’s a doctor who tried to save a life, not just a victim in a horror movie. Taking it now would shatter the fragile reality she’s clinging to. And I need her functional. A broken asset is dead weight.
“You’re bleeding.”
My voice sounds too loud in the quiet car. Gravel over velvet.
She doesn’t react at first. Then, slowly, she blinks, looking down at her arm. A shallow cut runs three inches along her forearm where the safety glass grazed her during the tackle. A single line of crimson dries on her pale skin, stark as a warning sign.
She touches it, her fingers coming away red.
“It’s supernatural.”
She slurs slightly.
“Superficial. You mean superficial.”
I glance at her pupils. Sluggish. Fatigue toxins flood her brain, shutting down the higher functions.
“Right. That.”
She lets out a laugh that sounds like a sob choking on a razor blade.
