We broke free into the open street, accelerating rapidly away from the exit ramp.

Behind us, several more gunshots fired, but the sounds grew distant as Victor sped into the dark.

I lay still beneath Arthur’s weight for several long blocks.

The only sounds were the heavy breathing of the three of us and the deep hum of the engine.

“Are we clear?” Arthur asked.

His voice was strained, tighter and lower than usual.

“For now, sir,” Victor said, his eyes scanning the mirrors.

“They are not following. I am taking the alternate route.”

Arthur slowly lifted himself off me, his movements cautious.

I sat up, brushing tiny fragments of safety glass from my hair and shoulders.

My hands were shaking so violently I had to ball them into fists.

Arthur sat back against the headrest, his face unusually pale under the passing streetlights.

His left hand was pressed tightly against his right shoulder.

Dark fluid was already soaking through the fabric of his gray wool coat.

“You’re hurt,” I said, reaching toward him.

“It is a scratch,” he said, pulling away slightly.