The third gunman's finger moved to the shotgun's trigger as the pressure in Wayne's head spiked. Mister Shotgun looked confused for a second, like someone had jabbed him with a needle, and then his face drooped. He looked like a robot that had been switched off. Davie, Dumb-gun, and even Frank seemed to be sleeping where they stood, just like the kid on the stairs and the people in the cafeteria.

The distant sirens screamed louder. They were coming. The dueling sound systems down the hall continued to pound their thumping beat into his skull, and the sounds of a crashing car from a movie or video game joined the noise war from inside Davie's apartment. The human sounds—the shouts, the laughter, the crying baby in 914—those had all stopped.

Not wanting to leave Frank with a bunch of angry, armed drug dealers, he did the only thing he could to even the playing filed, and gathered up the dealers' guns. The pistols went in his backpack, and after checking the sawed-off Mossberg for ammo, he slung it over his shoulder by the mesh strap that had been attached to the stock. He glanced at Frank, wishing he could do more for the three hundred fifty pound giant.

"Sorry Frank. Believe it or not, you're better off staying here than coming with me." He took their cash and disposable phones, and made a quick search of the apartment. If he survived today, he would need cash and phones that couldn't be connected to him.

Another tattooed, twenty-something gangster-type was slumped over on the sofa with a game controller in his hand, and a naked girl was sprawled out on a small mattress beside the sofa, partially covered with ratty blanket. He relieved the gangster of his cash and weapon, and seeing the empty and half-empty cartons of rice and noodles cluttering the tiny counter by the sink, he decided to check the fridge. A case of beer sat on the shelf next to five brown paper bags of Chinese take-out.

"Yeah, right," he said. Four bags were stuffed with plastic zipper bags of capsules, sorted by color. The fifth bag had been stuffed with several rolls of cash, tightly bound in thick rubber-bands. Jackpot. He had never been tempted to take money when he was on the force, but things had changed. Taking the dealers' supply and cash would make it harder for them to do business. If it kept him alive and able to hide until he could clear his name, even better.

Passing the sixth floor landing, he heard several people coming up the stairs towards him. He backed up the 6th floor, where he emptied the shotgun shells into his backpack, and left the gun out of sight in the corner. Five men watched him suspiciously as he descended by them, but they seemed to be in a hurry. At the fifth floor, his phone chimed. Another message.

It was link to another You Tube video. This time it began with his smiling face. The camera panned down to show a switchblade in his hand, then pointed at the bus stop outside the hospital where the bus had just opened its doors. A woman and young boy were at the back of the boarding line. The camera started jostling as the Wayne in the video jogged towards them. His heart sank as the woman turned enough to show her face. It was Sarah.

The killer had sent Wayne here on a wild goose chase. He wanted Wayne to be away from the hospital when Sarah left for the day.

"Nooo!" he screamed in impotent rage.

The video ended with the killer's hand reaching out to tap Sarah's shoulder.