Chapter two:

  Justice is a fleeting thing in this town. Do you save a soul that doesn’t deserve it, risking another who is? Or do you get your hands red and wet, telling yourself it’s noble? Doing nothing is just as grim a choice. Ezra would say ‘God doesn’t play with dice’, but sometimes I think he plays with a rigged deck.

  Harlan’s feet pounded the cracked pavement, through Sanguines labyrinthine streets. Eight blocks lay ahead, a gauntlet of sagging brick tenements and dim streetlamps that cast long, jagged pools of light. . The suitcase weighed heavy in his hand, its scuffed leather creaking with every swing. ‘weighing me down - but I can’t junk it - might need it; he thought.

  ‘I haven’t dodged a passed out wino in blocks -’ Harlan mused ‘ - cleaner streets - must be getting close.” Rounding a corner, Marlene’s building loomed. He rounded a corner, and Marlene’s building rose into view—a stately brownstone, its warm stone catching the late-morning sun, windows gleaming like polished jewels against the bright sky - passersby ignorant to the death that awaits inside.

  Harlan’s on foot sprint ate near a half hour. ‘Perhaps fate made my decision for me today’ Harlan mused as he Slipped into the alley beside Marlene’s, where a fire escape ladder remained lowered. ‘That’s off,’ he thought. Last night, he’d vanished across the rooftops, leaving that fire escape untouched, its rungs left locked in place above. ‘Fixer’s boys mightiness climbed it.’ His pulse quickened. ‘Better mask up.’

  Harlan wasn’t geared for a scrap—not yet. His crusade was still a raw spark, unready for the blaze of a real fight. No iron, no blade—just a near-empty oxygen tank slung at his hip. ‘One thug I could take’ he thought measuring his odds, ‘two is bet I don’t want to make.;.

  He climbed the fire escape’s rusted ladder, its rungs creaking under his weight, and crept toward the window to Marlene’s office, same as last night’s exit. The glass was fogged with grime, the sun’s ray’s reflecting into Harlan’s eyes, making it difficult to scope the dangers that may await. . He set the suitcase down on the fire escape’s narrow platform, its thud muffled by the city’s restless hum—distant horns, a stray dog’s bark. He unhooked his mask, its rubber cool and pliant, and slipped it over his face, leaving the hose unconnected for now. Clipping the tank to a sturdy hook at his waist, he eased through the window, silent as a whisper.

  Inside, the office was a shambles. Papers lay strewn across the floor like ash after a fire, drawers yawned empty, and a splintered desk chair sagged in the corner, its upholstery torn like a fresh wound. The air was thick with dust and the sharp bite of spilled ink, stinging Harlan’s nose. ‘Cops last night, or Fixer’s goons this mornin’?’ he thought, his gaze hardening. ‘No tellin’.’ Time was bleeding out fast. ‘Gotta check for anyone still drawin’ breath.’

  Harlan stalked the upstairs halls of the Whittaker house, his steps softened by a plush runner that stretched like a crimson river.

  The walls gleamed with polished mahogany panels, their sheen catching the soft glow of brass sconces, and the air carried a faint trace of lavender polish, masking any hint of decay. Before facing the bedroom, Harlan paused at the stairwell, its carved banister smooth under his palm. ‘Better check below first,’ he thought, instincts prickling. ‘No surprises.’

  He descended with care, the stairs silent beneath thick carpeting. The downstairs hummed with wealth—a drawing room sprawled to one side, its silk drapes framing tall windows that spilled late-morning light across gleaming oak floors. . Beyond, a dining room stood poised, its long table set with bone china awaiting guests in a ornate cabinet. The kitchen, pristine, sparkled with white tile; a silver coffee urn sat on the counter, cold but unstained, its polish mirror-bright. No sound broke the stillness—no footsteps, no whispers. Just the house’s quiet elegance. Satisfied, Harlan climbed back up, his pulse heavy but even.

