Chapter 11 - Blood on the Asphalt
The sharp *pop* of Vance’s sidearm echoed inside the vaulted ballroom, swallowed instantly by the rising wail of panic and the heavy thud of Marcus collapsing behind the velvet dais. Sirens sliced through the rainy night outside, their jagged blue lights painting frantic patterns across the crystal chandeliers as the panicked crowd surged toward the ornate exit doors. Vance didn't hesitate. He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my wrist with urgent strength, and pulled me hard against his side. The metallic scent of cordite hung thick in the air, mixing with expensive perfume and spilled champagne.
"Move," he muttered, his voice dangerously low as we ducked behind a overturned banquet table draped in white linen.
We sprinted through the disheveled service corridors, our boots splashing through puddles in the alley behind the hotel where the rain came down in sheets, plastering my ponytail to the back of my neck. I could hear shouting behind us—private security forces and perhaps the vanguard of federal agents tipped off by Marcus's frantic last-minute calls. Vance stumbled slightly as we rounded a rusted dumpster, his left arm pressing rigidly against his ribs. The dark fabric of his tailored suit was soaked through, but as lightning split the sky, a dark, heavy stain bloomed across his shoulder where a stray bullet from the chaos had clipped him.
"You're hit," I gasped, catching him by the elbow as he leaned heavily against a brick wall, his breath coming in sharp, shallow hitches.
"It's nothing," he ground out, though his pale face contradicted his calm tone. "The car's three blocks down. We can't stop here."
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We made it to a nondescript sedan parked half-shadowed beneath a flickering streetlamp. Vance fumbled with the keys before tossing them to me. "Drive," he commanded, collapsing into the passenger seat and clutching his shoulder as I slid behind the wheel. The engine roared to life, and I tore away from the curb just as police cruisers converged on the front entrance of the hotel. The rain blurred the neon signs of the downtown avenue into smears of red and green. I glanced sideways at him; his eyes were half-closed, his jaw clenched so tightly a muscle twitched in his cheek. We couldn't go to a hospital. Every emergency room in the city was already flagged by the syndicate or the authorities.
"There's a place," I said, my knuckles white on the steering wheel as I turned onto a forgotten industrial road near the rail yards. "An old mechanic I knew. He keeps medical supplies in the back." Vance nodded slowly, resting his head against the cold passenger window as the rain lashed endlessly against the glass.
