Read Chapter 36: The Sacrifice

The revolver’s muzzle was a black eye staring at Walter from six feet away. Jack’s hand shook, but his finger was white on the trigger.

“You lied,” Jack said, voice cracking. “Doc died for you. For this crew. And you’ve been playing us the whole time.”

Sal raised both palms. “Jack. Put it down. We’re still together. We can still—”

“Shut up, Sal.” Jack’s jaw muscles bunched. “He used us. Used Doc. Used all of us so he could burn his own life down and call it revenge.”

Walter kept his hands at his sides, fingers loose. He’d faced worse than a shaking gun. At least that’s what he told himself.

“Doc died because DeVries killed him,” Walter said slowly. “Not because of me. The same man who’s about to gut every bank in this country if we don’t move the evidence by dawn. You want to shoot me, Jack, that’s your right. But the clock’s ticking.”

“Don’t you talk about Doc.” Jack’s voice rose to a near-shriek. “You don’t get to say his name.”

Something moved behind Jack’s shoulder. Phelps, still slumped against the wall, had shifted. His hand, pale and trembling, disappeared beneath the fold of his coat.

Walter met Sal’s eyes, and she saw it too. Her face went tight.

“Jack,” Sal said, softer now, almost gentle. “Let me take the gun. We’ll sort this out. We’ll get you a drink. We’ll figure it out like we always do.”

Jack’s chin quivered. For a moment, it looked like he might actually lower the revolver. His eyes flicked to Sal, and the hardness in them broke apart into something small and scared.

That was when Phelps fired.

The shot ripped through the close air of the safe house, deafening in the tiny room. Jack screamed, the revolver clattering to the floor, his hand flying to his shoulder where blood bloomed in a dark flower across his shirt. He staggered back, eyes wide with shock and betrayal.

“You—” Jack gasped, looking at Phelps, then at Walter, then at the blood on his fingers. “You brought him here to kill me.”

“To stop you,” Phelps said, voice thin but steady, the little derringer still smoking in his grip. “There’s a difference.”

But Jack wasn’t listening. He lunged, wild and blind with rage, driving his good shoulder into Walter’s chest. The two of them crashed into the window. Old glass groaned, and the frame splintered.

Walter grabbed for the sill, felt the wood bite into his palms. Jack clawed at his coat, shoving, screaming incoherent curses. For one sickening second, Walter’s feet left the floor, and he saw the alley below, three stories down, rushing up toward him.

Then Sal’s hands locked around his arm, hauling him back inside. Jack’s grip on Walter’s coat broke.

Jack’s momentum carried him forward. His boots slipped on the crumbling sill. His mouth opened—a wordless, stunned cry—and then he was gone.

The sound of the impact was wet and final. It came up through the floorboards like a heartbeat that had just stopped.

Walter lay on the floor, chest heaving, Sal’s arm still wrapped around his. The room was silent. Phelps lowered the derringer, his face gray.

Outside, a dog began barking. Somewhere in the distance, a car backfired.

Sal released him and walked slowly to the broken window. She looked down, and her face did something Walter had never seen before—it cracked, wide open, and then sealed over like a scar forming in seconds.

“He’s gone,” she said. No accusation. No tears. Just a fact.

Walter pushed himself up, dust and glass grit biting into his palms. His ribs screamed where Jack had slammed into him. He limped to the window and looked down. Jack lay sprawled on the cobblestones, his arm bent at a wrong angle, blood pooling black in the moonlight.

Walter forced himself to look. He owed Jack that much.

“He was going to kill you,” Phelps said quietly from behind him. “You know that, right?”

Walter didn’t answer. He turned to find Sal staring at him, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke.

“I’m done,” Sal finally said. Her voice was hollow. “You finish it, Walter. You finish what you started, or his death means nothing. You hear me?”

Walter nodded. His throat was too tight for words.

He crossed to where Phelps sat, the satchel of documents still at his feet. Walter picked it up, checked the seal, and slung the strap over his shoulder.

“Can you walk?” he asked Phelps.

Phelps took a breath, gripped the wall, and pulled himself upright. “I can walk.”

They moved to the door. Sal hadn’t moved from the window. Her back was to them, her reflection a ghost in the broken glass.

“Sal,” Walter said.

“Don’t.” Her voice was flat. “Just go.”

Walter left the safe house with Phelps at his side, limping down the back stairs and into the alley. He didn’t look back at the window, and he didn’t look at the shape at the end of the alley as they climbed into a waiting car.

The satchel was heavy on his shoulder. The dawn was two hours away.

He didn’t speak until they’d put six blocks between themselves and the body.

“I’m sorry,” Walter said, to no one in particular. To Jack. To Sal. To Doc. To everyone he’d ever lied to on the way to the truth.

Phelps didn’t answer. He just stared out the window, the streetlamps sliding across his hollow face, and clutched the satchel’s strap as if it were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.