  He held off on the bedroom till last, already half-knowing what waited. Richard—Richie—Whittaker, strung up in a grim charade of suicide, his body gone cold. Harlan nudged the door open, its hinges sighing softly. There Richie hung, the rope knotted tight around a sturdy ceiling beam that stretched across the room, his form framed by the pale light filtering through heavy velvet curtains, just as Harlan had braced for. The sight didn’t shake him, but it sank into his gut like lead.

  Richie’s arms hung stiff, feet and hands swollen to a sickly bluish-purple where blood had pooled. No ligature marks scarred his neck—no clawing, no punctures marred the skin. ‘Probably dosed him with chloroform to fake it clean,’ Harlan thought, his eyes narrowing.

  The mask sealed tight over his face, dulling the room’s stench—a sour tang of ammonia mixed with the heavy, earthen reek of death. He fished a camera from his coat, its weight solid in his hand, and snapped a few shots of Richie’s corpse.

  ‘Could burn me if I’m caught with these,’ he muttered, ‘but they might save my hide later.’

  Harlan stepped into the en-suite bathroom, its marble tiles gleaming under a crystal sconce’s soft glow. Three boxes of U.S. Army-issued morphine lay scattered on the floor, the medicine cabinet flung wide. ‘No sign of Marlene, the Jezebel,’ he thought.

  Frustration surged, and he swept an arm across the dresser’s polished rosewood surface. Unlit candles, a silver cigarette case, and framed family photos crashed to the floor, their glass splintering like ice on the thick Persian rug.

  His gaze dropped to one photo, glinting in the pale natural light. Marlene and Nora, side by side, stood before a grand Victorian house, its gables sharp against a clear sky. The shot was fresh—Marlene looked no older than she did yesterday. The address on the home: 1457. “1457 Crestview Drive,” Harlan said, the address locking into his mind like a tumbler clicking into place.

  Harlan checks the gage on his oxygen tank ‘Maybe two - three minutes - tops’ he mutters, ‘but it might give me a clue to where she went’.

  He lays on the top of bed, not far from Richie. “Sorry you got dragged into this - you seemed alright’ he tells the stiff. Harlan then connects the tank to the end of his mask’s hose, and turns the valve. Soon the world turns gray - Harlan’s is in the world that was.

  He rewound the scene, watching himself stalk the apartment in reverse. Minutes earlier, Marlene burst into the room, her movements frantic. She spared no glance for Richie’s body, swaying faintly from the beam. Instead, she tore open a wardrobe, stuffing a leather bag with dresses and coats. In the bathroom, she rifled the medicine cabinet, tossing morphine boxes to the floor without a second thought—her mind was on essentials, not escape through a needle.

  Then, under the sink, she pried loose a hidden panel, its wood polished to match the cabinetry. A stack of cash, crisp and bound, sat beside a clutch of passports—multiple identities, ready to vanish. She slipped them into her purse, her face set hard as marble.

  Then - Harlan’s lungs began to burn - air thinning fast. The mask vanished from his face in a wisp of smoke, and panic clawed his chest. Suffocating, he lunged for the shadow where his body lay, a desperate blur toward the present.

  -

  The fender-bender at the station chewed up a half-hour. Ezra had nudged the other car just right—a tap sharp enough to halt both, but not enough to leave either limping.

  A cop strutted over, his boots scuffing the pavement, and chewed Ezra out for his “sloppy” driving, voice thick with authority. But the other driver, all bluster and red-faced indignation, made a mountain out of a dent, and the officer’s tone softened, siding with reason.

  In the end, the loudmouth got a fair payout, tempers cooled, and Ezra was cut loose to chase Harlan’s lead. ‘Gotta get to Nora by noon,’ he thought, the address burning in his mind. ‘14-somethin’ Crestview Drive.’ His army days had drilled half-heard orders into his bones, and this one stuck tight.

  Sanguine City’s streets were Ezra’s kingdom, every twist and alley carved into his memory like grooves in a record. But Crestview Drive? That name hit a blank. He yanked his dog-eared maps from the glove box, their edges frayed from years of hasty folds.

  “Damn it,” he muttered, flipping through the pages under the glare of late-morning sun. No Crestview—not a trace.

  He glanced at his watch: 11:06 a.m., the second hand slicing through what little time remained.

