Page 1 of Crusher's Illusion

PROLOGUE

THE LAST RIDE - CRUSHER

18 YEARS OLD

It always smells like piss back here behind the homeless shelter where I volunteer. Rain hits the pavement like it's trying to drown the city. The alley behind the shelter is dark, lit only by a flickering streetlight and the red pulse of an ambulance still too far away. I kneel in it. Piss, blood, rain, maybe all three, trying to keep a kid I barely know alive.

He's maybe fifteen, with a skinny frame, shaking as he bleeds out. There's a hole in his hoodie where the knife went in, and another under his ribs where they twisted it. His eyes flutter open like he’s still hoping someone’s gonna fix this.

“Stay with me,” I say, pressing my hands against his chest. “Come on, man. Stay with me.”

His warm blood soaks into my palms and stains my jeans. I can’t stop it. He’s gasping like his lungs forgot how to work. His name’s Jordan. I remember now. He sometimes plays pickup with my little brother. He laughs too loudly. He’s the kind of kid who never stops talking, even when people stop listening. But he isn’t saying anything now.

“You’re gonna be okay,” I lie. I say it again, softer. “You’re gonna be okay.”

Jordan blinks up at me, but I don’t think he hears me anymore.

FOUR HOURS EARLIER – HAVEN SHELTER, MT. PLEASANT, MI

The front door chimes, even though it barely works. I’m halfway through stacking boxes of canned soup in the back closet when I hear wet footsteps on the tile.

A sharp voice came from the front desk. Marlene. “Jesus, Jordan. You look like hell.”

I drop the box and head to the lobby. He’s there, dripping rain onto the cheap linoleum floor, looking like someone chewed him up and spit him out in the gutter. His lip is split. The jacket he wears is way too big, probably stolen. One sleeve is torn, and his knuckles are raw.

“Yo,” I call out. “What happened?”

Jordan lifts his chin. Tries to smile, but it hurts. I can tell. “Took a little trip down Sycamore. Didn’t like the scenery.”

I glance at Marlene. She raises a brow and calls one of the staff counselors. I motion for Jordan to follow me and head toward the break room. It's quiet back here. The air smells of burnt coffee and wet drywall.

“You need to clean up,” I say, grabbing a towel from the cabinet. “And maybe a damn helmet if you’re gonna keep running into fists.”

He laughs, then winces. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t trying to fight. Just trying to help someone out.”

I toss him the towel. “You bleeding anywhere else?”

He shakes his head. “Not mine. Not tonight.”

That gets my attention. I lean against the counter, arms crossed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jordan lowers the towel. His eyes flick toward the hallway, as if someone might be listening. Then he steps closer and lowers his voice.

“A girl was being kept at one of those houses on Sycamore. You know the ones.”

Yeah, I know. Burnt-out duplexes with boarded-up windows and graffiti. No one pays attention to what happens behind those doors. Not even the cops.

“I know a guy who knew a guy,” he goes on. “Got her out. She’s safe now, but they think I set it up,” he says, then bites his lip. “And maybe I didn’t stop it, either. I knew it was coming. I just… I thought I had more time.”

I frown. “Did you?”

“No,” Jordan says quickly, shaking his head. “But I know who did, and that’s enough for them.”

“You need to lay low, then,” I tell him. “Crash here tonight. I’ll talk to Marlene and make sure nobody bothers you.”

He snorts. “Too late. They’re already looking. I saw one of them near the bus stop. He had face tats, red shoes, and reeked of Coke. He didn’t even try to be subtle.”

My stomach tightens. “You sure it’s them?”