Too many questions flooded Anton Tong's mind at once, but the one that nagged at him most was this: the man he'd just collided with had climbed out of his car and, instead of cursing or blaming him, had shouldered the entire blame and was acting almost gracious about it.
What was he playing at? Anton studied him with growing suspicion. The moment the man mentioned calling the insurance company, Anton shut it down cold. Not just because filing a claim could cost him his flight window—more critically, his identity documents now listed him as a completely different person. He couldn't afford any scrutiny. He needed to be gone.
But the stranger showed no intention of letting him leave. He'd offered to stay and wait for the adjuster himself, but he wanted photographs of the scene—and, more disturbingly, he wanted to exchange contact information.
Each of these small, odd behaviors pushed Anton toward one inescapable, terrifying conclusion: this man had already gone to the bank's headquarters. He'd pulled the account records and found the anomalies. The bank had called the police, who'd launched an investigation, and somewhere—somehow—Anton must have left a trace. They'd identified him. A citywide manhunt could be underway at this very moment.
But was that even possible? How much time had passed since this man left the bank for headquarters? Even if they'd found the discrepancy immediately, they couldn't have traced it to him that fast. Anton fought to keep his panic in check and scanned his surroundings. No police cruisers, no unmarked vehicles, no sign of a pursuit—nothing.
Perhaps he was being paranoid. It was all coincidence. A man whose account had been frozen happened to rear-end his car. That same man had undergone a personality transplant and was now trying to photograph him and take down his details. Pure coincidence, every bit of it? Then the man smiled at him—a smile so peculiar, so deliberate, that Anton stopped lying to himself.
The call this man intended to make might not be to an insurance company at all. It could be to the bank. Or the police. But none of that mattered anymore, because Anton had made his decision. Even the slimmest chance that things could go wrong had to be eliminated. Without a second's hesitation, as the man turned away to dial, Anton pulled an adjustable wrench from his bag and brought it down hard on the back of his skull.
No blood. No death—the man crumpled, unconscious. Anton moved both vehicles to the shoulder of the road. Only a handful of cars had passed during those minutes, and none had paid the slightest attention to what was happening on the roadside. But now he had a much bigger problem: what to do with the unconscious man slumped behind the steering wheel.
Killing him wasn't out of the question. But once a person died, the deceased's terminal-patient wristband would transmit an instant location ping to the authorities, and police would swarm the scene within minutes. A murdered terminally-ill patient—what kind of response priority would that trigger? Would they investigate immediately? How quickly could they narrow down the suspects?
He had no idea how the police operated. He didn't know their protocols or their efficiency.
He could try staging it as a suicide. Terminally-ill patients did take their own lives from time to time. That might slow the investigation. But how exactly did you fabricate a suicide scene? Anton realized that while he was a genius in the digital world—manipulating data, covering electronic trails—handling a real-world crisis like this was something else entirely. He was in over his head.
He had to decide fast! He checked the time: 5:13 a.m. Less than four hours until his flight. Maybe he could gamble—could the police really solve a murder in under four hours? No. No, he couldn't risk it. He'd come this far, survived this long. He couldn't stake his own freedom and his mother's remaining years on a coin flip.
What if he didn't kill the man—just left him unconscious in the car? If he didn't wake up within four hours, problem solved. But that was still a gamble. The man could regain consciousness at any moment, call the police, and Anton would be trapped here forever.
Every path led to a dead end. Anton grew increasingly frantic. He kicked the car door hard, but the frustration only mounted.
Beeep. The electronic whistle cut through his spiraling panic. It was his mother's whistle—the only way she could signal him. He rushed back to his car and gripped Laura's hand. "Don't worry, Mom. I'll figure this out soon."
Even though he still had no idea how, he had to reassure her first.
Beeep. Laura pressed the whistle a second time, and this time Anton finally followed her gaze to the only part of her body that still worked—her right hand, where her index finger had lifted off the button and was trembling in the air, pointing forward.
Anton looked in the direction she was indicating. On the front passenger seat sat a compact device: a Lifespan Display Unit. This was his work instrument—it wasn't supposed to be in their luggage at all.
He looked at the device, then turned to meet Laura's eyes. He understood exactly what she was suggesting. But was it even possible? The one solution that would resolve everything perfectly was for Trevor Cruz to die of natural causes before their flight departed—because the police did not conduct cause-of-death investigations for natural fatalities.
But even terminal patients typically had twenty-four hours remaining on their countdown. Their flight left in less than four hours, and that was before accounting for driving time, airport security, and check-in. The window was impossibly narrow. Could his remaining time possibly be that short?
He picked up the Lifespan Display Unit and walked toward the other car. He felt as though what he was about to do was more thrilling—and more terrifying—than any gamble on earth. He took a deep breath, braced himself for whatever number appeared, and connected the device to Trevor's wristband. The screen flashed immediately: 22.
Twenty-two hours. Too long. Hope evaporated. He slumped against the car seat, pounded it once in frustration, and couldn't fathom why the universe had chosen this moment to turn against him.
But wait. Earlier that afternoon, when they'd crossed paths at the bank, he distinctly remembered that this man's wristband had already turned blue—the indicator for the final phase. More than two hours had passed since then. How could he still have twenty-two hours left?
He looked at the display again—carefully, squinting at the unit field at the end of the number.
It wasn't hours.
It was minutes.
Twenty-two minutes. A thousand times better than he'd dared to hope. Anton shot to his feet and cracked his head against the car ceiling so hard he nearly knocked himself out. He checked that the man was still unconscious, quickly straightened up the vehicle, deleted all recent activity from the man's phone, tucked the display unit under his arm, and dashed back to his own car.
"You're unbelievable!" He kissed Laura on the cheek. No matter how dark things got, his mother always found a way to help him, always steadied his racing heart. No more worrying. Everything had resolved itself. Fate, for once, was on their side. All they had to do now was sit quietly in the car and wait twenty-two minutes.
Time would take Trevor Cruz's life, and with it, every possible threat. Then he and Laura could pull onto the highway and drive toward their bright, new future.
9
Wendy wasn't in a particularly good mood. She'd been looking forward to a nice dinner after her shift—she and Leo had reservations at a restaurant—when, before they'd even made it across town, Leo's phone buzzed. A natural death had been reported in the area, and the precinct needed someone to handle the on-site arrangements.
Standard procedure called for two officers to arrive at the scene within thirty minutes, transport the body to the precinct morgue for a one-day hold, then transfer it to a crematorium for final processing. But tonight's duty roster was short-staffed, and Leo happened to be in the vicinity, so dispatch had pulled him in for backup.
"Lily, I'm really sorry. Why don't I just drop you at home first? I don't know how long this is going to take. And you shouldn't have to look at dead bodies."
"Forget it, I'll come with you. It's not going to take all night." It wasn't his fault, after all. Wendy's irritation softened into understanding. If they couldn't make their reservation, a late-night roadside meal afterward would be fine.
The car turned onto a desolate stretch of road—so little traffic that the police cruiser parked on the shoulder was visible from a hundred meters away. Leo pulled up alongside it, and he and Wendy stepped out into the cold. A young officer came over to meet them.
"Leo! Good to see you. And this is?" Harry gestured toward Wendy with a nod.
"Oh, my girlfriend. We were on our way to dinner when the call came in."
"Sorry, man. Sorry. Total date-ruiner. Ma'am, it's freezing out here—why don't you wait in the car? Leo and I can handle this."
The "ma'am" sent heat rushing to Wendy's cheeks—fortunately, the darkness covered her blush.