Page 220 of Bitter’s Sweet

CSI speaks again. “Last clean camera has her heading toward the old plant. Razor comes in six seconds behind. Then the feed loops.”

That's enough.

I hang up.

Nevermore immediately texts:

Two minutes behind you. DO NOT BE A HERO.

I nearly laugh.

Wrong brother.

I run.

The carnival is still happening.

That is the fucked-up part.

Music pounds near the cider lane. Kids wave plastic bones. Tourists buy T-shirts. Somebody cheers near the grave-digging demonstration while my entire world runs down a narrow access road toward an abandoned concrete plant.

Sweet is gone.

That is all I see.

I cut behind the coffin photo booth.

Skibidi comes running from the opposite lane.

“Bitter!”

I stop long enough to grab his shoulders. “You see her?”

His face is white. “Pink shoes. She went this way. I saw her near the cider truck.”

“With Razor?”

“I didn't know it was him. He had some volunteer shirt over his cut at first. Then he pulled it off near the trucks. Black helmet.”

“How long?”

“Few minutes.”

I release him. “Find Hyde. Tell him fake volunteer shirt, dump road. Then get back around civilians.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go.”

He runs.

I keep moving.

Festival noise dies by degrees behind me. First the music, then generators, then voices. Soon there is only gravel beneath my boots, wind through cedar, and my own breathing.

The old concrete plant rises through the trees like something dead that forgot to fall down. Broken walls. Rusted beams. Weeds splitting slabs.

I pull my gun.