Chaos comes with a scent.
That stink? Sulfur, maybe scorched tires - also the sour tang of panic. One whiff tells you things have gone sideways.
The shots quit ripping into the steel, yet the racket went on. Wind howled through broken glass like a storm trapped indoors.
Biggs hung forward on the steering wheel, his bulk dragging the vehicle sideways.
We were spinning.
"Biggs! Get up!" I shouted - yet it stuck inside me.
The Maybach, my safe spot, felt like a rolling tomb.
We hit the divider , sparks flew across the glass, wild as burning paper. Everything out there became a smear of speed and glow, twisting so fast I lost where ground met sky.
My hand shot beneath the seat - no thought involved. Just reflex, automatic. It happened before my mind caught up. Fingers closed on something solid, gritty… a Glock 19 tucked tight in its spot.
Not today.
I pushed Jordan down - his cheek smacked against the gym mat - then jumped to my feet.
That dark SUV hadn't moved, riding close like it was hunting us, patient as a predator circling prey.
Through the glass, I spotted the guy with the gun; just his eyes showed through the balaclava, locked onto me like I was already done.
I just went for it. Not a single shake.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
I fired three shots, the kick snapped my hand back, spent shells clinking on the busted window glass.
Not trying to frighten looking to drop 'em right there.
A single bullet lit up their doorway. When he saw it, the gunman jerked and pulled back into the vehicle. Tires howled as the big car twisted sideways, rushing down a dark exit ramp.
Now they knew, we weren't just running.
Yet we'd already missed our chance.
We slammed into the curb at eighty. Then came the leap - car floating, stomach dropping - a weird floaty instant till we crashed back hard.
CRASH.
Metal screeched on concrete. I lurched ahead when the belt snapped tight - squeezing my ribs, stealing breath. The airbag hit hard, smacking my nose, spraying chalky mist that stung my eyes and clogged my throat.
Then, silence.
For a moment, I believed I'd passed on. The air felt still - thick, almost pressing down.
Then silence took over.
That's when it started hurting. A searing cut on my forehead from shattered glass. My shoulder pulsed from crashing into the doorframe - rough impact.
"Jordan?" My voice came out rough. I hacked once - the bitter sting of airbag dust on my lips. "J, say something."
Nothing.
Panic - sudden, icy - cut through the fog.
"Jordan!"
Lina… a soft cry. Tiny. Shattered.
I fumbled around in the back, wrestling with flat airbags and my torn dress.
The vehicle tilted down, its front crushed into a shop that seemed to sell gadgets. Screens glowed faintly nearby, pale light showing the mess we were in.
Jordan couldn't move - metal pressed against him, crushing the front seat into his legs. Blood ran down his face from a cut on the cheek, skin ghostly white. Yet he looked up at me, pupils blown, full of raw fear.
"My leg," he gasped, his teeth gritted. "Lina, my leg… I can't feel it."
I've got you. Stay right there, little one. I pulled myself across the middle piece, shards breaking beneath me. My fingers stretched toward him - this time, they wouldn't stop trembling.
I glanced over at Biggs.
He didn't move. Not at all. His face pressed into the steering wheel, while sweat-soaked fabric clung to his back. One bullet pierced the seat - then him.
My chest squeezed tight, like sorrow clamped down hard. Back when we started on the streets, Biggs was already there beside me.
His kid lived somewhere in Jersey, trying to grow up without him. Rooted in his roots, never wavering once, yet gone - just like that - while taking me home after some loud night.
"Biggs…" I whispered.
"He's…?" Jordan stammered, voice breaking.
"Stay off him," I snapped, tone turning sharp. Grief wasn't an option - grief gets you dead.
"Keep your eyes here. Lock onto me."
I took hold of the dash, shoved my feet into the seat, then yanked. I kept at it till everything ached, till blood throbbed in my neck - still, the bent metal wouldn't budge.
"It's stuck!" Jordan yelled, tears streaking down his dusty cheeks. "Lina - it burns! Man, this is bad!"
"Quiet. Keep your energy." I released him, breathing hard. Then I held his face - my blood rubbed onto his skin.
"Pay attention.
You'll pull through this. Got it? Nothing's taking you down while I'm here."
