Chapter 9 Scorched Testimony

• Rain lashed the grimy alley, mingling with the ash and acrid smoke pouring from Aster’s East Wing. The heat from the inferno was a physical pressure against our backs, even as the icy downpour soaked us to the bone. Cruz hauled me over the slick, graffiti-tagged brick wall, the rough edges tearing at my stolen scrubs. We landed hard in a fetid puddle on the other side, the impact jarring my bruised ribs. Behind us, the muffled whumpf of secondary explosions vibrated through the ground, punctuated by the shriek of bending metal and the hungry roar of the fire devouring Vivian’s evidence – and likely, her hope.
• "Move!" Cruz rasped, his voice raw from smoke and exertion. He grabbed my arm, his grip still strong but trembling slightly. The stolen submachine gun felt alien and heavy in his other hand. He scanned the narrow, rain-slicked service lane we’d dropped into. Dumpsters overflowed, spilling rotten food and medical waste. Steam rose from grates. The sirens were louder now, converging from multiple directions – fire trucks, police, and something lower, more predatory. Unmarked SUVs.
• He pulled me deeper into the shadows, towards the skeletal outline of a derelict delivery van. We crouched behind its rotting tires, catching ragged breaths. Rainwater streamed down Cruz’s face, washing away soot but revealing the pallor beneath, the tight lines of pain around his eyes. He pressed a hand hard against his left side, just below his ribs. Darker stains bloomed across the already wet and filthy scrubs. Not rain.