  The station buzzed around him—horns blaring and the air thick with exhaust. For a fleeting moment, he considered flagging a cop for directions, then shook it off. ‘If things go sour on Crestview,’ Ezra thought, ‘a badge’ll remember the colored cabbie from that crash askin’ for help gettin’ around. Better to find a civvie’

  With no better play, Ezra gunned the cab’s engine, its rumble cutting through the city’s hum, and swung toward the nearest gas station. The lot shimmered with heat rising off the asphalt, pumps gleaming under a striped awning. He leaned toward the clerk’s window, where a glass pane caught the sun’s harsh reflection. “Excuse me, sir,” Ezra said, voice steady but urgent. “You know where Crestview Drive is?”

  The old man behind the counter, his face creased like worn leather, squinted back. “Son, I know Sanguine’s nooks and crannies like my own knuckles,” he said, pausing to rub his stubbled chin. “But son of a bitch, that one ain’t ringin’ a bell.”

  “Well, thanks anyway” Ezra said - a sharp slam cracked in the air.

  The old man squinted through the glass, his voice gravelly but warm. “Son, I know Sanguine’s nooks and crannies like the back of my hand,” he said, pausing to scratch his whiskered jaw. “But son of a bitch, that one ain’t comin’ to mind.”

  “Well, thanks anyway,” Ezra said, his tone clipped but courteous. A sharp slam cracked the air, like a door caught by the wind, echoing off the gas station’s sun-baked pumps.

  Ezra spun on his heel and hustled back to the cab, boots crunching on the gravel lot. The late-morning light glared off the windshield, sharp enough to sting his eyes. He slid behind the wheel, then froze—a stranger had claimed the backseat, his bulk spilling across the leather. The man, mid-fifties, was heavy-set, his suit straining at the seams, a fedora perched on his sweat-slick brow. His jowls quivered as he glowered, exuding the smug certainty of a man who thought he owned every room he entered.

  “Sorry Mister,” Ezra said, “I’m ain’t runnin’ fares right now. You’ll need to catch the next one.”

  “Unacceptable!” the man barked, his drawl thick as molasses, face reddening. “You’re here, and I need transport—pronto. A Negro like you oughta be grateful for a fare from an upstandin’ Democrat like me. Drive, or I’ll have your depot on the horn!”

  Ezra bit his tongue, his mama’s lessons on politeness warring with the heat rising in his chest. “Honest, sir,” he said, holding steady. “I’m booked. On my way to a pickup.” The man’s sneer deepened, eyes glinting with disdain. “Balderdash!” he snapped.

  “You layabouts’ll spin any yarn to dodge a day’s work. I got stroke in this town—enough to yank your medallion ‘fore supper.”

  “I—” Ezra faltered, his mind racing. The cab license wasn’t just a tool for helping Harlan—it was his lifeline, honest work he couldn’t afford to lose if this crusade fizzled out. ‘Maybe I can swing this,’ he thought, gears turning.

  “I got a pickup,” he said, slower now, measuring each word, “but if you’re on the way, might could fit you in. Where you headed?”

  The man buckled in, smug as a cat with a canary, and snapped open a creased Sanguine Times, its ink smudging his thick fingers. “221 Trumbold Avenue,” he grunted, barely glancing up.

  ‘Swell,’ Ezra thought, his gut sinking. ‘The French Quarter.’ It was close—ten blocks, maybe—but the Quarter’s streets were choked thick as gumbo at noon, with delivery trucks and tourists clogging every corner. His watch ticked toward midday, and Nora’s neck was on the line, her fate tied to a clock that wouldn’t wait.

  Traffic ground to a halt, choked by a funeral cortege snaking through the French Quarter, its black-draped hearse and mourners’ cars stretching out of sight. Ezra craned his neck but couldn’t clock the name on the wreaths—two blocks shy of Trumbold. The air shimmered with noon heat, thick with the tang of sweat and magnolia from nearby courtyards.

  He spotted a cross street, narrow but clear, slicing through the chaos like a razor. ‘A lifeline outta this mess,’ he thought, and swung the cab toward it, tires humming on the cobblestones.