Far away, I caught the sound - this cry, sharp out of nowhere.
Sirens.
Growing louder. Getting nearer. Moving fast.
The law.
I froze - heart sinking.
There I was, stuck inside a wrecked vehicle, next to someone who wasn't alive anymore, plus a hurt person breathing slow, along with a handgun that had my fingerprints smeared everywhere.
Think, Selina. Think.
I stared at the gun on the floor - left there when I let go. Couldn't get caught holding that. Not tonight. Not anywhere near this place. Snatched it up, rubbed it fast with the torn edge of my grayish dress, then jammed it far beneath the front seat, tucked into the metal bits so maybe nobody checks till the tow yard.
Lina, it's the police," Jordan said quietly, glancing toward the spinning red and blue beams reflecting on broken window shards.
"I get it," I said, brushing his hair aside. "Pay attention, Jordan - just stick to this: you saw nothing. No faces, no details. You looked away. Keep that story clear. Just ordinary people caught in a bad situation. Nothing more.". Keep quiet about the weapon. Say nothing about how those men appeared in that car. Got it?
"I… I understand."
"You're just a college kid," I told him, fierce and low. "You're just my brother. You don't know this life."
The lie left a bitter taste. Yet he understood this existence. Because it held him down, slowly draining his strength.
The alarms blared louder every second. Outside, a door banged shut. People yelled at each other. Beams of light sliced into the shop's darkness.
"Police! Show me your hands!"
I raised my hands, my palms open. "In here! We need help! My brother is hurt!"
A cop showed up by the broken glass, holding a loaded piece. His eyes caught the dress, red stains, panic on her face. Weapon eased down.
"We got survivors!" he yelled back. "Roll EMS! Get the jaws! We got a pin!"
The next ten minutes felt like chaos flashing lights, loud sounds. Medics rushed around the wrecked vehicle. Metal screeched as the rescue tool pried loose what trapped Jordan's legs.
I stayed close, gripping his hand tight, mumbling random words, things I couldn't guarantee would come true. Once they got him out, he let out a cry that hit me deep inside.
They put him on a stretcher. I started moving after them when someone grabbed my arm.
"Ma'am, you need to be checked out."
"I'm okay," I said sharply, pulling my arm back. "He's family - my sibling."
"He's going to Mercy," the paramedic said.
"We'll take good care of him. But you need to stay here and give a statement."
I saw the ambulance doors shut, with Jordan vanishing inside. That anger burning in me turned firm - icy, unyielding, razor-focused.
One person made an attempt to wipe us out. Another aimed to steal the sole kin I ever knew.
I spun round, checking out what was going on. Flashing beams lit up the slick road with wild shades. Officers crowded every corner, sealing things off.
A moment later, strolling past the yellow tape like it was his own property, appeared a guy wearing a lengthy coat.
He wasn't wearing a uniform. Yet he carried himself slow, like someone who knows how to hurt you. By the smashed-up car, he paused, eyeing each gunshot mark, following their paths without touching. Then crouching slightly, he grabbed an empty shell - mine - from the ground, letting it spin lightly in his hand.
He got to his feet then spun around.
The breath rushed out of me.
There he was. That guy from the gathering. The one who hunted.
He came toward me, hands tucked deep, gaze fixed on mine. Close up, those eyes hit harder - sharp, yet wild somehow. He stared at the wound above my brow, the red streaks down my clothes, then straight through me.
"Tough evening for a party, Ms. Vega," he muttered. Rough tone, like ash and stone.
I stood up tall, gathering what was left of my pride like a shield.
"What's your name?"
He took out a shiny badge from his jeans.
"Marcus Stone. Drugs unit." He clicked the badge closed, a faint smirk tugging one side of his mouth. Yet you figured I've been keeping an eye, right?
He moved nearer, his scent a mix of coffee yet something risky.
"Whoever did this wasn't trying to scare you, Selina. They were trying to erase you.
" His eyes dropped to my hands, still trembling slightly. "You have an idea who, don't you?"
I stared straight at him, while the Queen made her way back to the seat of power through broken remains.
"I have no idea what you're talking about, Detective."
"Right," he whispered. "We'll see about that."Not him.