The aftermath of the shootout was a blur of flashing blue lights and the clinical smell of latex and antiseptic. The St. Regis garage, usually a silent sanctuary for luxury cars, had been transformed into a crime scene.
I stood by the service exit, clutching Leo so tightly to my chest that he let out a small, muffled protest in his sleep. I watched as the San Francisco police escorted a limping Silas toward a waiting cruiser. His face was a mask of cold fury, but even under the harsh glare of the police floodlights, he looked small. He had traded his honor for a payout that he would never get to spend. Behind him, the other traitor was shoved into a separate van, his head bowed in shame.
"Doctor?"
I turned to see Justin. He was the one who had stood his ground, the one who had fired the shot that saved us. He looked tired, his tactical vest dusted with concrete debris.
