punching bag dolls. He just kept coming. The son of a bitch went for his knee again. There was no way he could miss, and again pain ripped into Frisco like a freight train. He grabbed hold of Dwayne’s head and slammed it back against the sidewalk.
There were sirens in the distance—Frisco heard them through waves of nausea and dizziness. The police were coming.
Dwayne should have been out for the count, but he scrambled up and onto his feet.
“You tell Sharon I want that money back,” he said through bruised and bleeding lips before he limped away.
Frisco tried to go after him, but his knee crumbled beneath his weight, sending another wave of searing pain blasting through him. He felt himself retch and he pressed his cheek against the sidewalk to make the world stop spinning.
A crowd had gathered, he suddenly realized. Someone pushed through the mob, running toward him. He tensed, moving quickly into a defensive position.
“Yo, Lieutenant! Whoa, back off, Navy, it’s me, Thomas.”
It was. It was Thomas. The kid crouched down next to Frisco on the sidewalk. “Who ran you over with a truck? My God…” Thomas stood up again, looking into the crowd. “Hey, someone call an ambulance for my friend! Now!”
Frisco reached for Thomas.
“Yeah, I’m here, man. I’m here, Frisco. I saw this big guy running away—he looked only a little bit better than you do,” Thomas told him. “What happened? You make some kind of uncalled-for fat joke?”
“Mia,” Frisco rasped. “She’s got Natasha…at the deli. Stay with them…make sure they’re okay.”
“You’re the one who looks like you need help—”
“I’m fine,” Frisco ground out between clenched teeth. “If you won’t go to them, I will.” He searched for his cane. Where the hell was his cane? It was in the street. He crawled toward it, dragging his injured leg.
“God,” Thomas said. His eyes were wide in amazement that Frisco could even move. For once he actually looked only eighteen years old. “You stay here, I’ll go find them. If it’s that important to you…”
“Run,” Frisco told him.
Thomas ran.
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