But this time, there’s no getting rid of the stain of sadness that’s clinging to me. I can’t outrun it, no matter how fast I drive.
It seems I can’t outrun bad news, either, because I’m hardly five minutes away from Dmitry’s house when I see the blinking light in my heads-up helmet display that indicates an incoming call. I growl and tap the button to answer it. “Speak.”
It’s Timofei. His voice is ragged with panic. “We got hit, boss,” he rasps. “The Albanians. Another one.”
“Fuck,” I swear. “How bad?”
“Total loss. You need to get here, sir. Ninety-fifth and Columbus.”
“I’m on my way.”
With a soundless roar into the night, I wrench my bike around one hundred and eighty degrees and head towards the site of yet another catastrophe.