Chapter 21 No Mask
TWENTY-ONE
NO MASK
TROY
Ihit the pavement running before Dmitri finished braking.
The SUV was still rolling when I yanked the door open and launched myself out, boots slamming concrete and legs already pumping. The motorcycle was three blocks ahead, weaving through traffic with its engine screaming.
“Troy, wait!” Luka's voice cut through the open door behind me.
I didn't slow down.
The figure on the bike glanced back. Even through the helmet, I felt them clock my pursuit. Then the bike surged forward, jumped a curb, and cut down an alley too narrow for vehicles.
I followed and hit the alley at full speed, boots splashing through puddles that soaked through my jeans. Brick and concrete closed in on both sides, creating a canyon of shadow with dirty snow piled at the edges, gray and half-melted, turning the ground slick.
The motorcycle was faster but limited by the tight space, forced to slow for turns and navigate around dumpsters and debris while I could go anywhere.
I vaulted over a stack of pallets and turned the landing into forward momentum.
Ahead, the bike skidded around a corner with its rear tire sliding out before catching again.
My lungs burned and my ribs screamed from the sparring two days ago, but I ignored both and focused on closing the distance.
The alley opened onto a side street and the bike shot through without checking for traffic, horns blaring as I burst out seconds later and caught a flash of black half a block up, turning left. I ran into traffic and dodged between cars, a taxi nearly clipping me, the driver leaning on his horn.
Another alley opened up, wider this time with loading docks on both sides. The bike was maybe fifty yards ahead and I was gaining.
The figure looked back again and saw how close I'd gotten. They ditched the bike, just dropped it mid-movement and rolled, letting the motorcycle slide away in a shower of sparks while they came up running like someone who'd been trained for exactly this.
Now we were both on foot and I pushed harder, everything narrowing to the figure ahead in black clothes and a black helmet, broad-shouldered and moving with a control that said this wasn't their first time being chased.
They cut right and I followed, ending up in a service corridor between buildings barely wide enough for one person. Ahead, I heard metal clanging and looked up to find them already on a fire escape, climbing fast.
I hit the ladder at speed and started climbing, three rungs at a time. The figure reached the first landing without slowing and I hit it seconds later and kept going. Second floor, third, fourth. The building was six stories and they weren't stopping.
My forearms screamed but I tightened my grip and kept climbing because stopping meant losing them. At the fifth floor, the figure swung onto the landing and ran for the roof access. I was one floor behind, hearing their boots hit metal above me and then the door at the top bang open.
I reached the top landing and threw myself through.
The rooftop was flat and graveled with HVAC units humming and water towers creating a maze of obstacles.
Snow was falling, light but steady, catching in the security lights and turning the gravel pale.
The city spread out below in a blur of neon and sodium glow, orange and pink bleeding into the white.
The figure was already halfway across, heading for the edge.
I sprinted and watched them hit it and leap. They cleared the gap to the next building, landed in a roll, and came up running. The gap was maybe ten feet, maybe twelve, and too far to clear without fully committing.
I hit the edge without slowing and launched.
For one perfect second I was airborne, wind rushing past, Chicago spread out below in a blur of lights, my stomach dropping as my brain screamed that I'd miscalculated.
Then I hit the other side and my hands caught the edge, my body slamming into the wall, pain exploding through my ribs as I scrabbled for purchase with my fingers digging into concrete and my legs kicking. I pulled myself up, rolled over the edge, and came up gasping.
The figure had stopped and was standing thirty feet away, watching and waiting.
I got to my feet on shaking legs, hands bleeding, ribs feeling like they'd cracked again. I could taste copper, and none of it mattered. I started walking toward them. “Nowhere left to run.”
They didn't respond, just stood there with the helmet still on and every feature still anonymous. Then they moved, not away but toward me.
They came at me fast, a jab-cross-hook I barely blocked, every strike landing with the weight of serious training behind it. I slipped the hook and countered with a low kick they checked. We broke apart and circled, both breathing hard, our breath fogging in the cold air between us.
This wasn't a hired hand. This was someone who knew exactly what they were doing.
