The familiar metallic taste of blood fills my mouth as my teeth slice into my inner lip. Then another brutal kick hammers into my side, and I wheeze as I curl into a protective ball. Next to me, Katie hits the floor with a pained grunt.
The fight is over. We’ve lost.
This is where they finish the job.
But instead… they back off.
I blink up at them through a haze of pain and confusion, my breaths coming in ragged gasps.
Why aren’t they finishing this?
One of them steps forward—the leader, I assume. He draws a gun from the small of his back and crouches in front of me, waving it casually. “I could finish you off right now.” His voice is deep, unrecognizable, and laced with pure malice.
Fuck this. I’m not going out cowering on the floor.
Desperation and rage fuel my next move. I lunge forward and slam my forehead into his with every ounce of strength I have left, simultaneously wrestling the gun from his grip as he stumbles back, caught off guard.
My whole body screams in protest, my insides shaking as I force myself into a sitting position and raise the pistol at him.
The weight of the gun is warm and familiar in my grip—toofamiliar.
And then I realize why. It’s identical to mine—the one I left in Katie’s car to avoid the metal detectors in the mall. It's an FBI standard-issue sidearm.
They’re federal agents. Just like me.
The shock stuns me long enough that I let the victory of the moment slip away. The leader slaps me across the face and snatches his gun back. My face whips to the side, and more blood fills my mouth. I spit it out before turning back to glare at him.
He’s pissed off now. Maybe I shouldn’t have provoked him. He raises the gun—this time aiming it right at my head—but before he can pull the trigger, the other men surround him, and one of them yanks it from his hand. He lets out an angry growl and storms away.
The remaining five men stare down at Katie and me with what almost looks like hesitation. One of them leans closer and whispers just loud enough for us to hear: “Be careful.”
Then, to my complete amazement, they walk away to catch up with their leader, leaving us alone and bleeding in the parking lot.
I collapse back onto the cold pavement, groaning. Everything hurts. Every breath feels like fire. Katie moans somewhere behind me, and it hits me—we’re both still breathing despite the odds.
We’re alive. Battered and broken, but alive. For now.
“We–we can’t go back home or to the agency, can we?” Katie’s voice is breathy and strained, and I realize she saw the FBI-issued weapon as well.
Then it all crashes into me like a tidal wave.
What the actual fuck? Someone in the bureau wants us dead? Or at least beaten into submission. That text I got rightbefore the ambush—Snitches get stitches.Was this because I went to see Maximo? How did they know so quickly?
Katie was right all along. Someone in the bureau is keeping their eye on me. But who?
Maybe it’s the pain talking, or maybe it’s the blood still ringing in my ears, but while lying here on the frozen ground, tasting my own blood, I finally understand something that should have been obvious from the beginning: in this battle between right and wrong, between the law and criminals, nothing is as black and white as I’d first believed.
And I might need to choose a side.
Not might. Ineedto choose a side. And stick to it. Completely.
No more holding back with Rafael, Maximo, Michael, or Romero. No more trying to balance loyalty to the agency with my own sense of right and wrong. It’s one or the other. I can’t have both.
Even as the thought breaks my heart, I know the choice is already made. I’ve already picked the side I’m sticking on. The side I should have been on all along.
Dim headlights suddenly brighten the lot behind me. The sound of a car door being wrenched open and slammed fills the air, followed by hurried footsteps.
Are they back to finish us?
