A shrill, shocked cry rips from my throat and echoes down the alley. My palms scrape against concrete as I fall. Tears distort my vision, and my mouth hangs open; I'm afraid to move it, afraid my jaw may be broken, or shattered.

Faintly, I am aware of my attacker beside me. The smooth click of metal—a gun, a sound I am too familiar with now—rebounds off the walls.

"I will ask you this question once," the statue says. And his voice is just what I'd expect. Detached. Mechanical. No more human than a sculpture. "Where is he?"

He. No clarification is needed.

Silence stretches longer and longer as my mind frantically searches for an answer. The truth? A lie? What do I say?

A kick to the side sends me flat on the ground. Air rushes from my lungs with an audible hah. Scorching pain bursts under my skin.

"I won't ask you again," the statue says.

My lips are moving before I know I've made a decision. "I don't know who you're talking about."

The statue jerks me onto my back, his hand seizing my throat, squeezing, lifting me half way off the ground. Behind him the light-bulb on the alley wall blazes. I stare up into his eyes—two empty, black holes. Nothing is in them.

"You're lying."

I rasp. "I don't know—"

"Don't lie."

"I don't know." I take a hard, shuddering breath. "I don't know, I don't know, I swear."

The butt of his pistol cracks across my cheek so fast I don't even see it coming. This time I scream so hard it burns my throat. Statue releases me and allows me to crumple to the concrete, curl up on my side, my face in my hands.

Am I bleeding? I taste blood.

"Where is he?" Statue steps over me so a boot is on each side of my waist. "Tell me. Now."

I squeeze my eyes shut and, through tears, choke out the words, "Inside. He's still inside."

"What is he doing? What is he after?"

"He's after Verbeck."

"Why?"

I don't answer.

"Why?" The pistol presses to my temple.

Images of the gun going off race through my mind all at once. The sharp pop of the bullet. The blast. The blood. A wail claws up my throat. "I don't know, I swear, please—"

"Hound."

My eyes snap open. The statue raises his head. And there is Trip, standing at the very edge of the light's beam. He is still, extremely still.

Hope flares through me. "Trip..." I croak, frantic, terrified. "Trip, please."

Please don't let him kill me.

Please. Help me.

Trip's eyes drop down at me fleetingly but fix on Hound again. And the statue's pistol wavers against my skull, as if he's trying to decide who he should be pointing it at.

Now his voice comes a tad edgy. "Drop your gun, Triple. I know you have one."

Trip doesn't move.

"Now. Drop it."

"Don't do this," Trip says, almost in a whisper. At the sincerity in his voice, I feel a pang of surprise. He takes a cautious step forward, palms open and out at his sides as if in surrender. "Back down. I don't want to fight you."

Hound shifts, lifts a boot, and presses it down on my back, pressing me face-down into the concrete, causing me to cringe. The pistol moves to the back of my head.

I dare not move. I barely breathe. I fear if I do the gun will go off.

Trip stops in his tracks.

"Drop your gun," Hound repeats, firmer now. "And do it slowly."

Trip hesitates, and after a moment's worth of thought, he reaches behind him.

Hound stiffens above me. He watches tensely as Trip slowly takes his pistol from the back of his waistband and tosses it on the ground in front of him. It clatters over the pavement. Hands again at his sides, Trip says, "Let the girl up. Let me by. My fight isn't with you."

"That doesn't matter. You turned your back on us. Get on the ground."

"I turned my back on Government, Hound. Not you."

Suddenly, Hound is pointing the pistol at Trip. "Down on the ground, Triple. On your knees."

My eyes dart between the three: Hound, the gun, and Trip. I'm shaking. But even in the darkness, I can see Trip's jaw set. He flicks a glance at me.

"Get down or I'll shoot you." Hound's index finger tightens just a bit on the trigger, and a hot, fresh pulse of adrenaline thuds through my body. He's serious.

Trip takes a slow, small step towards us, now only several feet away. Piercing, intense, his eyes flash down at me again. And at this moment, I realize he's trying to tell me something.

The gun is pointed at him. Hound's attention is on him. And I am right under Hound's boot.

Do something.

Hound's lips press into a hard line. His grip tightens on the pistol, steadying it, aiming it. And I jerk—rolling out from under Hound's boot—and slam my heel into his calf. Stunned and staggering, Hound turns on me. For just a moment, time freezes and I am staring up into the barrel of his pistol.

That's when Trip closes the distance. His fist smashes down on Hound's jaw with sickening crunch, the impact sending Hound down on one knee. But Hound recovers swiftly, surging forward, tackling Trip, throwing him to the concrete. With panicked breaths, I scramble backwards, watching wide-eyed as Hound smashes a knee into Trip's side. The flash of the pistol glints in the light, and my breath catches as the statue aims it down at Trip.

I scream.

Trip grabs Hound's wrist.

The gun fires. BAM!

As if a bolt of electricity sparked through him, Trip jolts. And even from where I am, I can see his eyes fire to life—widening, flashing. With a sudden burst of energy, he throws his weight over, heaving Hound off of him and moving quick, amazingly quick, his knuckles come down on Hound's face.

Once. Then twice.

Hound struggles to ward off the blows. The gun slips from his grasp, and Trip seizes it immediately. One knee pinning the statue to the concrete, Trip sets the gun between Hound's eyes, cocks the hammer. And Hound freezes.

I am certain Trip is going to pull the trigger. His expression tightens. Teeth bared, gritted. Every muscle in his body tense, ready. I even start to turn my head away.

But.

He never pulls the trigger.

He stares down at Hound, breathing hard.

"I could have killed you," he says, voice rough, grating. "I hope you remember that."

And he cracks the butt of the pistol over Hound's head, knocking him out cold.

As if in a dream, I watch Trip shove away from Hound, hastily, as if Hound may wake and grab at him at any second. He stands, unsteadily, and backs away, into the wall. Slowly, I stand as well, heels clacking against the ground. My side twinges. My face hurts. Blood fills my mouth and drips from my lip. I spit onto the pavement.

Fearfully, my eyes run over the length of Hound's chest. He's still breathing. A soft moan sounds from him, but he doesn't move. He's not waking any time soon. My gaze shifts to Trip.

He is hunched slightly, his back to me. His breathing comes out quick and jagged.

"Are you okay?" My voice is coarse. My throat feels like sandpaper. I test my legs, taking a couple of weary steps towards him. They seem to work okay. I take a few more.

Trip breathes a curse.

I lean to the side in an attempt to see his face.

What I see instead is Trip's hand come away from his shoulder, slick with blood.