If I had the answers, this would be a different story, Paras Marcone thought, glancing at the passenger in the seat beside him. The woman could’ve been sleeping, but he could see blood seeping through her fingers where they clutched her shoulder. Her neck was tight. Her breath the windows, tiny puffs, shallow breaths, a struggle. Her life.
His death?
He turned his eyes to the road and made for the hospital. Why a hospital? It seemed as good a place as any, and nowhere seemed very good. It was all lost in a barrage of gunfire, exploding pinpoints of white and orange, fire, smoke, the woman’s body rolling across the hood of his silver Buick as it screeched to a halt.
Who? He thought as the blood smear flickered visible as he passed a streetlamp. Why?
“Who are you?” he blurted, checking his review mirror. Getaway drivers did that, he knew, in all the great action movies. The street was empty. Did they see my license plate? Can they track me?
“Just. Drive,” the stranger hissed, stirring. She tossed a handgun onto the dash with her free hand.
Paras flinched with a horrified shriek. The car swerved then righted itself when he realized she hadn’t shot him. He looked over briefly and saw her dialing a number. The phone was battered and smeared red. His stomach turned.
Maybe he didn’t want answers.
