Ethan lay on the floor for a moment, his chest heaving.

He slowly got to his feet, his coat torn and covered in grey slush.

He walked over to our car and leaned against the doorframe, his face pale and marked with scratches.

“Are you okay?” he asked, looking at Lauren and then at me.

“We’re okay,” I said. “But Vance got away.”

“He won’t get far,” Paul said, wiping the blood from his forehead with his sleeve.

“The police have the exit blocked.”

The sirens grew louder, the red and blue lights filling the garage as three police cruisers descended the ramp.

Officers jumped out, their weapons drawn.

“Don’t move!” one of them shouted.

Ethan raised his hands slowly, his face calm in the flashing lights.

“My name is Ethan Caldwell,” he said.

“The man you want just left in a black SUV.”

An officer ran past us toward the ramp, while two others approached Ethan.

I looked at the gold pen lying on the concrete, its polished surface scratched and dull.

The long night was far from over.