Jesus. Effing. Christ.
I can’t catch my breath, can’t slow my heart, as Win starts weaving in and out of the 14th Street traffic. He throws a glance back at me, and the car does a little swerve into the closest lane. “What did you think would happen? That you’d just burrow your little rat face into the Den and keep McEvoy apprised? That he’d protect you when push came to shove?” Win laughs. “He’s a junkie, and moreover a jackal. He’s never known what loyalty is, and he treats his people like trash. Which is why he’s at the bottom of the Potomac, floating alone right now.”
“Well,” Dawson says, “not alone for long,” and the entire crowd starts laughing.
I’m going to be sick.
“Howie,” I whisper to my old cell mate. “Howie, you don’t want to do this.”
“Oh, but I do, Alex.” Howie puts his arm around my shoulder, maybe for the last time. He looks around the car, then drops his voice to a whisper, “You always thought you were so much better than me. So when I found out you were a rat for McEvoy, spying on my cousin and Mr. Gunn?” As he leans in, his greasy hair brushes my shoulders. “I begged them to let me ride along.” Howie stretches his thin legs out long under the seat in front of him, while I just get tighter and tighter. Then he leans in and adds, “Traitor.”
I turn away from him, blood pounding against my skull, my fear so intense I start seeing bright-white spots against the leather seats of Win’s car. Have they already told Gunn about me spying for McEvoy? They must have. Will Gunn think Joan knew about it? Will he punish her because of it?
I close my eyes. I can’t think about that. She has to survive this.
She has to walk away.
Win slows at another traffic light. I look past Howie, out the window and a few blocks ahead. We’re almost at the edge of town. There are about five more blocks until we’re on the Highway Bridge, on a long road to an endless nothing.
I can’t think, all my thoughts are just one long silent cry—I’m going to die this is it this is real—
But my fingers start to twitch, and my will to go down fighting takes over. Should I take them out with magic? Conjure knives, and send them flying? If Gunn found out, would he hurt me by hurting Joan?
I can’t take the risk. Besides, I’m not a murderer, or a criminal—I’m charged with taking guys like these animals down.
So I focus on the window, watch the traffic light from the other direction flip from green to yellow to red. “Duck, Howie,” I whisper.
“What?”
“Shatter.”
Our car begins moving, while Howie’s window breaks into a million pieces, shards of glass flying into his face, his hair. He closes his eyes, burrows his head—
“What the hell!” he screams.
I send a sharp elbow into the eye of the guy on my left, and then I turn and jab my fist into Howie’s face. Blood starts gushing out of Howie’s nose as he doubles over.
“What’s going on back there?!” Win keeps his hands on the wheel but whips his head around to look at me as Dawson scrambles to grab my shirt. I shrug Dawon off, kick him in the stomach, and send him careening back—
People start beeping behind us, and Win turns back to the wheel and steps on the gas.
I focus on the road ahead, conjure a thick brick wall to stack itself five feet tall in front of us. Before Win can brake, the car smashes into it, and we all snap back against our seats—
And that’s when I scramble over Howie.
“Grab him, Howie! Just do it now!” Win barks. He throws his car into reverse, but before Howie can get a clear hold on me, I jump through the open window.
A rush of pain and cold wind snaps at my body as cars beep and drivers scream. Tires screech as Win pulls his car over to the shoulder ahead of me. I pick myself off the road, hip throbbing, face pounding, and dash between two cars just as Win’s jumping out of his. I trip over a set of trash cans that line a row of storefronts on the other side of the National Mall, and cut into the alley behind them.
“I just heard him!”
“Over there.”
“Behind the alley, move!”
Footsteps pound the cement behind me, a chorus of angry shouts—“Get back here, you little shit!”
“It’s worse if you run!”
The sound of bullets roars through the sky.
I sprint down the alley, turn a sharp bend around a brick corner grocery, push myself inside, and conjure the door to lock behind me. I nearly collide with the dodgy storekeeper, a large, tired-looking man who jumps out of my way.
“Stay back!” The grocer backs away, hands up, face frozen with fear, toward the counter. “I don’t serve no sorcerers, you hear? I want no trouble.”
“Is there a roof?” I gasp, as I steady myself on one of his shelves for a second.
“Don’t speak to me, hell spawn!” The grocer covers his ears.