Page 62 of You Can Run

Trent began to close the distance, staying in the shadows of the warehouses. He didn't rush; he couldn't afford to trip or blackout. His hand hovered near the small of his back. He watched Dante steer her toward the forest of green nylon nets at Pier 19.

He saw Dante look over his shoulder, but the guy was looking for professionals. He wasn't looking for a broken-down cop limping through the stacks of shipping crates.

Trent stepped onto the pier, the wooden planks groaning under his weight. The smell of diesel and rotting fish was overwhelming here, the air thick with the cries of gulls.

He pulled the pistol out from behind his back. “Dante!” he shouted, the name tearing out of his throat.

Thirty yards ahead, Dante and Jessica spun around.

Trent leveled the gun, his arms shaking with a mix of adrenaline and the lingering effects of the concussion. He saw the shock on Dante’s face, the way his eyes widened.

“Let her go!” Trent yelled, stepping forward, the muzzle of the .38 dancing in the humid air. “Step away from her right now.”

He didn't see the white truck idling behind Dante. He didn't see the woman on the roof. He only saw the man who had taken everything from him, and he was finally ready to take it back.

TWENTY-THREE

Ferrera stoppedten feet from Dante’s back. The man in the hoodie was distracted, his arms spread wide in a desperate plea to the trembling wreck holding the .38.

He raised his 9mm. He just needed to squeeze the trigger and get the girl into the truck. He leveled the sights at the base of Dante’s skull, his finger taking up the slack.

Then, he looked at Trent.

The cop was twenty yards away, his face a mask of sweat and blood. Ferrera watched the man’s eyes. They were wild, darting between Dante and the girl. But as Ferrera stepped into his line of sight, he saw the exact moment Trent spotted him. He saw Trent’s gaze flicker from him and back to Dante.

Ferrera saw the conflict play out in the twitch of the cop’s jaw. He saw the shift in the weight of the .38. His stomach did a slow, cold flip. He realized, a heartbeat too late, that he’d misjudged the situation, and the man. That, faced with a wanted felon, out here in the open, this broken-down beat cop might be inspired to actually do his damn job for once in his life.

Ferrera saw the decision settle into Trent’s eyes.

“Wait—” Ferrera started to say, his own finger tightening on his trigger.

He saw the muzzle of Trent’s snub-nose swing away from Dante and towards him instead. He saw the flash, bright and sudden in the grey morning.

There was no sound, only a massive, hollow thump in the center of his chest that sent him staggering backward. He felt his boots lose their grip on the gravel. He looked down and saw his own blood jumping out of his shirt in a rhythmic, frantic spray.

He tried to raise his arm, to find the target one last time, but the world was already fading to the color of grey. He saw the warehouse roof again, wondering why the Sicaria hadn't fired first.

He hit the dirt hard. The grit of the salvage yard was the last thing he tasted, a bitter, salty end for a man who had been undone by the one variable he’d dismissed as a stray dog.

The silence that followed the gunshot didn't last. It was punctured almost instantly by a high, thin shriek from the sidewalk near the fudge shops, and then the world on the foreshore erupted into a chaotic, directionless stampede.

Up on the roof, the Sicaria didn't move. She watched through the scope as a man dropped his camera; a woman scooped up her child and ran blindly toward the Seawall. The sound of the crowd was a rising tide of panic—screams, the rhythmic, desperate honking of a horn from a delivery truck blocked by the sudden swarm of bodies.

It was a mess. It was loud, public, and amateur.

The Sicaria adjusted the rifle. The crosshairs were still directed notably at the pile of clothes and cooling meat thatused to be José Ferrera. He lay twisted on the ground, one arm flung out as if reaching for the truck he’d just stepped out of. The driver of the white Ford didn't wait to check on his boss; he threw the truck into a violent, screeching reverse, clipping a stack of pallets and sending them splintering across the yard before he tore out toward the industrial canal, disappearing into the salt-haze.

In the center of the yard, the three of them stood frozen in the dust—Dante, Jessica, and the bloody, panting beat cop.

The Sicaria’s phone vibrated in her pocket. She didn't take her eye off the scope. She reached down, pulled the phone out, and pressed it to her ear without checking the screen.

“Is it done?”

The voice on the other end was soft, filtered through the static of a long-distance connection. It was a voice that didn't care about the screaming tourists or the sirens that were already beginning to wail from the direction of the Seawall.

The Sicaria’s gaze remained fixed through the glass. The crosshairs lingered on Ferrera’s unmoving chest, watching the dark stain beneath him grow on the dirt. She didn't look at the couple, or the cop.

“Yes,” she said. She hadn’t been the one to do it, but it had nonetheless been done.