“He loved him,” Hazard said; the lights swam between his fingers, and he blinked his eyes. “They loved each other. And you’re missing the whole fucking point. You’re right. I was there. And I heard Rory at the end. I talked to him. And Phil was the one who kept him alive. Phil was the one who gave him a lifeline. Phil loved Rory, and Rory loved Phil, and that was what mattered to both of them.”

“Rory betrayed him the minute his own skin was on the line. That’s what love really is: a convenient name for hormones, something every single fucking person will jettison to save themselves.”

Hazard blinked, shook his head, and took a step forward.

“They died because you were too slow. They died because you couldn’t save them.”

Wiping his face again, Hazard took another step. He shook his head. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help them. You’re right about that; they’re in my head every day, and I don’t know if they’ll ever leave. But they died because you are a pathetic fucking monster. And today, I’m going to put a bullet in your head.”

“That’s right. Show everybody you’re the hero. Come find me. Come kill me. Justice, Emery Hazard style.”

When Hazard took his next step, angling left, needing to get to a staircase or a ladder, some way of accessing the catwalk, everything shifted. The spotlights strobed at the same time, the pulses irregularly timed and of varying lengths. It was like the light through the windows of the Haverford. Hazard took another step, moving between pools of darkness, every slash of light a moment of extreme danger. A gunshot rang out; the crack filled the enormous space of the warehouse. It was Mikey Grames again. Mikey Grames was shooting at him again.

Hazard tried to control his breathing. He tried to ground himself in the moment. He focused on the bursts of sensory input. But the problem was that everything was the same: the bricks, the concrete dust, the moldering plaster, the dry rot, the light strobing the darkness, the summer heat mixed with the dank cool of a closed-up building. All his tricks to separate the flashback from the present failed because there was no separation; this was the Haverford all over again. And a small part of his brain knew that Empire Fruit had never been about tripwires or pressure plates or timed explosions; the real trap had always been this, and the iron jaws snapping shut were impossible to break or escape because they were in his mind.

The next shot was so loud that the force of the clap made Hazard stagger, and it wasn’t until he tried to regain his balance that he realized he’d been shot in the leg. He staggered, went sideways, and landed hard. Pain blazed, burning through the fog of shock, and he heard himself scream. He was still holding the Blackhawk, but as he tried to right himself, someone ran up behind him. The kick connected with his hand while he was still trying to twist around. He felt at least one finger snap. Another kick connected, and the Blackhawk spun out of his hand and skittered across the uneven cement. Hazard launched himself after it, but the pain in his leg threw him off balance. A kick followed, connected with his kidney, and he bellowed. Then a kick to the back of the head. Then he was on the ground, shaking, his face pressed to the concrete, the rough grit of its dust on his lips and cheek and in his mouth, mixing with blood. The muzzle of a gun jabbed him in the back of the neck.