“Christ, Kyle! What the hell happened to you?”

I must've been in shock. Inside, my mind screamed, but I couldn’t say a single word. I could only stare at Johnny.

He must have recognized my condition because he frowned, his lips pressed into a grim line, and then he grabbed my arm.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he said, then started dragging me away.

As we walked toward the back of Johnny’s club, Hot Spot, I realized I was covered in blood. Michael’s blood.

It was on my backpack as it swung between us while we walked. I looked down. My charcoal gray silk shirt was covered with blood, staining it a dark rust color.

I wanted to get the blood off me; that was all I could think about. Must get the blood off. My hands jerked up of their own violation and scrubbed at the stains.

But then I noticed the red covering the back of my hands. I pulled them out in front of me, palms up, and stared.

Johnny righted me when I stumbled, but I barely noticed. I turned my hands so my palms faced down and saw more splotches of blood.

“Come on, we’re almost there,” Johnny said, pulling me a little quicker behind him.

With my arms crossed over my chest, my hands tucked away and out of sight, I followed my best friend through a dark hallway.

Only a couple of sconces lit the way, and our feet barely made any sound as we crossed the black, plush carpet. We were going to Johnny’s private quarters.

I didn't even really remember going through the club. Distantly, I recalled many people, music, dancing, and some stares as I was rushed out of the main part of the club and into private quarters.

But that was it. I was distracted by the blood and still in shock.

Johnny rapidly pushed a combination into the security pad on the door's right side. But that didn’t open it. Next, he swiped a card along the side of the pad, and a green light turned on.

He was very serious about his security. And this was his private office, so he made doubly sure no one could get in unless he wanted them to.

He opened the door and stood aside to allow me to enter. I paused briefly, but somehow my legs knew what to do, and I walked inside the club owner’s private domain.

It wasn't like I hadn't been in there before. Lots of times, in fact. But right then, I hardly noticed the lush, almost gaudy decorations. Johnny was a bit flashy in his club and personal life.

“Go take a shower and get cleaned up,” he told me as he closed and locked the door. “I’ll find something for you to wear.”

As if on automatic pilot, I stepped inside the private bathroom. Lights blinked on, and the soft buzzing sound barely registered.

But I did glimpse myself in the full-length wall mirror and grimaced. My face was pale, my eyes wide and haunted. I was covered in blood, even on my face.

I grabbed the bar of soap sitting on the side of the sink, turned the water on as hot as possible, and started scrubbing my hands. Until then, I’d never known blood would be so hard to get off the skin.

“Get in the shower,” Johnny ordered, standing in the bathroom doorway. “Throw your clothes out here and put these on.”

A pile of clothes appeared next to me on the counter.

“Thanks,” I said, surprised I was able to say anything at all. My voice didn’t sound as scared as I felt, which amazed me.

The mention of a shower propelled me into action. I tore off my clothes and tossed them toward the door. I didn’t even wait for the water to get hot before I stepped inside.

I didn't know how long I was in the shower, watching the blood dripping off my body and mixing with the water running in rivers down my skin and pooling around the drain.

Long enough for the water to turn cold.

Johnny had left me a pair of jeans and a t-shirt on the sink counter. After drying off and quickly dressing, I left the bathroom and entered the large office.

Johnny waited for me, a glass of whiskey in his hand. “Here. You need this,” he told me.

I wasn't a drinker, but I thought the occasion called for it. I took the drink with a nod and drank it in one gulp.

It was a fire that burned down my throat and stole my breath. I coughed repeatedly and struggled to drag air into my lungs.

Did I just escape a madman with a gun only to die of whiskey?

Eventually, the coughing stopped, and all I felt was warmth. It also calmed my nerves a bit.

“Feel better?” Johnny asked.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Good. Then come sit down and tell me what the hell happened.”

It really said something about Johnny that he could so calmly escort me from the club to his office while I was covered in blood. He didn’t panic. He didn’t even try to call the police.

But that was Johnny. He always had one foot across the line, dabbling in not-so-legal activities. I doubted we would be friends now if we hadn’t grown up together. We had been best friends most of our lives.

And that was how I knew I could trust him. In fact, Johnny had been the only person I could think of to turn to for help.

On the way to the couch, I spotted my backpack leaning against the large glass-and-chrome desk. I made a detour, picked it up, and then walked to the couch.

“From the beginning,” Johnny said, leaning back in his chair to my left.

I set the backpack on the floor between my legs and unzipped it. “I was working late tonight,” I began as I pulled the ledgers out. “Going over my books.”

I looked up at Johnny briefly, then scooted the ledgers across the large, square coffee table toward him. “What do you make of this?”

He reached out to grab the ledgers, the gold pinky ring on his finger glinting in the soft light. He looked between the ledger entries and the sales receipts, and I could tell the exact moment he figured it out.

Johnny looked up and leaned back in his chair.

“Someone’s cooking your books,” he said nonchalantly. “Do you know who?”

“No idea,” I told him. I wasn’t surprised he’d figured it out quickly, although it’d taken me hours. But then, I’d had to sift through all kinds of paperwork, matching entries with receipts.

“And the blood?” Johnny asked. “Am I supposed to assume that’s all from papercuts?”

“It wasn’t mine.”

“I know that,” Johnny said sarcastically. “I want to know whose it was and how it got all over you.”

“I found Michael in the parking lot.” I paused. “You know Michael? My foreman?”

He nodded, and I continued.

“He’d been shot. In the chest. I tried to save him, but there was just so much blood. And then this guy in a suit showed up and started shooting at me.”

Johnny sat up then. His dark brown eyes widened. He knew something had happened to me, but he didn’t expect this.

