Chapter 4 - The City on Fire
By noon, the television in the corner of Lucia’s small living room was broadcasting the chaos Elias had left behind.
The local news showed police cruisers blocking off the entrance to the midtown parking garage where the ambush had taken place. Yellow crime scene tape fluttered in the damp wind. A sleek, silver-haired man in a bespoke navy suit stood before a battery of microphones.
"Victor Vance," Elias muttered from the worn corduroy armchair where Lucia had helped him relocate. His voice was cold as a cemetery gate.
"Who is he?" Lucia asked, setting down a bowl of warm broth in front of him.
"My underboss," Elias said, his eyes glued to the screen. "The man who organized my security schedule. The only man who knew I was meeting an overseas shipping broker in that garage at midnight."
On the screen, Victor Vance spoke with practiced, solemn grief.
*"The Falcon Corporation is cooperating fully with law enforcement,"* Vance declared into the microphones, dabbing at a non-existent tear. *"While Mr. Falcon remains missing following this cowardly attack, we are preparing for the worst. In the interim, I will assume full executive control of all maritime operations and holdings to ensure stability across the city."*
"He thinks I’m fish food," Elias whispered, a terrifyingly calm smile touching the corners of his mouth. "He staged the hit, wiped my personal detail, and stepped directly into the throne before the blood was dry."
"Then he’ll be looking for your body," Lucia said, the gravity of the situation crashing down on her. "If he didn't find you at the scene, he knows someone took you. He knows you might still be breathing."
"Yes," Elias said. "And Victor doesn't leave loose ends."
He looked up at her. "I need a phone. An untraceable burner. Cash only. No electronics tied to this address."
Lucia hesitated. "There’s a bodega on the corner. The owner sells pre-activated flip phones under the counter."
"Go," Elias said, tossing her three crisp hundred-dollar bills from his money clip. "Buy two phones. A bottle of high-potency broad-spectrum antibiotics from an underground pharmacy if you know one. And watch your back. If you see any black Lincoln Navigators or men idling on street corners with ear-pieces, you walk the other way."
Lucia took the cash. Her stomach twisted with anxiety, but she looked toward her mother’s bedroom door, then back at Elias. "If I bring these back, we make an arrangement. You get your strength back, you call your people, and you get out of my life. My mother cannot be near this."
"You have my word," Elias said quietly. "Keep me alive for three days, Lucia. After that, I will vanish, and you will never have to scrub another floor for the rest of your life."
She pulled on a hooded raincoat and slipped out the back door.
The rain had stopped, replaced by a suffocating, muggy fog that hung over Queens like a shroud. Lucia kept her head down, her heart thumping against her ribs like a trapped bird.
At the bodega, she bought the cheap prepaid phones without making eye contact with the clerk. Three blocks down, behind an unlicensed herbal shop run by an old Dominican woman she had once treated for a compound fracture, she traded two hundred dollars for three blister packs of surgical-grade amoxicillin and sterile saline bags.
As she stepped back onto her street, her instincts—honed by years of surviving in rough neighborhoods—screamed at her.
Parked fifty yards from her apartment entrance was a sleek, black SUV with tinted windows.
Two men sat in the front seat. They were big, thick-necked, wearing dark jackets, their eyes scanning every pedestrian walking up the block. One of them held an iPad, looking down at what appeared to be street-level security camera footage.
*They're already here,* Lucia thought, her breath catching in her throat.
They weren't looking for her specifically—not yet. They were canvassing every vehicle that had exited the Midtown garage's perimeter cameras during the three-minute window after the shooting.
And her rusted Civic was parked in the alley behind her building.
Lucia didn't run. Running attracted wolves.
She turned into a narrow passage between two brownstones, slipped over a rusted chain-link fence with practiced agility, and approached her building from the adjacent fire escape.
She burst through her back door, chest heaving, locking the deadbolt behind her.
"They're outside," she whispered, breathless. "Two men. Black SUV. Canvassing the block."
Elias was already on his feet.
Despite the blinding pain tearing through his newly stitched abdomen, he had stood up, his tall, imposing silhouette dominating the small kitchen. He had reassembled his Kimber .45 on the counter. The slide clicked home with a deadly, mechanical snap.
"Did they see you?" he asked, his voice low, steady, entirely free of panic.
"No. But my car is in the alley. If they run the plates, they get this address."
Elias closed his eyes for a split second, calculating. "We have twenty minutes. Maybe less. Pack your mother's medication, her portable oxygen tanks, and whatever you can carry. We are leaving."
"Where?" Lucia asked, her voice shaking slightly. "I don't have anywhere to go! My mother can't run through the streets!"
Elias limped toward her, his large, scarred hand reaching out, gently but firmly grasping her chin, forcing her to look directly into his slate-gray eyes.
May you like
"Trust me," he said softly. "I haven't survived twenty years in this city without keeping a few ghosts of my own. Pack the bags, Lucia. I won't let them touch you."
***
