Chapter Text
Chapter 1
Warm humid summer air washed in through the open sides of the Jimmy, the hum of tires on asphalt like a lullaby after a long shift. Levon Lundy eased into the seat, already picturing the saddle under him, Fooler's hooves pounding dirt. His gelding sure needed the workout and he had not spent enough time in the saddle for his liking either. He leaned back, hat tipped low, humming along to the low drawl spilling from the radio:
>>...tryin' to erase, every sin, every scar, every bad thing I've done<<
“But trouble rides shotgun,” he intoned, not quite in tune with the original.
The words slid through the cab like smoke, half-forgotten but familiar. Lundy could not remember who sang it, just that it had a hook you could never quite shake. He drummed his fingers against the wheel with the chorus.
>>Trouble rides shotgun, never says a word. Just grins at the wheel like the devil he heard.<<
The sun had dipped below the skyline, but the heat still clung to the asphalt, making the air shimmer under the sodium glow of the streetlamps.
>>I can change my road. I can try to outrun<<
Pop! Pop! Pop!
Hearing three sharp cracks split the night, Lundy’s pulse jumped.
“But trouble rides shotgun,” he muttered the chorus' last line, switching off the music and grabbing the mic, “Dispatch, this is 9214. Shots fired, 3rd and Langley. I’m in the area. Over.”
A fourth shot echoed, closer this time. He spotted two figures, wiry, fast, bolting into a side street up ahead. He pressed the gas, and the Jimmy growled after them while Lundy called in the direction they were going.
Busted bottles and fast-food wrappers littered the narrow street. Lundy saw the two figures split at the first alley and swung after the one lagging behind. The kid glanced over his shoulder. He could not be more than seventeen. Seeing the truck, he tried to put on a burst of speed.
Not enough. Lundy braked hard, popped the door, and had the boy pinned against a chain-link fence in seconds.
“Stay still!” he barked, catching his breath. The kid squirmed, hurling curses, but Lundy’s forearm across his chest kept him in place. The sergeant reached for his handcuffs, snapped one around the boy's wrist, hissing, “You're under arrest,” as he locked the second wrist in the cuff.
“What for?” the boy wailed. “Running away from you?”
“There were shots being fired. I'm holding you as a witness,” Lundy told him as he steered him back toward the Jimmy. He was about to open the driver's door when he noticed motion.
A glass bottle, rag trailing fire, spun through the air in a lazy arc.
Lundy's gut knotted. Molotov!
The street in front of his Jimmy bloomed in a hungry whoosh of glass and fire, the flames reflected in the car's red paint. He yanked the boy back as heat washed over his face, eyes burning.
From behind, Lundy heard metal scream. A dumpster, shoved in hard, sealed the alley behind the vehicle.
We're boxed in!
They came from the dark beyond the obstacle, seven shapes, lanky and loose-shouldered, cocky with numbers. Street kids. Their eyes locked on Lundy, assessing him, their postures alert, fists tightening. One swung a chain at his side. Their leader strutted forward, shoulders loose, chin tipped like he already owned the street.
In Lundy's hold, the captive bounced with nervous energy, grinning like the Cheshire cat, and the sergeant had to revise his assessment: He was boxed in.
Lundy drew, steel catching the firelight.
"That's far enough!" His voice carried, steadier than the sudden thud of his heart. He sighted on the leader's chest. "Houston police. Don't even think about it."
A silent beat passed before the leader spoke.
"Skunk, c'mere."
Still grinning, the boy wound his arm out of Lundy's hold and skittered over to his comrades, to the safety behind them.
The boys fanned wide, shoulders brushing brick.
Testing him.
Surrounding him.
"Don't," Lundy warned, and snapped a shot into the pavement at the leader's boots. Brick dust and sparks spat upward.
For half a heartbeat, silence.
"You didn't," the hulk of a man in his early twenties hissed.
"Scrat?" one of them muttered, nervous.
Realizing the short fuse of the man, Lundy swallowed dryly. His finger twitched against the trigger, but the sight of bare fists and wide eyes made his stomach lurch.
Shoot kids? Hell, do I have another choice?
“Hey, man,” one of them called, “he's got a badge.”
Scrat remained unimpressed, stepped forward. “So what?” he said flatly. “Fat chance he's got.”
Lundy kept the Colt steady, but his mind was racing. So far, no backup was in sight, his truck effectively blocked, fire cutting off his front, and the radio on the wrong side of the front door.
