Chapter 17 - The Empty Driver’s Seat
We walked back down to the parking garage in absolute silence, the tactical team sweeping the dark corners with high-intensity flashlights while the red-and-blue strobes of half a dozen unmarked federal cruisers painted the concrete walls in flashing warning colors.
My black Lincoln was parked sideways across the concrete ramp, its front end smashed into a concrete pillar where the engine block had taken the brunt of the impact. The driver’s side door hung open on a twisted hinge, the glass completely blown out.
Inside, the leather seat was stained with a dark, wet crimson pool that soaked through the upholstery down onto the rubber floor mats.
There was no sign of Vincent.
Just his silver hip flask, lying open on the passenger seat, and a single drop of fresh blood glistening on the steering wheel.
"He drew the fire so we could get into position," I whispered, the words tasting like ash in my mouth.
"He knew he wouldn't make it out, Mr. Moretti," Vance said softly, standing beside me with her hands in her trench coat pockets. "Your brother spent thirty years living like a ghost. People like that don't retire to Florida. They cash out on their own terms."
"He has a daughter," I said, my voice cracking slightly as I looked at the empty seat where my brother had sat five minutes ago. "Lily is seven years old. She doesn't have anyone left."
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"She has you, Nate," Vance said, turning her head to look me straight in the eye. "Unless you decide to walk away and let the state put her into the foster care system downtown."
I stared at the silver hip flask on the seat. Then I reached in, picked it up, and slid it into my coat pocket. The metal was still warm from his hand.
