6

I hit the gravel hard.

My knees slam into the tar paper. The impact jars my teeth, sending a bolt of white-hot pain up my spine. I roll, clutching the ledger to my chest like a shield.

I don't stop. I can't.

"She made it!" The voice from the other roof is faint over the roar of the rain. "Circle back! Cut her off at the street!"

I scramble to my feet. My ankle screams in protest, but adrenaline is a hell of a drug. I limp-run toward the fire escape on the far side of the building.

The rain is torrential now. It sheets down in icy curtains, soaking my clothes instantly. My hair plasters to my face, blinding me.

I reach the iron ladder and swing over the edge. The metal is slick with moss and water. I lose my footing on the first step, sliding three rungs down before my grip holds. The rust bites into my palms.

I drop the last six feet to the alley floor. My boots splash into a puddle of oil and mud.

The alley is a dark throat, swallowing the little light from the streetlamps.

I run.

My breath tears at my lungs. Every shadow looks like a man with a gun. Every sound is a bootstep behind me.

I fumble for my phone—my real one, not Nikos’s burner. My fingers are wet and shaking so bad I almost drop it in the muck.

I dial the only number I know by heart besides my husband’s.

It rings once.

"Talk."

Drakon’s voice. calm. lethal.

"Reapers," I gasp, my voice cracking. "Alley behind my building. They're chasing me."

I hear a sound in the background. The distinct, metallic snick of a slide being racked.

"Where are you exactly?"

"North end. Heading toward... toward 4th."

"Run to the main road," he commands. "Don't stop. Do not hide. I need to see you to cover you."

"Drakon, they have guns—"

"I said run, Thalia!"

The line goes dead.

I shove the phone into my pocket and pump my arms. My chest burns. The ledger is a heavy brick against my ribs, but I don't let go. It’s the only leverage I have.

Vroom.

The sound of an engine revving echoes off the brick walls. It’s close. Too close.

A headlight sweeps across the alley entrance ahead of me.

I skid to a halt.

Two bikes block the exit. Riders in black hoodies. Reapers.

I spin around.

Another bike is idling at the other end, blocking my retreat.

Trapped.

I look for a door, a window, anything. There’s a dumpster pushed against the wall. I scramble behind it, putting the rusted metal between me and the headlights.

It’s pathetic cover.

"Come out, little widow!" one of them shouts. "We just want to talk!"

I crouch in the mud, hugging the ledger. The smell of rotting garbage and wet cardboard fills my nose.

"Go to hell!" I scream back.

"Have it your way."

I hear boots crunching on glass. They’re coming.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I think of the baby I might never have. I think of the life I wasted on a liar.

ROAR.

It’s not the whine of a crotch rocket. It’s a deep, chest-rattling thunder.

A black shape drifts around the corner of the alley, tires screeching on the wet pavement.

The bike is massive. A beast of matte black steel.

The rider doesn't slow down. He accelerates toward the Reapers blocking the exit.

They scramble, diving off their bikes as the black Harley plows through them. Metal screeches against metal. Sparks shower the alley like fireworks.

The rider skids to a halt ten feet from me. He plants a boot on the ground, stabilizing the bike.

Drakon.

He’s not wearing a helmet. His dark hair is plastered to his skull. His face is a mask of pure, concentrated violence.

In his right hand, he holds a revolver. It’s huge. A hand cannon.

He doesn't look at me. He looks at the Reaper scrambling to his feet.

BOOM.

The gunshot is deafening in the enclosed space. It sounds like a bomb going off. The smell of gunpowder instantly overpowers the rain and the rot.

The Reaper dives back behind his bike, shouting in panic.

Drakon turns his head. His eyes find mine in the shadows behind the dumpster.

"Get on."

It’s not a request.

I scramble out from the muck, slipping on the wet asphalt. I run to him.

"The ledger," I pant, holding it up.

He grabs my arm, his grip bruising. He hauls me up onto the seat behind him like I weigh nothing.

"Wrap your arms around me," he yells over the engine. "Tight."

"Drakon, there's more of them—"

He revs the engine. The bike vibrates between my thighs, a terrifying amount of power waiting to be unleashed.

He looks back at me over his shoulder. Rain drips from his beard. His eyes are black holes.

"Hold on tight, Thalia," he growls. "Or you die tonight."

He releases the clutch.

The bike launches forward, throwing my head back. We tear out of the alley, leaving the chaos behind us, disappearing into the storm.