Page 28

I draw my gun as I scan the living room. Furniture overturned, drawers emptied onto the floor, pictures smashed. Someone tore this place apart looking for something. “I think I might know why the other signature wasn’t as hot. I smell blood.”

I edge left, gun raised, following the strengthening iron scent around a partial wall divider. My boot connects with something solid, and I glance down.

“Fuck.”

Ricky lies sprawled on his back. His shirt is now crimson, soaked through with blood still seeping from multiple stab wounds across his chest and abdomen. The pool beneath him spreads across the cheap laminate flooring, dark and viscous.

“Alex, Ricky's down. Multiple stab wounds.”

“Is he alive?”

I drop to my knees beside him, pressing my hand against the worst of the wounds, though I know it's clear he is hanging on by a thread. His blood is warm and slick between my fingers, but his skin is cooling and his chest barely rising.

“Ricky, who did this? Who was here?” I demand, leaning close to his face.

His lips move, bubbles of blood forming at the corners of his mouth. The gurgling sound from his throat sends ice through my veins. He's drowning in his own blood.

“Stay with me,” I hiss, tapping his cheek with my free hand. “Focus. Who did this to you?”

His eyes drift, then lock onto mine with sudden clarity. His bloody hand shoots up, grabbing my wrist with surprising strength.

“C-Collector,” he chokes out, the name clear despite the wetness in his voice.

“What about the Collector?” I stop myself before I shake the dying man before me. He has minutes, if that, left based on the blood pooling around him. I need fucking answers. “Come on, Ricky. Tell me what you know.”

His lips part again, but this time only blood spills out. The grip on my wrist slackens as the light fades from his eyes, pupils dilating until they're almost black. One final, rattling breath escapes his lungs, and then...nothing.

“Fuck!” I slam my fist against the floor, blood spattering across my sleeve. “Goddammit!”

“Oz? What's happening?” Alex's voice cuts through my rage.

“Ricky's dead.” I stand, blood dripping from my gloves, creating a macabre pattern on the floor. “Said something about the Collector before he died.”

“Shit.” Alex pauses. “I'm landing the drone now and coming to you. Don't touch anything else. Two minutes.”

I scan the apartment again, careful not to disturb the scene more than I already have. The sound of footsteps in the hallway alerts me. I shift my position, drawing my gun from my ankle holster, until Alex's familiar silhouette appears in the doorway.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, gloved hands pulling the door closed behind him. He scans the room before settling on Ricky's corpse.

Alex crouches beside the body, tilting his head as he examines the wounds. His latex-covered fingers hover over but don't touch the torn fabric of Ricky's shirt.

“Military-grade combat knife,” he says, his voice clinical. “Serrated edge, probably six inches. Look at the entry wounds—clean initial puncture with jagged tearing on the exit.” He points to a particularly nasty wound near Ricky's sternum. “Whoever did this knew exactly where to strike for maximum damage.”

“He didn’t stand a chance,” I say, the sharp scent of blood growing more suffocating with each breath.

Alex's fingers ghost over Ricky's wrist. “Still warm. Blood hasn't fully congealed. We missed them by minutes, Oz. Maybe ten minutes, tops.”

“I was outside for twenty minutes, Alex. I didn’t see anyone come or go from the building.”

“They knew another way out,” Alex says, crossing to the kitchen. He pulls back a tattered curtain, revealing a metal escape ladder just beyond the window. “This building backs onto an alley.”

I move closer, careful not to touch the broken glass as I peer down. The narrow structure glints faintly in the moonlight—an exit, if we’re quick.

“There’s a back way down,” Alex confirms. “Leads straight to the alley. Talon?”

“Already scanning,” comes the response through our comms. “Alley’s clear. No movement.”

“Shit,” I growl.