  “Traffic’s thick as tar today, mister,” he said, voice steady, glancing at the passenger in the rearview. “Reckon you’re a block or two off. I could let you out here—save you some coin on the fare. You’d beat this crawl on foot, sure.”

  “Psh,” the Democrat snorted, his jowls quivering as he fanned himself with a creased Sanguine Times. “Walk in this heat? Not for me, boy. I’ll ride it out.”

  ‘Terrific,’ Ezra thought, jaw tightening, the word bitter as black coffee. Then a spark flared—maybe this pompous windbag knew Crestview. He adjusted his grip on the wheel, the leather slick under his palms. “Beg pardon, mister,” he said, catching the man’s eye in the mirror. “You know Crestview Drive?”

  “East or West Crestview, boy?” the swell shot back, one bushy eyebrow arched, his tone sharp with smug certainty.

  ‘Damn it,’ Ezra cursed to himself, another snag twisting his gut. He hadn’t counted on two Crestviews.

  “Uh—either, I suppose,” he said, fumbling, fingers tightening on the wheel.

  “Drive one, it bleeds into the other,” the Democrat drawled, slow and deliberate, like he was savoring the chance to lecture. “Yeah, I know it. Man of my caliber keeps tabs on civic projects. Crestview housing—I green-lit the permits. Prime spot, gonna be a beaut.”

  Ezra nodded, half-listening, his eyes fixed on 221 Trumbold creeping into view—a red-brick building, its facade squeezed tight between a pawnshop’s grimy windows and a dive bar’s flickering sign promising cheap whiskey. The Quarter pulsed around them, streetcars clanging, vendors hawking oysters, and a faint trumpet riff curling from an open café door.

  “Sounds swell,” Ezra tossed back, his voice smooth to keep the man talking, though he itched to ditch him. He clung to every word, sifting for a lead.

  “Where’s it at, exactly?”

  “Where’s it sound like, boy?” the Democrat sneered, his voice dripping with condescension, heavy as the humid air.

  Ezra forced a tight grin, shoulders hunching in a practiced shrug, his face a mask of patience. The cab idled, engine growling softly amid the cortege’s mournful hush.

  “Need it spelled out, kid?” The swell leaned forward, his bulk shifting the seat, smug as a ward boss closing a deal. “Crestview would be up high. Tis’ up Hemlock Mountain—hill country, plain as day.”

  “Obliged, mister,” Ezra said as the cab eased to a stop at 221 Trumbold, its tires crunching on the Quarter’s cobblestones. “Looks like we’re here, sir.” He flicked off the meter, its click sharp in the noon heat. “Eighty-five cents, sir.”

  “Highway robbery,” the Democrat scoffed, his jowls trembling as he scrawled hastily on a scrap of paper, the Sanguine Times crumpled beside him.

  Ezra braced for trouble, swallowing a groan, his fingers tight on the wheel. The man slid a note through the fare slot. Ezra glanced at it: Pay this Negro Cabman, 85 cents, for transit services rendered. Signed, Counsilman Hubert T. Brooks.

  “Sorry, sir, I…” Ezra started, his voice taut.

  “No need to apologize, boy,” Hubert cut in, his drawl thick with false magnanimity. “Your earlier lip is forgotten. Now take that note to city hall—they’ll square you up.” He heaved his bulk out of the cab - its weight now in near balance.

  ‘I don’t have time for this,’ Ezra thought, irritation flaring like a match. He slammed the cab into gear, the engine snarling as he peeled away from the French Quarter, its crowded docks and clanging streetcars fading in the rearview.

  ‘As far north as it could be from here,’ he fumed, the city’s pulse giving way to open road. ‘Stuck by the wharves, and now I’m clawin’ up the hills? Why’d Nora and Marlene slum it at the Lighthouse when they roost on the far side of this damn town?’

  Ezra gunned the cab toward Hemlock Mountain, the engine’s growl a steady companion. Traffic thinned beyond the Quarter’s bottleneck, the streets opening like a sigh.

  He roared past a blur of raised fists and middle fingers, ignoring white-collar types in crisp suits waving for a ride, their briefcases glinting in the midday sun. Hemlock Mountain loomed ahead, its twisty ascent a gauntlet of hairpin turns and blind corners, the road carved into the hillside like a scar.