They pressed forward with a spinning back fist I ducked under, but their follow-up knee caught me in the ribs, the already damaged ones, and pain whited out my vision for a beat.
I stumbled back but they didn't give me space to recover, just kept coming with combination after combination, testing my defense and hunting for openings.
I blocked what I could, took what I couldn't, and let them push me back while I read their rhythm and waited.
They threw a high kick with beautiful technique and I caught their leg, twisted, and used their momentum to take them down. They hit the gravel hard but rolled immediately and came up with a knife in their hand.
Of course they had a fucking knife.
They came at me with fast slashes designed to open me up and I backed away with my hands up, watching the blade.
When they lunged, I sidestepped, grabbed their wrist, and drove my elbow into their face.
The helmet took most of the impact but their head snapped back, and I twisted their wrist harder until I felt bones grind and the knife fell.
I kicked it away, drove my knee into their midsection, and followed with a punch to the ribs. They absorbed it, grabbed my jacket, and headbutted me.
The helmet turned their skull into a weapon. My nose exploded with the impact, blood pouring down my face as I staggered back. They pressed the advantage and threw me toward an HVAC unit, my back hitting metal, the impact driving the air from my lungs.
They were on me before I could recover, hands around my throat, squeezing and cutting off air. My vision started going gray as I clawed at their hands and couldn't break the grip.
I stopped fighting the hold and went for the helmet instead. My fingers found the edge, dug under the rim, and yanked. The helmet resisted, the chin strap holding, but I yanked harder and felt the strap give.
Dark hair spilled out, and a face I knew appeared.
It was Rafael.
The world stopped. My brain refused to connect the helpful business partner, the concerned friend, the man who'd been part of Declan's life for years, with the person currently choking me to death.
The disbelief cost me everything.
Rafael saw the recognition, saw the shock, saw me freeze, and used all of it. His grip tightened and he drove his knee into my ribs again, the same spot, the already damaged bones. I gasped, my body trying to pull in air that wouldn't come.
Rafael leaned in close, his face calm and almost gentle. “Hello, Troy.”
His voice was normal. Friendly. The same one he'd used at the bar and every time he'd pretended to be something worth trusting.
Fury burned through the shock and replaced it entirely.
I stopped trying to break the choke and went for his eyes instead, thumbs driving toward his face. He jerked his head back and the grip on my throat loosened enough that I could drive my forehead into his face and feel his nose crunch.
He released me and I dropped, catching myself on my hands and knees on the gravel. I sucked in air that tasted like blood and rage, snow melting around me and mixing with what was dripping from my face, turning the pale gravel pink.
Rafael staggered back. Blood poured from his nose. He touched it, looked at his red fingers, and smiled. “There you are. I was wondering when you'd stop being shocked and start being you.”
I got to my feet on shaking legs, vision swimming. “You. This whole time. It was you.”
“Yes.” Simple and unashamed.
“Why?”
“Does it matter?” He wiped blood from his face.
“Fuck you.” I moved toward him, every step deliberate. “You're not walking away from this.”
“I'm not?” His smile widened. “Troy, I've been walking away from things for years. I'm very good at it.”
He moved fast, grabbed a canister from behind one of the HVAC units, and threw it. A smoke grenade hit the gravel and started spewing thick gray smoke that mixed with the falling snow, and within seconds I couldn't see three feet in front of me.
I heard footsteps moving away fast.
I lunged forward blindly, hands catching nothing but smoke and cold air, kept moving and kept searching until my foot hit the edge of the roof and I stopped just in time, looking down at six stories of empty air.
The smoke started clearing and I spun to scan the rooftop, finding nothing but HVAC units and the abandoned helmet lying in the gravel, snow already dusting it white.
Rafael was gone.
“FUCK!” The word tore out of my throat, raw and furious and helpless.
I heard an engine and looked over the edge to see a black sedan pulling away from the building, Rafael behind the wheel. He looked up, made eye contact, smiled, and was gone.
I stood there at the edge breathing hard, blood dripping from my nose, hands clenched into fists so tight my nails were drawing blood from my palms. Snow kept falling, catching in the security lights, turning the rooftop into something out of a film I didn't want to be in.