From one second to another, the alley became chaos. Fists and curses flew, limbs crashed against metal.
The choice was gone.
Lundy swung hard, felt a jaw give under his knuckles and a flash of pain in his ribs as a pipe or board clipped him. His hat went flying, skittering into the firelight. He landed an uppercut and a hit with his knee before someone grabbed his jacket and yanked him sideways. His Colt cracked against a skull, bought him a grunt and an inch of air, but then one, or several someones, crashed into him, driving him front first into the side of the truck. A grunt escaped him as he got wedged between metal and flesh. Someone caught his wrist with an iron grip, slammed it against the Jimmy's side panel until white fire shot up his arm and he let go. The gun clattered onto the asphalt, gone. Twisting hard, he tried to throw off the hands that pressed his arms into rigidity, but seven were seven.
Lundy's breath turned ragged, his vision sparkling, and he caught the copper taste of fear at the back of his throat. He had been in tight corners before, but never this outnumbered, never this close to losing the edge. His shoulder burned where they had wrenched his arm.
Then he felt the sharp clamp of a hand on the back of his neck, not just holding tight, no, claiming him, as Scrat showcased his dominance. The pack hushed around their leader, waiting for his cue.
"Spread 'em, pig," Scrat drawled close to the Texan's ear as he pressed him into the vehicle's side in a cruel role-reversal.
A boot drove into the inside of Lundy's knee, knocking his legs wider, the posture forced and mocking. For an instant, he could almost see himself from the outside: a cop pinned like any punk he had thrown against a wall. Heat of shame rose under the sweat, while the teens laughed nervously, half shocked, half thrilled.
Scrat's hand moved with brisk efficiency, down the sides, along the belt, into every pocket. His fingers darted sharp and practiced, not a kid rifling through loot but someone who knew exactly where to dig.
So did Lundy.
The cuff key.
Scrat fished it out and held it up like a prize.
"Yes," one of the boys piped up, his voice cracking with nerves, "now cut Skunk loose and let's bounce,"
Scrat froze, turning his head just enough to give the kid a withering look, "You stupid? He's a cop."
That word hung in the smoke like a warning.
Cop.
Not some mark. Not just a fight.
Lundy clenched his jaw, expecting Scrat to free his underling now, but instead, he felt something rough brush his left wrist.
Rope!
The fibers scraped as Scrat hauled first one arm back to loop a tether around the joint twice, then the other. Quick, deliberate motions bound Lundy tight, the knot cinching with a tug that bit into his flesh.
Scrat's actions did not seem street-wild anymore but coldly controlled.
Humiliating.
At least not my own handcuffs.
“What now?” one hissed.
“Can't leave him behind,” Scrat snarled. “He's seen our faces.”
A ripple went through the pack as they caught on to what his words meant, nervous shifting, shoulders twitching, glances cast to the burning street beyond. This was bigger than any of them had bargained for.
“Kill a cop?” a higher male voice blurted. “Are you out of your mind? They'll grill us!”
“What the hell are we supposed to do now, Scrat? We can't just-”
“Stop it,” Scrat snapped, cutting him off with action as he spun his captive around and slammed him into the Jimmy again.
The impact rattled bones and metal, Lundy's wrists and shoulders taking the brunt of the force. When Scrat grabbed his chin and pinned him, his head thumped against the window with a crack of glass. Dazed, he stared at the other's wild eyes that hovered just inches from his own.
"He ain't in charge anymore," Scrat declared, loud enough for all of them, "I am."
To Lundy's horror, the words seemed to settle the pack. Some nodded, another swallowed hard, but none dared speak up. Eyes turned expectantly to Scrat, they waited.
Scrat's eyes glittered menacingly in the firelight. "Pig comes with us."
What?!
Lundy would have expected them to beat him up and leave him behind bleeding or dead. Taking him? That was a whole different dimension.
With the group, the words landed like a stone dropped in water. A wave of disbelief, protest, and fear rippled through them.
"Boy, you don't want to do that," Lundy hissed through gritted teeth. "Your life'll be over before it started."
"What did I say about who's in charge?" Scrat snarled, voice hoarse with hatred, "You do as I say. Clear?"
Gritting his teeth, Lundy glared daggers at him. Unfortunately, that was all he could do when Scrat's hand slid from his jaw to the back of his head, fisting his hair. Having no choice but to follow the violent tug on his scalp, he was steered toward a battered Chevy C10 parked crooked in the shadows.
