Chapter 11: Ashes and Echoes
The world was a ringing bell. A high-pitched, screaming frequency that drowned out the sirens wailing in the distance. Max didn't know if he was walking or crawling. He just knew he had to move.
The explosion at the Vittorio Citadel had been a sun going supernova in a broom closet. The heat had singed his eyebrows and the shockwave had thrown him like a ragdoll. Now, he was huddled in a storm drain three blocks away, the cold, greasy water soaking into his ruined jeans.
He checked his body. His left arm hung uselessly at his side, the shoulder dislocated, perhaps fractured. His ribs screamed in protest with every shallow breath. There was a gash on his forehead that wept blood into his left eye, painting half the world in a crimson haze.
He had done it. He had sent a message. But messages didn't stop bullets, and right now, every cop and Vittorio soldier in the city would be hunting the driver of the white van.
Max gritted his teeth and forced himself to stand. The pain was blinding, a white-hot spike driving into his spine. He stumbled forward, using the slime-slicked walls of the tunnel for support. He needed to get to the safe house Russo had mentioned—a derelict auto shop in the South Ward.
As he moved, the adrenaline that had fueled his escape began to fade, replaced by a crushing exhaustion. His vision swam. Shadows seemed to stretch and warp, detaching themselves from the walls.
"You drive well, little rat," a voice whispered.
Max spun around, reaching for the pistol he no longer had. The tunnel was empty, save for the dripping water and the scurrying of actual rats.
"Who's there?" he croaked. His voice sounded wrecked, like he had swallowed gravel.
Silence answered him. Just the drip, drip, drip of the city's waste.
Max shook his head. Concussion. He had to have a concussion. He pressed on.
The South Ward was territory disputed by the Copperheads, a vicious gang of drug runners who had no love for the Vittorios but even less for strangers. Max emerged from the sewer grate into a back alley filled with overflowing dumpsters. The air smelled of rotting fish and ozone.
He limped toward the street, trying to look like just another junkie looking for a fix, trying to blend into the misery of the district. But he was bleeding too much. He was too conspicuous.
A pair of headlights swept across the alley entrance. Max threw himself behind a dumpster, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his bruised ribs. A cruiser rolled past, its spotlight cutting through the gloom. They were sweeping the grid.
He waited until the lights faded, then moved again. He was only two blocks from the auto shop. Just two blocks.
But as he crossed an open lot, his leg gave out. He collapsed into the mud, a cry of agony tearing from his throat. He tried to push himself up, but his muscles refused to obey. He was done. The tank was empty.
Then, he heard boots on gravel. Not the rhythmic march of police, but the shuffling, predatory gait of street wolves.
"Look what the rain washed up," a voice sneered.
Max rolled onto his back. Three figures stood over him. They wore leather vests with a copper snake emblem on the back. Copperheads.
The leader, a man with a mouth full of gold teeth and a baseball bat resting on his shoulder, grinned down at him.
"You look like you've been through a meat grinder, kid," Gold Tooth said. "And you smell like money. Or maybe a bounty."
Max tried to speak, to lie, to say he was nobody. But his vision was darkening at the edges. The cold was seeping into his bones, numbing the pain, numbing everything.
"Check his pockets," Gold Tooth ordered one of his lackeys. "Then break his legs. We don't want him running before we find out who owns him."
As the thug reached for him, Max felt a strange sensation. It wasn't fear. It wasn't pain. It was a cold, heavy pressure in the center of his chest. Like a black hole opening up inside his soul.
The ringing in his ears stopped. The rain seemed to freeze in mid-air.
"Are you finished, Max?" the voice whispered again. This time, it didn't come from the tunnel. It came from inside his own skull.