I was free. Uncomfortable, but I'd escaped. No monitors tracked my vitals. No well-meaning staff could ask questions I couldn't answer. The night accepted me without question or judgment.
I stumbled down an alley on the side of the hospital building. My legs were about to give out when I noticed the engine running in a car a block beyond the alley.
I won't survive long,I told myself with mathematical precision. The bullet wound was stable, but infection could turn it septic within hours. I had no money, no identification, and no safehouse available. The people hunting me had resources, patience, and the kind of institutional reach that turned helpful EMTs into unwitting accomplices.
Cats had nine lives. I'd probably used about ten of mine.
Disappearing? That was still a possible lifeline. It involved skill, instinct, and the accumulated wisdom of a lifetime spent becoming nobody special.
Six years in the shadows, all because of one yes to humanitarian work that turned into something else entirely.
I'd vanished from places with active manhunts and evaded pursuers with government backing and unlimited budgets. Seattle's urban sprawl was a maze I could navigate even when injured.
The city offered a thousand ways to become invisible—Pioneer Square's maze of underground tunnels, or the industrial waterfront where they stacked cargo containers high to form urban canyons. I'd mapped it all during months of preparation for contingencies just like this.
As I walked away from the only place I'd felt safe in months, I carried the memory of brown eyes that had seen me and hadn't looked away. Even if I never saw McCabe again, he was worth remembering.
Chapter three
Matthew
The fire department locker room reeked of bleach and stale sweat, with an undertone of burnt coffee from the break room. Kayla dropped her clipboard onto the metal bench with a clatter that echoed off the concrete walls. Our shift ended at 6 AM, six hours after the highway pileup.
"Paperwork's done." She yanked her ponytail free, dark hair spilling over her shoulders. "Finally. That GSW from the pileup took forever to process."
I nodded, focusing on the combination lock that never wanted to turn smoothly on the first try. Inside my locker, my civilian clothes hung where I'd left them twelve hours ago—jeans, gray Henley, and my worn leather jacket.
"You've been weird all shift." Kayla had perfected a blend of concern and accusation over three years of partnership. "Distracted. Even more than usual."
"Just tired." I pulled the Henley over my head. "Long day."
"I'm not buying tired." She sat heavily on the bench, unlacing her boots with sharp, efficient tugs. "You get that looksometimes. Like you're trying to solve a puzzle that's missing half the pieces."
The metal locker door swung shut with a bang. I'd been careful with my hands all night—steady during compressions, precise with IVs, and gentle when it mattered. Now, my fingers were clumsy.
"It's nothing."
"The GSW guy?" She softened her voice. "McCabe, you can't save everyone. We've talked about this."
I shouldered my bag, keys already in my palm. "See you tomorrow, Kayla."
She was still talking when I pushed through the exit door. It was something about getting enough sleep and not taking cases home with me. Good advice. This time it didn't apply.
I stopped beside the bulletin board where someone had pinned photos from last month's barbecue. One featured Kayla laughing at something my older brother, Marcus, had said. Another showed me in the background, barely visible, holding a beer I hadn't finished, always on the edges, even with people who knew me.
I straightened and shook my head. Walked away from the photos, buzzing fluorescents, and the lingering smell of burnt coffee.
Outside, Seattle's morning clouds promised rain. It was time to go home and stop thinking about bloodstained photographs and bullet wounds that didn't belong in traffic accidents.
My apartment was a dark and quiet corner loft on the third floor of a converted warehouse in Fremont. I fumbled for the wall switch, and a single overhead bulb cast harsh shadows across the main room.
I intended it as a temporary crash when I took my EMT position. It was still sparsely furnished with a couch I'd bought from a thrift store downtown and a coffee table made fromsalvaged wood and metal pipes that my brother, Michael, had welded together.
My television balanced on a stack of milk crates, and the walls stayed blank except for a framed photo of me with my brothers hanging on the wall near the front door.
I dropped my keys on the counter with a metallic clink and let my bag slide to the floor. The refrigerator hummed, and somewhere upstairs, Mrs. Kaminski's television murmured through the ceiling.
Leftover Thai food sat in white containers on the fridge's top shelf. It wasn't breakfast food, but I grabbed the pad Thai anyway, peeled back the cardboard lid, and shoved it into the microwave. Pressed three minutes.
