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Twenty-five minutes Thor bled.
Twenty-five minutes Ethan lost tracking Star.
Max was unusually quiet, which meant he was working fast.
They pulled up to the emergency vet. The staff was already waiting. Ethan laid Thor on the gurney, leaning down to press his forehead against his dog’s snout before they wheeled him away. He signed the forms without reading them, his mind already moving to the next step.
Bianca tossed him her keys. "Go get Star."
Ethan caught them, turning toward the door.
"Ethan."
He stopped and looked back. Bianca’s expression was dark, her Italian blood simmering.
"Don’t let them get away with this," she said, voice low and deadly. "Go old-school Italian on those fuckers."
A slow nod was his only response before he broke into a run.
"Max," he growled, sliding into the car. "I’m en route. What do you have?"
“I found the van.”
“Where?” Ethan started the car and peeled out of the parking lot for the emergency vet.
Max gave him the address, and Ethan gripped the steering wheel, his fingers flexing against the smooth leather as he pressed the gas, threading his way through the quiet, tree-lined streets of Ditmas Park. The Victorian homes blurred past in muted tones beneath the soft glow of streetlamps, their gabled roofs casting angular shadows against the night sky.
Max’s voice crackled through the Bluetooth. “Take a hard right onto Cortelyou Road. Watch for that damn speed bump and then gun it toward Coney Island Avenue.”
Ethan shifted gears, responding with a deep growl as he swerved onto Cortelyou, barely missing a slow-moving cyclist. The businesses along the road consisted of late-night diners, bodega windows glowing with fluorescent light, and a few bars with patrons spilling onto the sidewalks. That all became a blur as he accelerated. The streets there weren’t packed, but a few double-parked cars forced him to weave through tight gaps.
“Coney’s clear for now,” Max continued. “But you’ll want to take Beverley Road instead of staying on Cortelyou. NYPD’s got a patrol car idling near Ocean Parkway.”
Ethan cut left onto Beverley, past the rows of brownstones and apartment buildings, his headlights sweeping across the occasional pedestrian bundled against the night chill. The air smelled of rain-slicked pavement, exhaust, and the lingering scent of food from a halal cart on the corner. Traffic was light, but not nonexistent—rideshare drivers idled at stop signs, and a city bus lumbered along, its brake lights flaring red.
“Max, where’s the damn van?” Ethan bit out, his pulse hammering.
“They’re stopped on Flatbush Avenue near the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. They’ve been parked for five minutes. You need to push it, man.”
Ethan gunned it onto Flatbush, where traffic thickened. Cars crawled toward the Manhattan Bridge, headlights gleaming in sluggish red streams. He maneuvered between cabs and sedans, his knuckles white on the wheel as he shot through a yellow light at Grand Army Plaza.
“Hold up,” Max warned. “You’re about to hit congestion near Atlantic Avenue. Stay right, cut through the parking lot at that store at 7th Ave, then take Dean Street to bypass the worst of it.”
Ethan didn’t hesitate, swerving into the lot, tires screeching against the pavement as he dodged a startled pedestrian. Dean Street was narrower but clear, allowing him to push forward without the bottleneck of Flatbush.
“How much farther do I have?” Ethan demanded.
“Two minutes, maybe less. They’re still there, but if they move, I can’t guarantee I’ll keep a clean lock on their route. I’m jumping satellites to keep coverage. I jump in three minutes.”
Ethan’s gut clenched. Two minutes. He could make it. He had to.
He tore through the intersection at Carlton Avenue, past the looming Barclays Center, then slammed the accelerator, surging toward the last stretch before Manhattan. Star was close. And nothing would stop him from getting to her.
Ethan braked hard, Bianca’s car jerking to a stop a few feet from the dark van parked near the curb. The hazard lights blinked in steady pulses, casting an eerie glow over the slick pavement. Rain misted the air, dampening the scent of oil and exhaust that lingered in the night.
He killed the engine and was out in seconds, his boots splashing through a shallow puddle as he approached the vehicle. His pulse pounded in his ears. He peeked through the back window. Nothing there. Star had been in there.Had been.
He wrenched the driver’s door open. The metallic stench of blood hit him first, thick and suffocating. The driver slumped forward, head tilted at an unnatural angle, a neat bullet hole just behind his ear. Blood had leaked onto his collar, darkening the fabric beneath the dim streetlights.