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Prologue

It’s funny what crosses the mind when a person is convinced that their own death is imminent. Almost as peculiar as the way some things are forever burnt into a survivor’s memory, while other details evaporate all together.

“This place is a shit hole,” Al whispered over his shoulder, giving a stiff nod toward the graffiti-riddled stairwell.

Gang signs stained the walls with perfect precision.

I grunted, somehow keeping my smile at bay as I tried to antagonize him a bit, “I don’t know, the red-and-neon-green obscenities sprinkled here and there give it a little bit of an artistic flare.”

Al scoffed as he rounded the corner, having gotten used to my humor over the past few weeks. I had every intention of following him, but the soft click of a door behind me abruptly grabbed my full attention.

The exit light flickered, threatening to go out at any given moment. Otherwise, there was nothing unusual in the corridor. As best I could tell, we were the only ones occupying it.

The dull, distinct pop of a twenty-two sounded around the corner and I twitched like I’d been hit. Chills broke out on my arms. I grabbed my assigned service weapon and took a deep breath. The responding gunfire was louder, leaving no mistake that it was Al’s.

I rounded the corner to find him gripping his left shoulder and backing slowly toward me. His attention shifted abruptly around the hall, as did mine. The corridor was as vacant and dim as the one that I’d abandoned.

“This is bad,” I whispered.

“Get out, Patrick!” Al barked.

I shifted, not to run, but rather to confront our six. My lungs momentarily failed at the mere sight of Damien Valentino’s tall frame and the automatic weapon in his hand.

“Pull the trigger, Pat.” The Mediterranean accent behind Damien’s taunt instantly confirmed his identity.

My stomach soured hearing my name on his lips. The fact that he knew it was more daunting than anything I’d faced in all my years as a federal agent.

Through the shock, I knew one thing for certain, a twenty-two was less likely to be lethal than the street sweeper being aimed at us.

“It’s the general,” I warned, as I squeezed the trigger, and flung myself to the side. Al moved with me, our shoulders colliding forcefully with an apartment door just as another dull pop sounded behind me.

The door was in terrible shape to begin with and gave much more easily than anticipated. We tumbled in with little time to shake the shock off. Al groaned, and I grabbed his arm and tugged, encouraging him to recover himself.

“Backup. We need back up, now!” Al’s voice boomed nearby and crackled over my earpiece as he righted himself.

I cringed against the sound and clenched my eyes shut for the span of a single breath.

When I opened them, Damien’s shadow loomed in the doorway. I dove, the adrenaline inside me pumping in competition with the rapid-fire bullets pinging and whizzing about the room.

It was disorientating. The endless, hopeless chaos snuffed my senses, and my efforts to warn anyone. My pulse pounded in my ears until I could no longer hear the startling, final sound of the blasts.

At any minute, the darkness will take me.

Death, or unconsciousness.

I wasn’t sure which would happen first when the room began to spin.

I closed my eyes again, almost welcoming the darkness. I swallowed, finally regaining control of my breath. The pounding in my ears began to sound like a war drum. A predictable, steady beat, a melody almost, which permitted enough reason for me to recall that Al was with me in this hellish mess.

I’d forgotten about him.

I forgot about everything except what it would feel like to take my last breath.

The crisp memory of my family sitting around the kitchen table this morning came violently rushing back to me. The lingering tingle of my wife’s lips against my own as I scurried out the door, surfaced in my mind so vividly that I could smell her perfume.

The sirens outside brought me wholly back to the situation. A sense of relief flooded through me, until I realized how distant it was.

Too far.