With a surge of adrenaline, Bianca hoisted me up, half-dragging me toward Rafayel’s vintage BMW parked near the rear stairs. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her hands trembled, but her determination burned brighter than her fear.

“Open the door—now,” I barked, tossing her the keys.

My left hand clawed into her arm, my legs buckling as a white-hot ache shot through me. Every step felt like wading through tar.

Bianca wrenched the passenger door open and all but shoved me inside. A gunshot cracked the air—bullets ricocheted off the car door with a metallic clang. She screamed but flung herself into the driver’s seat, slamming the ignition as the...