Page 43 of Sinner's Secret

It’s always been the something that was the problem.

Better make popcorn, it should be a good show.

Stop texting and drive to your execution. Idiot.

Baz said goodbye to Joe, left through the backdoor, and got into his cab. He wasn’t that far from the zoo now, so he’d be there long before the thirty-minute deadline.

The streets weren’t too clogged, but rush hour traffic wouldn’t be long arriving.

He stopped at a red light behind a minivan. When it turned green, the van accelerated through the intersection and Baz followed. As he reached the center of the intersection, he saw something large coming at him from the left.

He had a full second to take in a large transport truck traveling much too fast running the red light.

It slammed into his car with an awful metal screech and crunch. The airbag in his steering wheel inflated with a bang but did little to cushion the impact.

It hurt. The pain smashed into him as if a brick the size and weight of a house had been dropped onto him. Unfortunately, he stayed conscious, stunned, but aware that the man driving the truck that hit his car was grinning from ear to ear.

Baz focused on the man’s face. Square and flat. Thick neck. Tattoos roped around the base of his neck and disappeared under his shirt.

He had another two seconds to realize that the momentum of the impact was pushing him and his car toward another large truck on the other side of the intersection.

Chapter Eight

“How is this guy still alive?” a male voice asked, disbelief making his voice crack.

“I guess this wasn’t his day,” someone else answered.

There was a bump and an abrupt stop.

“Damn potholes,” the second voice muttered. “Making it impossible to put in this IV line.”

Huh, he was in an ambulance. How had he...shit, he’d been crushed by those two trucks bad enough to put him out for the first time in centuries.

Something hard and cold encircled his neck. A brace?

Baz opened his eyes and looked around as much as the neck brace he wore would allow. Two men, one on either side of the gurney he was on, and a third person driving.

One of the paramedics shifted closer to his head and moved to put something close to his face. The paramedic pressed on Baz’s chin with his palm, a plastic appliance of some sort in this other hand.

They were going to intubate him.

“No, thank you,” Baz said. Geez, his voice sounded terrible, like he’d been kicked in the Adam’s apple.

The man jerked back. “Holy...” he said under his breath. “Sir,” he said with more volume. “Can you tell me your name?”

Great, he was going to have to prove he wasn’t brain damaged. Given the last thing he remembered, crashing into another large truck, he’d probably sustained some injuries to his head.

The curse of the Sweating Sickness had already repaired some of the damage.

“Bazyli Breznik,” he croaked out. “I drive a Yellow Cab.”

He was asked the current date, day of the week, and his birthday. He had to think about that last one for an extra second or two since he couldn’t give them the real one. He had to provide a date that matched his ID.

“Don’t stick that thing down my throat,” Baz said to the paramedic. At the man’s concerned expression Baz added, “Please.”

The medic set the appliance down somewhere close by and stuck the earpieces for his stethoscope in his ears. He listened to Baz’s chest, a deepening frown on his face.

“Lungs sound...good?” The guy sounded surprised. He pressed gloved hands against Baz’s chest, palpating, then moved lower and around the sides of his rib cage.

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