“I hid, but then another man showed up,” I said in a rush. I didn’t want to discuss it but knew I had to. At least to Johnny.

“They mentioned me by name,” I said. “One of them asked the other if he ‘got Kendricks.’ Then they shot out my truck tire, and I ran.”

“Did Michael say anything before he died?” Johnny wanted to know.

I shook my head. “Just that he was sorry and that he was cold.” I paused, remembering my foreman’s last words. “Oh, and he did warn me to be careful.”

When Johnny didn’t say anything, I looked at him closely. “Do you think Michael had something to do with this?”

He shrugged and took a sip of his drink. The ice cube clinked against the glass. The noise sounded loud in the quiet office.

“So, your truck is out of the question. How did you get here? And why didn’t you just call me?”

I thought back and remembered I’d left my phone on the ground with the 911 operator still talking to me. I’d been too concerned about trying to save Michael’s life, and then my own, that I’d forgotten about it.

“I left my phone there,” I told Johnny. “I snuck around the back of the office plaza and was able to hail a cab.” That in itself had been a miracle. Taxis weren’t as common now, with Uber and Lyft taking up much of the business.

“I’m surprised the driver even picked you up,” Johnny said. “Covered in blood like you were.”

I frowned. I barely remembered the drive over here. Although I was a lot calmer now, at that time, I had been in shock and only knew I needed to get away.

“It was dark,” I finally said. “I don’t think he saw the blood.”

“Good thing for you.” Johnny paused, then looked hard at me. “Did anyone follow you?”

“I. . . .” I stopped. Had they? I didn't remember seeing anyone, but I hadn’t been paying much attention.

“I don’t think so,” I finally said, and the uncertainty was clear in my voice.

Johnny nodded, grabbed his cell phone from the table, and made a call.

“If anyone comes in looking for a man, someone named Kendricks, hold them there and let me know immediately,” he said into the phone. “Keep an eye out for anyone acting suspicious.”

After disconnecting the call, Johnny set his phone aside and returned his attention to me.

“Now, about those men. Tell me everything you remember.”

And so I did. It wasn’t a long conversation since I didn’t know much. It was dark. They wore suits, and at least one had a gun.

“Sounds like the McConnley Gang,” Johnny said thoughtfully. “I’m not sure, but it sounds like their style.”

“The who?” I asked. I’d never heard of these people, so why would they be after me?

“McConnleys.”

I frowned. “What would the Irish want with me?”

Johnny snorted. “Don’t let the name fool you. The boss, Frank McConnley, is a tough bastard, but if he’s Irish, it’s been severely diluted.

“That’s not to say they’re not trouble,” he added quickly. “They are definitely not the guys you want to cross.”

“Then we should call the police,” I said, reaching to grab his phone. But Johnny was quick and yanked it out of my reach.

“That’s the last thing you want to do. Especially if it is the McConnley gang. We don’t even know that for sure yet.”

“I should still call the police,” I argued.

I was amazed I was only just now thinking about it. I guess I’d been too shocked and trying to get away from the killers to have called the police then. But now?

“I need to tell them what happened.”

“Sorry, Kyle,” Johnny said, and his tone really did sound like he meant it. “It’s too late.”

I frowned and stood in one agitated motion. “What do you mean it’s too late? I—”

“The McConnleys, or whoever is behind this, are likely very powerful dudes,” Johnny cut me off. “You left the scene. You left your phone behind. They know who you are. Are you getting where I’m going with this?”

Not at first, but then realization dawned on me, and I gaped at him. “You mean they’re going to set me up?” I asked incredulously.

Johnny nodded and crossed one leg over his knee. “You only have one choice.”

“Turn myself in.” I nodded, but Johnny shook his head.

“No, Kyle. You’ve got to run.”

***

The motel room was a piece of crap, but at least I was safe. For now. Johnny had one of his drivers bring me here but told me it was only for the night. Any longer, and I risked getting captured or killed.

He’d given me a new backpack to put my belongings in and a huge wad of cash with the warning not to use credit cards, pay for everything in cash, and stay low.

First thing first, Johnny had told me, get out of town. As soon as possible. And don’t stop running and hiding until I have things figured out.

Only use burner phones. Don’t call friends or family. Don’t hang out in public places.

On and on, the instructions were fired at me until I felt dizzy and hopeless.

And then I’d been dropped off here.

Now what? I had to find a way out of town but couldn’t return to work and retrieve my truck. I didn’t want to use the money he’d given me to buy a car either.

I didn't know how long I’d be on the run, so I needed to be careful with the money. I couldn't withdraw any funds from my bank because someone might be watching. And it would leave a digital trail someone could trace.

I sat at the small table with my head cradled in my hands. What the hell was I supposed to do? How could I get out of town without transportation? An Uber or taxi would only take me so far, and then what?

A newspaper sat before me, and I started flipping through the pages, not really seeing any of the headlines.

Until one in the classified section caught my attention.

It was someone looking for a partner in a rideshare. And the good thing about it? The person wanted to go to New York. All the way across the country.

Couldn't run much further than that without leaving the United States.

But how was I supposed to apply? I could tell it was a generic email address, probably controlled by the newspaper. Something similar to online sales sites where the email would be generated and sent to the person’s personal email.

Johnny’s warnings rang in my head, reminding me I couldn’t use phones, email, or any other form of communication.

I chewed on the problem for a few minutes and then grabbed the motel phone off the desk. I dialed a number and waited.

Johnny picked up on the second ring. “In trouble already?”

“I have an idea,” I said, not bothering to answer his question. “But I need your help.”

“What can I do?”

I explained the ad, and Johnny agreed it was a solid plan. We discussed what to say in the email that would most help me get the person to choose me.

Finally, I said, “Sign it simply, ‘K.’”