  Traffic was sparse—only a few dump trucks rumbled up or down, their beds heavy with gravel, kicking up dust that hung in the air like a faint veil.

  The summit sprawled into a grid of cookie-cutter shells—catalog homes, half-built frames, and empty lots waiting for buyers, their skeletal outlines stark against the clear sky. ‘Like a needle in a haystack,’ Ezra thought, scanning the horizon. Then he saw it, at the end of Crestview Drive, where the street met the mountain’s edge. No catalog house, this one. It was custom, alive with character, built to stand apart.

  Three stories rose in Victorian grandeur, its steeply pitched roof piercing the heavens, a wraparound porch held aloft by ornate columns, their hand-carved railings intricate as lace. Forest-green paint gleamed fresh, catching the sun’s warmth, and brass numbers on a post winked in confirmation: 1457. ‘This has to be it,’ Ezra thought, his pulse quickening.

  Ezra eased the cab into the driveway of 1457 Crestview Drive, backing in with the slick precision to ensure a speedy escape if needed. Two houses down, a half-built skeleton of a catalog home stood stark against the noon sky, where a couple of workers sawed at 2x4s.

  Ezra checked the clock. 11:50. ‘Nick of time. Too damn close’.

  Ezra glanced at the dashboard clock: 11:50. ‘Nick of time,’ he thought, pulse quickening. ‘Too damn close.’ His eyes flicked to the workers down the street. A bruiser in a hard hat was pounding a plank like it owed him money, his hammer swings steady and brutal. ‘Saw Pop swing a hammer enough to spot a pro,’ Ezra thought, sizing the man up, ‘and that plank was secure before I got here. - that’s for show.’

  He sucked in a deep breath, the cab door creaking as it swung open. ‘Tire iron’s in the trunk,’ he thought, ‘but that’d spook the dame.’ Hands empty, gut churning he stepped onto the wraparound porch, its forest-green boards gleaming under the sun’s glare. Down the street, a phone box—rigged for the construction crew—shrilled, its ring slicing through the rhythmic thwack of hammers.

  Ezra glanced back. The hard-hat brute dropped his plank, lumbering toward the phone with a scowl, his shadow stretching long across the dirt. Ezra turned, rapping on Nora’s door, his knocks sharp and urgent.

  The door swung open, and Ezra’s breath caught—a jolt like a slug to the chest. Pearl-white skin, ruby lips, blonde hair curled soft as a dream. Nora stood framed in the doorway, her presence a shock of elegance against the carved woodwork. Ezra’s tongue tangled, his mind scrambling. ‘What’s my damn cover?’ he thought, floundering.

  “How can I help you?” Nora said, her voice smooth as silk, gliding over him like a cool breeze.

  “Um—hi there, hello,” he stammered, his usual ease crumbling into a schoolboy’s stutter. “I’m, uh… I was told to, well, paid to pick you up.”

  Her brow creased, a flicker of worry shadowing her face as she edged the door inward. “I’m sorry, I’m not inter—”

  “Uh, Marlene,” Ezra cut in, catching himself. “Marlene sent me,” he clarified, the words tumbling out.

  “You’ve spoken to my sister?” Her eyes widened, “Where is she? Is she okay?”

  “Y-yeah, no no she’s fine I think - well I’m not really sure right this sec ”

  “HEY!” a voice bellowed from down the street.

  Ezra whipped around. The brute loomed at the curb, hammer dangling in his meaty fist, his pal beside him gripping a 2x4 like a club, both their faces hard as quarry stone. The street lay quiet now, the phone’s ring gone, only the faint clink of tools in the distance.

  Ezra turned to Nora, his voice steadying, confidence clawing its way back. “I know you ain’t got a lick of reason to trust me, but I believe these men mean you harm. Lock the door and find a place to hide.”

  Nora’s eyes flicked from Ezra to the approaching men, her face taut with alarm. His gaze locked on hers, silently urging her to move. She slammed the door hard, the bolt sliding home with a heavy clunk, and Ezra stepped off the porch ready to face the brute head-on.

