The Bloodline of Boston and the Secrets Hidden Beneath Sullivan Diner
The cold rain hit my face like a dozen needles.
I landed in a puddle of muddy water, my knees stinging.
I scrambled to my feet and grabbed the carrier.
The alley was dark, lit only by the flickering amber glare of a streetlamp at the corner.
I ran.
The rain poured down in sheets, soaking through my thin uniform.
The weight of the twins pulled at my shoulders, but adrenaline kept my legs moving.
I slipped on the wet cobblestones, nearly losing my balance, but gripped the plastic handle tighter.
In my right hand, the heavy silver key bit into my palm.
I squeezed it until the metal edges cut into my skin.
I made it to the end of the alley and ducked behind a row of overflowing trash bins.
A black sedan sat idling at the curb, its headlights cutting through the downpour.
Men in dark overcoats were getting out of the vehicle.
They didn’t see me in the shadows.
I turned the opposite way, running down the narrow passage toward the street where my old Honda Civic was parked.