Page 149 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
I do not watch him fall. I do not linger. The ocean breathes behind him, a hush of tide against dock, oblivious to the silence he has left behind. I move without looking back. My footsteps echo once, then vanish beneath the cry of a gull overhead and the creak of distant sails. I do not run. Running draws attention. Walking with purpose, however, is invisible. That is a lesson I learned a long time ago.
I pass the edge of the marina with my collar turned up, my eyes downcast. The breeze carries salt and the faint scent of diesel. The sky is beginning to darken, and the light is sharp on the water, all copper and blue. I reach the far end of the wharf just as a boat engine coughs to life in the distance. No shouts yet. No alarms. I timed this carefully. The captain will find him in minutes, but by then, I intend to be gone.
I take the service path behind the bait shops, skirting the old marina shed, and that is when I hear it. A footstep that doesn't belong. Light, but not careless. Trained. Close.
I pivot just in time to catch a glimpse of movement. A flash of dark fabric. The glint of a barrel. I dive.
The gunshot cracks through the evening like the snarl of something ancient. It bites into my side, tearing hot through skin and flesh, sending pain lancing up my ribs. I land hard on gravel, teeth clacking together as the world tilts sideways. The breath leaves my lungs in a sharp burst, and the pressure at my side becomes a scream beneath my coat.
Another shot rings out, this one punching through the air where my head was a second before. I roll behind a concrete barrier, blood seeping through my shirt. My fingers shake as they grip the pistol still tucked against my back. I do not fire. I do not waste bullets when I cannot see my target.
Whoever it is, they move quickly. But they do not come closer. Not yet. Maybe they think I am down. Maybe they are checking for witnesses.
I press a hand to my side. Wet. Warm. Too much blood. I grit my teeth and force myself to move, crawling low toward the chain-link gate at the far end of the alley. My coat drags behind me, the lining now soaked. Every breath tastes like copper. The sky narrows to a single strip above me, all bruised twilight and unforgiving wind.
I reach the street. The lights are too bright. Cars blur past indifferently. I stumble into the first alley I find and sag against the wall, heart hammering, vision tilting. I cannot stop. Not here. Not now.
I stagger into motion again, one hand pressed hard against my side, the other gripping the slick metal of my pistol like it might be the only thing holding me upright. My legs feel too far away. My shoulder is slick where the blood is starting to run down. I walk five more blocks, blinking through sweat, until I see the curve of headlights rounding the far bend.
The cab is old, yellowed with age and salt, but real. I step out just enough to wave it down. The driver sees me, hesitates, then pulls over with a grunt. I open the door, fall more than climb into the backseat, and pull it shut.
"You all right?" he asks in accented French.
"Drive," I rasp. "South. Away from the marina."
He looks in the rearview mirror, sees my face, sees the mess on my coat, and makes a decision that I will not forget if I live to repay it. He does not ask again. He drives.
The lights of Corsica blur past in streaks of gold and smoke. My body sags against the seat, pain dulling into something colder now, something that tastes like iron in the back of my throat. I fumble for my phone with fingers that no longer feellike mine. I scroll to her name. The screen blurs once, then sharpens. I press the call button.
It rings. Once. Twice. Then?—
"Enzo?" Her voice. Real. Alive. Soft with sleep, or worry. I cannot tell. It pierces something deep in me.
I close my eyes.
"I'm all right," I say, though it is a lie. "I got him."
A pause. The soft sound of her breath. "Where are you?"
"In a car. Leaving."
"What happened?"
"I took a hit. Side. Clean, I think. But I—" I break off, swallowing against the pressure building in my ribs. "I wanted to hear your voice."
"Enzo—" Her voice cracks. "Where are you exactly? I'll send help?—"
"No. No help. Not yet." My voice drifts, pulled by something I cannot hold back. "I had plans, you know."
"What kind of plans?"
I blink, and the lights blur again. "A farm. Maybe. Somewhere far. Somewhere with trees and sky and silence. You in a dress that doesn't cost a fortune. Gabriel laughing in a yard that isn't guarded. That kind of life."
She says nothing. I hear her breath hitch.
"I wanted to give you that," I whisper. "I really did."
"Then live, Enzo," she says, voice rising. "You hear me? You don't get to promise me dreams and bleed out in the back of some car. You fight. You survive. You come home."