  “Hey, buddy,” the brute drawled, closing in with a wolfish grin, his hammer glinting in the noon sun. “Wanna chew the fat for a sec?”

  “Need a hammer to talk?” Ezra shot back, squaring his shoulders, his fists clenching as he sized up the man’s bulk.

  “Naw,” the brute chuckled. “I need it to bash your skull in.”

  The hammer swung back, then arced down, a blur of iron aimed at Ezra’s head. Ezra’s hand shot up, catching the brute’s arm mid-swing, stopping it dead. In a flash, his right foot hooked upward, stomping down hard on the bruiser’s kneecap—a sharp crack like thunder splitting the air. The thug’s howl choked off as Ezra’s elbow smashed into his jaw, the bone giving way like brittle glass.

  From the driveway’s edge, the brute’s pal bellowed, his shout rousing three more goons from the construction site down the street. They charged forward, hammers and wrenches clutched tight, their work boots kicking up dust. Ezra bolted up the porch steps, boards creaking under his weight, and leapt for the second-floor awning. His fingers snagged the ornate trim, shoes scraping against the shingles as he hauled himself up. He scrambled to a window, heart pounding. ‘Thank you, Jesus,’ he muttered, tugging it open, and tumbled inside, landing on a polished hardwood floor.

  “NORA!” he called, voice raw, echoing through the Victorian’s high ceilings. “NORA!”

  He shoved past stacks of unpacked boxes, their corners softened by shadows, tearing through closets thick with mothball scent, bathrooms tiled in gleaming porcelain, and bedrooms where heavy drapes muffled the daylight. “NORA!”

  Downstairs, the front door shuddered under heavy blows, the thugs’ boots slamming against the wood, their grunts carrying through the foyer’s marble tiles. Ezra hit the next staircase, taking two steps at a time, his shouts for Nora ringing in the cavernous hall.

  The upstairs stretched empty, its barren rooms swallowing sound in a house far too grand for one woman. Sunlight slanted through tall windows, casting stark patterns on the silk wallpaper, but the shadows held nothing. Then—a faint creak from above. Ezra’s eyes snapped to the ceiling, where a panel shifted, a pull-string swaying gently—the attic.

  ‘Up here,’ Nora called, her voice low but urgent, as she lowered a ladder, its rungs gleaming with fresh varnish.

  Ezra scrambled up, the ladder creaking under his weight, then yanked it up behind him. He slid the panel shut, securing it with a quick tug, the attic’s musty air closing around them like a vault.

  “Wow, every house should have one of these,” Ezra said, his breath heaving as he forced a grin, trying to slice through the attic’s stifling tension and ease Nora’s nerves.

  “Don’t be too impressed,” Nora whispered, eyes darting to the trapdoor. “Some of those goons worked on this house—they’ll find us before long. I’d love to know what’s going on, but for now, we need to figure out how to get out of here.”

  “The window,” Ezra said, edging across the attic beams toward a circular pane, its glass glinting in the noon light filtering through dust motes.

  “Drop to the awning’s too far,” Nora said, her tone clipped, scanning the gap below.

  “Damn,” Ezra muttered, his plan crumbling.

  Heavy footsteps thudded up the stairs below, each step rattling the house’s polished bones. Nora pressed a finger to her lips, shushing him, and pointed downward, her face pale against the attic’s shadows.

  “Here, kitty-kitty,” a thug with a wrench sang out, his voice oily as he tapped the banister below, the sound sharp like a taunt.

  Ezra’s eyes swept the attic floor—flimsy plaster sagging between beams, built for nothing heavier than cobwebs. “Get ready to jump when I say,” he whispered, voice low and urgent, his pulse hammering.

  “What are you—” Nora began, but Ezra cut her off, launching feet-first through the ceiling. Plaster shattered, raining white dust as he landed in a crouch on the hardwood below, the air thick with chalky haze.

  The thug grinned, wrench swinging in a vicious arc. Ezra snagged his arm under his right shoulder, pivoted hard, and flung him over the banister. The goon tumbled down the stairs, thudding like a sack of bricks, crashing into two pals climbing up, their curses echoing off the marble foyer.