Aware that this might be his last chance, Lundy tried to wrench his head free, to no avail.
"Move him!" Scrat ordered.
Hands, as eager as they were uncertain, grabbed at Lundy. His attempts to set his heels or to dig in turned out to be fruitless. Rearing back did nothing as the boys surged behind him like a tide. Rope bit into his wrists, his balance nearly gone. The next thing he knew he was hauled bodily onto the bed of the truck. Tarps rustled beneath him, thick with the smell of oil and mildew.
"Hold him." Scrat's command cracked through the night.
Five of them clambered in after, pressing Lundy down flat on his back. Knees jammed into his ribs, forearms across his chest, one kid's hand mashing his face sideways into the wood. Lundy bucked, every muscle straining, but the weight smothered him.
Scrat and two others climbed into the cab, the tailgate slammed, and the vehicle lurched forward.
HK*HK*HK
When the first cops rolled in from two other directions only moments later, their cruisers washed the scene in red and blue. The dumpster sat jammed behind the Jimmy, a scorched patch of street with the still smoldering remains of the Molotov hissing and sending greasy smoke curling up the walls. Patrol units had choked off both ends of the block, radios crackling, uniformed officers pushing back onlookers while questioning witnesses.
Tires squealed as a black Shelby Cobra braked hard, and Joey LaFiamma climbed out before it even stopped rolling. He scanned the street, eyes locking on the empty Jimmy.
LaFiamma ducked under the tape, his jacket collar turned up against the stink of smoke and gasoline. His eyes swept the chaos, the dumpster shoved against the Jimmy's rear bumper, glass glittering across the pavement, scorched black scars where the fire had kissed the street.
“Where’s Lundy?” he demanded, sharp enough to draw looks.
"Called it in, didn't he?" a uniform answered. "Dispatch clocked him here less than ten minutes ago."
LaFiamma's gut clenched. He paced forward, eyes scanning the alley, the details pulling at him one by one.
And then he saw it.
A tan Stetson lying in the gutter, on its rim, trampled, and stained with soot.
“Neighbors heard shots," a uniformed officer reported, "saw a couple kids run into the side street. The sarge might’ve gone after them on foot.”
Joey’s gaze flicked to the scorched pavement, then to the dumpster shoved tight against the rear bumper. “And left his truck like this?”
No answer.
Crouching beside the driver's door, he picked up one of the shards and turned it over thoughtfully. From this perspective, he caught a glint near the alley mouth. When he walked over and kicked aside a fast-food box he froze.
A .357 Colt Python lay half-buried in grit, its cylinder open, one spent casing still inside.
LaFiamma’s gut clenched and he crouched down to pick the gun up carefully, feeling the weight of it settle in his hand. His jaw tightened.
Lundy did not drop his hat... and LaFiamma knew Lundy would not drop that revolver voluntarily let alone leave it lying in a side street.
He looked up at the firelight dancing on the Jimmy's panels, then back down the alley where the tire tracks still glistened in oil and water.
Something in his chest went cold.
This was not just a scuffle.
This was not just backup arriving late.
Something had gone very, very wrong.
Turning to the nearest patrol officer, he demanded, "Get the crime scene unit down here. Get me everything: witnesses, descriptions, plates. Now. And put out a search, every unit in range looking for Lundy.”
The officer hesitated, uncertain. “Sir, you sure about that? Maybe he's-”
LaFiamma cut him off, lifting the Colt so the firelight gleamed along the barrel. His voice was flat, final. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
The alley went quieter around him. The uniforms moved, radios crackled with fresh urgency, and LaFiamma stood alone with the weight of his partner's gun in his hand.
HK*HK*HK
To Lundy it seemed as if every pothole in Houston found them when the truck rattled and vibrated along mostly empty streets. The wooden planks of the bed rattled under his spine, hard and uneven, scraping his tied hands every time the Chevy bounced.
Hands still pressed him down from all sides, jittery with nervous energy. Knees dug into his ribs and one hand fisted in his shirt. None of them trusted him to stay down, even bound.
Trying to keep his voice steady, he demanded. “What do you want with me?”
That got a round of laughter.
“Do you have any idea what kind of trouble you're getting yourselves into?” he tried again, but they ignored him.
“Don’t talk,” one said.
Lundy tried to shout, to throw reason at them, but the words barely left his throat before a wad of cloth shoved deep into his mouth, bitter cotton and the taste of sweat.
