Through a narrow gap beneath Asher's protective frame, the world was a suffocating haze of white plaster dust and the bitter taste of copper. But my eyes locked onto the edge of the terrace. There he was. Pierre was crawling on all fours across the shattered glass, leaving a smeared trail of dark blood from his broken jaw.
From the idling black van across the street, two masked men rushed forward under the cover of the heavy gunfire. One of them hooked his arms under Pierre's armpits, dragging his heavy body backward like a sack of dead weight.
Pierre's eyes rolled back, catching mine through the swirling smoke. Even with his face ruined by Asher's fist, a twisted, bloody grin pulled at the corners of his mouth. It was a silent promise of vengeance. A promise that he was leaving, but he wasn't done.
