Story code: ST-001139
Part 2: The Price of Blood
Glass sprayed across the cabin like a wave of crushed ice, sparkling maliciously in the blinding beams of the SUVs. Marcus threw his arms over his face, but dozens of tiny, stinging needles bit into his forearms and cheeks. He couldn’t unbuckle his seatbelt. His fingers lacked the basic dexterity to pinch the release button, twitching uncontrollably against the hard plastic. The ringing in his ears drowned out the sedan’s dying, sputtering engine, but it couldn’t mask the shrill, frantic screams coming from the back seat. The executive’s polished, commanding baritone had shattered into a panicked, high-pitched wail.
Rough hands plunged through the shattered driver’s side window.
“Get out, you piece of trash!”
The door was wrenched open with a horrific, metallic groan. Marcus tumbled sideways, his legs instantly buckling the moment his sneakers hit the wet asphalt. He collapsed hard against the ground, the impact sending a jolt of raw pain up his spine. The freezing pavement was a brutal shock against his sweating, feverish face.
“Thought you could run, huh?” A heavy boot caught Marcus in the ribs, flipping him violently onto his back.
It was the teenager with the teardrop tattoo. Half of the kid’s face was smeared with dark grease and blood from the gutter he’d been thrown into earlier. He drew his switchblade, the metal locking open with a loud, distinct click in the harsh glare of the high beams.
“Enough, Jax,” a deep voice commanded. It was a gravelly tone, used to being obeyed without hesitation.
A man stepped into the blinding light, wearing a heavy tactical canvas jacket. Silas. Dante’s right-hand man. He looked at the smoking, crumpled ruin of the sedan, shaking his head in disgust. “Dante needed this car clean, Marcus. Unregistered. You just cost your brother a lot of money and a massive headache.”
“He tried to kill me!” Jax spat, delivering another sharp kick to Marcus’s thigh.
“I said enough.” Silas walked past Marcus, peering through the shattered window into the backseat. The executive was backed into the far corner of the ruined leather seat, clutching his heavy briefcase against his chest like a bulletproof shield.
“Do you have any idea who I am?” the executive shrieked, desperately grasping for a shred of his corporate bravado. “I am a senior vice president! If you touch me, they will bury you under the jail!”
Silas chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. He reached through the window, grabbed the man by his tailored charcoal lapels, and dragged him bodily out of the car. The executive hit the asphalt flailing. The heavy leather briefcase popped open on impact, spilling thick, glossy folders, a sleek silver laptop, and a gold money clip thick with hundred-dollar bills into the dirty rainwater.
Marcus lay on the asphalt, his chest heaving. The edges of the world were turning a fuzzy, vibrating grey. His body was actively cannibalizing itself. The cold sweat soaked his collar, plastering his shirt to his skin. He rolled his head, his heavy, drooping eyes finding the center console of his ruined car. His vial. The three meager drops of generic synthetic insulin. It was still resting in the cup holder.
He dragged himself forward, his raw fingers scraping against the rough street. He just needed to reach the door frame. To pull himself up.
Jax saw him moving. The teenager laughed, leaning into the car and plucking the tiny glass vial from the console.
“This what you want, junkie?” Jax held it up to the interrogating light of the SUVs.
“P-please,” Marcus wheezed, his voice sounding like crushed dry leaves. “Medicine.”
“Medicine,” Jax mocked. He carelessly dropped the vial onto the asphalt.
“No,” Marcus gasped.
Jax brought the heavy heel of his combat boot down. A sharp crunch echoed in Marcus’s ears, louder and more devastating than the shattering windshield had been. The tiny puddle of clear, life-saving liquid mingled instantly with the oil and dirty rainwater on the street.
Marcus stopped breathing. His lifeline, his only bridge to surviving until Tuesday, was gone. The dark static in his vision surged forward, threatening to swallow him whole.
“Look at this,” Silas said, ignoring the cruelty. He crouched over the executive, picking up the gold money clip and examining a heavy platinum access card that had spilled from a designer wallet. “Sterling Vance. Pharma boy. You know how much money these guys move around, Jax? Dante’s gonna love this.”
Sterling squirmed, his expensive suit smeared with grease and road grime. He looked frantically around the circle of armed, masked men, his wide eyes finally landing on Marcus. He recognized the driver’s desperate deterioration. He recognized the crushed vial.
“Driver!” Sterling yelled, his voice cracking. “Driver, you know them! Tell them to let me go!”
Marcus stared at the executive through a blurring haze. Sterling Vance. The man who sat in a sterile, air-conditioned boardroom and decided that a fifty percent markup on cellular survival was a brilliant masterstroke. The man who condemned Marcus to rationing drops of medicine, leading directly to this freezing gutter.
“He’s Dante’s brother,” Silas remarked casually, looking down at Sterling with a predatory grin. “Marcus ain’t gonna help you. He’s blood.”
Sterling’s eyes widened in sheer terror. He scrambled toward Marcus on his hands and knees, ignoring a warning kick from Silas. “Listen to me! I saw the vial! I know the manufacturer! That’s my company! I can get you more! I can put you on the VIP compassionate care tier! Lifetime supply, zero co-pay! Whatever you need, right now!”
Marcus felt his heart hammering a weak, frantic, irregular rhythm against his ribs. The world was tilting on its axis. He was sliding dangerously close to a diabetic coma.
“Shut up,” Silas snapped, drawing a heavy black pistol and aiming it squarely at Sterling’s temple. He looked over at Marcus. “You wrecked the getaway car, Marcus. But you brought us a walking ATM. Dante will forgive the car for this. You get a pass. Take his cash clip, walk away, and we’ll take Mr. Vance to a warehouse to empty his accounts. He won’t be coming back.”
Silas tossed the gold money clip. It landed with a heavy metallic clink inches from Marcus’s trembling hand. Thousands of dollars. Enough to buy black-market insulin to last a year.
“Don’t let them take me!” Sterling begged, sobbing now, pathetic tears cutting through the grime on his face. “I’ll give you the corporate authorization codes! I can save your life! But you have to save mine!”
Marcus’s shaking fingers hovered over the cold, wet asphalt, inches from the thick wad of stolen cash. The static in his eyes thickened to a blinding roar, pulling him violently toward the abyss, leaving him with a single, agonizing choice to make before the darkness took him entirely.