Chapter 4 - The North Side’s DebtThe gunfire outside began to thin, replaced by a terrifying, hollow quiet.
I crouched near the shattered window, clutching a heavy metal flashlight I had found in the door pocket like a club. The rain poured through the broken glass, soaking my emerald dress, turning the silk cold and heavy against my skin.
Boots crunched on the gravel outside.
Heavy, slow footsteps approached the rear door of the Lincoln.
“Mrs. Hayes?” a strange voice called out—rough, unfamiliar, smelling of cheap tobacco and blood. “It’s over. Come on out before we have to open the door ourselves.”
I didn't answer. I held my breath, gripping the flashlight until my knuckles turned white.
The door handle rattled.
“Smart girl playing dead,” the voice muttered, as the latch clicked and the door swung open, letting a blast of freezing wind and rain into the car.
A gloved hand reached inside toward my shoulder.
With a scream of adrenaline, I brought the heavy metal flashlight down with all my might across the man’s wrist. He cursed, jerking his hand back just as a deafening roar split the night air.
A bullet punched through the man’s chest from behind, sending him crashing backward into the highway barrier.
Another shadow stepped up to the open door, lowering the smoking barrel of an automatic rifle.
“You okay, Mrs. Hayes?”
I blinked against the rain, staring at a broad-shouldered man in a tactical vest bearing no insignia.
“The counter-sign,” I breathed, raising the flashlight defensively.
The man smiled grimly through the rain. “The winter rain.”
Within thirty seconds, the highway around our wrecked Lincoln was swarming with dozens of men in dark coats—Colin Mercer’s elite security detail. They moved with terrifying efficiency, clearing the wreckage, securing the perimeter, and lifting wounded men into unmarked vans.
A sleek black Mercedes pulled up directly behind our totaled car, and Colin Mercer stepped out, holding a large black umbrella. He wore a dark wool coat, his sandy-brown hair ruffled by the wind, looking more like a concerned executive than a ruthless mafia boss.
He walked over to the open door, offering me his dry hand.
“Are you hurt, Nora?” he asked, his voice genuinely concerned.
I took his hand, letting him pull me out of the shattered wreckage onto the wet asphalt. “I’m... I’m okay. But Declan—he went into the ravine behind the median. There were four of them left.”
Colin’s jaw tightened. He signaled to two of his men. “Sweep the ravine. Bring Hayes up alive. I want a word with him.”
Before the men could move, a dark, blood-streaked figure climbed slowly over the concrete barrier from the embankment below.
It was Declan.
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His charcoal suit was torn, soaked in mud and dark crimson stains that weren't entirely his own. His knuckles were raw and bleeding, his breathing heavy, but his dark eyes locked instantly onto Colin holding my hand.
In a flash of pure, primal fury, Declan lunged forward—ignoring his injuries, ignoring the weapon in his holster—and slammed his fist directly into Colin Mercer’s jaw.