  “Nora! Now!” Ezra barked, arms outstretched. “I’ll catch you!”

  She froze for a heartbeat, perched on the beam above the jagged hole, then leapt, trusting a stranger with her life. Ezra caught her, his grip steady, setting her down fast on the silk-patterned runner.

  He snatched the fallen wrench, its weight cold in his hand, and glanced over the banister—it wobbled, bolts loose from the impact. The two thugs below dusted themselves off, snarling as they barreled up the stairs, boots pounding, eyes blazing with trouble.

  Ezra held the high ground, charging down, wrench swinging—cling-clang—against the first hood’s jaw, dropping him cold. The second hesitated, tripping over his buddy’s sprawled form, and Ezra seized the moment, landing a sharp thrust kick that sent him crashing down the stairs in a heap.

  The first thug—the one tossed over the banister—was stirring, his grin gone, eyes burning with raw hate. Ezra swung the wrench, but the thug deflected, trapping Ezra’s arm under his elbow and slamming a headbutt into his skull. Stars burst in Ezra’s vision, the wrench slipping from his grip to clatter on the floor. The thug let go, yanking a screwdriver from his tool belt. “This didn’t have to get so messy,” he growled, his breath hot with malice.

  He lunged, the screwdriver aimed at Ezra’s chest. Ezra grabbed his forearm with both hands, muscles straining to hold the blade at bay. They grappled, shoving each other down the hall, Ezra’s back slamming against a tall window, its glass rattling in its frame. The screwdriver trembled between them, its tip inching toward Ezra’s eye, control slipping fast.

  “I hope she was worth it,” the thug snarled, his sneer twisting.

  THUNK!

  The thug’s eyes rolled back, his skull crumpling as he slumped to the floor, dead weight. Behind him, Nora stood trembling, clutching the broken end of the banister like a war club, blood staining the splintered wood. Her gaze was hollow, a thousand-yard stare fixed on the fallen goon, the weapon slipping from her shaking hands.

  Ezra took her hand gently, his voice soft but firm. “Nora—it’s okay. It’s okay. Come on, we gotta go.”

  She nodded, but her eyes stayed vacant, unblinking. “Is he… did I…?”

  “No. I don’t think so,” Ezra said, his tone steady. “Don’t think about that now. Come on, we have to go.”

  No time to waste—the pair tore down the next flight of stairs, their footsteps echoing off the polished mahogany walls. They burst through the front door, its splintered frame banging shut behind them, the Victorian’s grandeur fading in their wake. Outside, the hammer-wielding brute was stirring on the gravel drive, propped on his good knee, a groan rattling in his chest like a busted engine.

  Ezra sprinted ahead, delivering a running kick—size 12 slamming into the goon’s jaw, dropping him flat. “Get in,” he commanded.

  Nora dashed to the passenger side, her breath ragged. Ezra vaulted into the driver’s seat, lunging across to pop her lock. Her door slammed shut, and he threw the cab into gear, tires spitting gravel and smoke as they peeled out of Crestview Drive, leaving it in the rearview.

  -

  “Keep eye on him,” a rasped voice growled, thick with a Russian accent,. Harlan lay limp on the bed, playing possum, his breath barely stirring the air. “I call men at construction site.” The Russian continued.

  The phone receiver clicked off its cradle, its chime cutting through the bedroom’s heavy stillness. “Operator, connect me to…” The big thug fumbled, fishing for numbers. “She is not here. Just a Chudak in her bed.”

  Another voice piped up, closer, antsy with a Sanguine street twang—Italian-American, like a guy raised on cannoli and corner bets. “Mikhail…” he said, voice tight, like he was stepping on eggshells.

  “Quiet, I am on phone,” the Russian snapped, his tone sharp as a switchblade. “What? Why is there cab?”

  “Mikhail!” the smaller thug barked again.

  “Silence, durak!” the Russian growled, steamrolling ahead. “Go there now! She does not leave!”

  The receiver slammed down, the ding echoed in the air.

  “What is problem!?” the Russian demanded, irritation twisting his words.

