“Kid, if you want to run, at least make up a better excuse. What passenger? There’s no one in your back seat.”
But I noticed the spirit’s aura flaring redder. If I stalled any longer, she’d lose control.
“Tony Moretti, right?”
“If you value your life, you’ll kneel at my rear bumper and knock your head to the ground forty-nine times—or else…”
“Or else what, punk?” Tony rolled up his sleeves and charged at me, reeking of booze.
“Dodge again, I’ll kill you!”
I didn’t strike back—I only slipped out of reach. Not because I feared him, but because of my father Gabriel Hale’s warning when I first entered the trade:
“As a ferryman, you guide souls. Never entangle yourself in mortal grudges.”
A psychopomp never raises a hand against the living lightly. If we do, the result is always fatal.
Vince Moretti, Tony’s lackey, lunged at me with wild swings. Every punch missed, only enraging him further.
“You bastard, still dodging? Fine! You just wait.”
He pulled out his phone right in front of me.
“18th Street, Chicago—bring the boys and the hardware. Now!”
Meanwhile, some sympathetic drivers dragged me aside.
“Kid, you’d better run. Once his men arrive, you won’t walk away.”