Marlowe
I pushed through the chaos toward that voice, terror and fury both driving me forward faster than any careful strategy would have advised, smoke stinging my eyes, gunfire and engines a roaring blur behind me.
I found King first — not the voice's owner, but King himself, down, blood dark against the dirt beneath him, unmoving in a way that stopped my whole heart cold in my chest.
And standing over him, unhurried, entirely too satisfied with himself, stood a man I'd never seen before but recognized instantly anyway, the particular cold satisfaction in his expression matching everything King had described about the man who'd haunted his grief for twelve years.
"Vance." My voice came out steadier than I felt, every instinct screaming to close the distance and check whether King was