  “Look, Mikey, when we got in here, this gavone was all gray and whateva, right?” the local thug said, his voice jittery.

  “Yes?”

  “Uh, he ain’t now, capisce?”

  ‘Better strike now, while I got the drop,’ Harlan thought.

  Through slitted eyes, Harlan sized up the pair. The Russian was a bear—broad and burly, filling the room like a thunderhead. The other, the “durak”—some foreign jab for fool—was scrawnier, a twitchy Sanguine lowlife with a slicked-back mop and the nervous eyes of a two-bit hustler. ‘He’ll fold easy,’ Harlan thought. ‘Take him first.’

  Harlan’s arm dangled off the bed, fingertips brushing the cold steel of his oxygen tank. The thugs edged closer, their boots scuffing the thick Persian rug, sniffing trouble like alley dogs. ‘Gotta move fast,’ Harlan figured, his finger hooking the tank’s valve, gripping it tight.

  “He wakes!” the Russian bellowed, spotting the twitch of Harlan’s hand.

  Harlan swung the tank in a clean arc, cracking the durak square in the chin with a dull thunk. The little punk dropped like a sack of clams, out cold before he hit the floor. The Russian lunged, his meaty paws snatching Harlan’s legs, yanking him across the silk coverlet. A wooden corner post splintered with a sharp crack as Harlan’s shoulder plowed through it, his body flung past Richie’s bloated corpse, still swaying from the ceiling beam like a grim pendulum.

  Harlan slammed into the floor, rolling hard into the wall, drywall buckling with a jagged crunch. The Russian stomped over, boots thudding on the gleaming oak, and hauled Harlan up by the neck, his fingers clamping like a vise. “Who are you, and why are you here?” he snarled, his accent curling the words into barbs.

  Harlan gasped, air scraping his throat, legs kicking wildly. “I… I…” he choked,

  “Speak!” the Russian barked, his grip tightening, veins bulging in his thick forearm.

  Harlan’s left foot braced against the wall, finding leverage. His eyes caught a tattoo peeking from the thug’s sleeve—three wavy lines, black as pitch, rippling like ocean swells. With a coiled snap, Harlan drove his foot forward, smashing dead-on into the Russian’s groin. The thug’s hold faltered, a sharp yelp escaping as he doubled over, face twisting.

  Harlan scrambled up, breath ragged, and landed an uppercut to the Russian’s jaw. It connected with a brutal crack-thud—a whip-sharp snap of bone layered with a meaty echo. The Russian crashed to the floor, the rug softening his fall.

  “I was tryin’ to say,” Harlan growled, rubbing his bruised throat, “I can’t talk when you’re squeezin’ my windpipe.”

  “Heh,” the Russian grunted, spitting blood and a chipped tooth onto the polished floorboards. “You Americans are funny.”

  The thug’s leg lashed out, sweeping Harlan’s feet with startling speed for his bulk. He rose like a freight train, seizing Harlan and hurling him through the bathroom door. Wood splintered, and Harlan skidded across the linoleum, shards of Marlene’s scattered morphine boxes crunching under him.

  Harlan rolled onto his chest, fingers closing around a couple of morphine boxes, quick and discreet. He popped the caps off two syrettes with his teeth as the Russian loomed, his shadow swallowing the light from a crystal sconce. “Let’s try this again, American pig,” the thug spat, blood flecking his lips. “Who are you?”

  He flipped Harlan over and unloaded—fists pounding Harlan’s face, each blow a wet smack against swollen flesh. “What are you doing here?” Smash. “Where is the woman?” Smash.

  “Looks like I got you good back there,” Harlan rasped through split, bloody lips. “Does it hurt?”

  “Not as much as I hurt you, if you do not answer!” the Russian roared, rearing back for another blow.

  “Well, I got somethin’ for the pain,” Harlan said, voice rough as gravel. With a flick, he plunged two syrettes of morphine into the thug’s throat, squeezing the tubes empty.

  The Russian’s grip loosened. “I… I kill…” he slurred, eyes rolling back as he collapsed, a dead weight pinning Harlan to the floor.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.