“Shut him up,” someone muttered, nervous, voice cracking.
“On it,” the other responded.
Leather hissed against fabric. Lundy could not place the sound until his attempt at spitting the cloth out was thwarted by a belt forced between his teeth.
No!
A flash of panic hit him when one of the figures locked the gag in place. His protest cut off to a muffled groan. Through the pounding of his pulse, the fear he kept buried sparked sharp at the realization that he was not in control anymore.
“Don't worry, cowboy, you'll find out.”
Same as you, Lundy thought. He had heard enough to be certain that the kids themselves had no idea what they were going to do next.
He tried to count the turns. Right… straight for a while… another right… maybe two lefts after that. The sounds of traffic rose and fell, then disappeared into stretches of muffled quiet. The air shifted from humid city heat to cooler, open emptiness. Or maybe that was just the wind tearing past. The engine's roar drowned half their voices, but he could still hear the cracks in them, boys trying to sound tougher than they felt.
“This is crazy, Scrat!” one shouted near the cab window. “We should've bolted when we had the chance!”
“Shut up!”
“Shut up? He's a cop! We're screwed six ways!”
Scrat was having none of it, snapping from the cab, “Then you do what I say. You want out? Jump. But you ain't cutting Skunk loose, and you sure as hell ain't dumping the pig.”
Except for the engine's growl and the hiss of tires on asphalt, a heavy silence stretched on.
One of the boys shifted uneasily, his weight pressing on Lundy's chest.
“Man, he's looking at me.”
“Then don't look back,” someone else jeered, though the shake in his laugh betrayed him.
Apparently, that was easier said than done, because the boy's gaze locked with Lundy's. Taking that small chance, the Texan put everything in that look that he could not say aloud, tried to let his eyes say what his mouth could not. He blinked against the blur of passing streetlights.
Then somebody threw a jacket over him.
All his instincts screamed to fight. Lundy wanted to twist free, break one grip and roll, but the math stayed the same, five bodies holding him down, pressing in with every turn the Chevy took. The ride kept twisting, left, right, left again. Then, for a while, nothing, just different sounds, as if the car jolted over gravel, then smooth pavement again.
Pinned against the rattling planks, mouth stuffed with cotton and leather, Lundy tasted dust, sweat, and helplessness. The fire in the alley was behind him now. Ahead, he had no idea. But his gut told him neither did they. All he knew was that this ride was not one he controlled and by the time the truck finally rolled to a stop, Lundy had lost all sense of direction. They could be ten miles out of Houston… or two blocks from where they started.
HK*HK*HK
LaFiamma stood just outside the tape, talking to a possible witness. Once more, he got the same answers from another person: Yes, I heard the shots. No, I didn't see anything, I ducked for cover. No, haven't seen a blond man with a Stetson either. Sorry, can't help you.
Most did not even say sorry.
LaFiamma was pissed, doing his best not to let it show.
“Sergeant?” A uniform approached, a nervous rookie, barely out of academy. “We canvassed the block. Got one possible witness. Night watchman over on Clyburn said he saw a truck, maybe a Chevy, beat-up, loud engine. Took off westbound, but, uh, he ain't sure on the color. Might've been red, might've been brown.”
LaFiamma exhaled sharply through his nose.
“Great. Real helpful.”
Still, he noted it down in his head: truck, Chevy, westbound.
“LaFiamma!”
Hearing the steady voice of his lieutenant, Joanne Beaumont, the sergeant turned around.
“What do we have?” she asked as she stopped beside him, scanning the scene beyond the tape.
“Not much yet, Lieutenant,” he answered, gesturing at the crime scene. “And still no sign of Lundy. Uniforms are canvassing the area, in case it was a foot pursuit after all and he got knocked out or can't answer for other reasons...” He did not want to think about what those reasons might be.
“But you don't believe that,” she replied, her tight stance giving away that she had her own doubts.
“No.” He drew in a heavy breath. “He's left everything behind, the Jimmy, the hat... his Colt... Witness says a group ran this way. Might've been a Chevy truck involved.” Worrying his bottom lip, he shook his head, trying to stave off his growing fear for his partner, “They boxed him in here, lit a Molotov, shoved a dumpster to block the Jimmy.”
Beaumont's brow furrowed, “They torched his vehicle?”
“No, but they tried. Fire fizzled. Based on the scene...” LaFiamma gestured to the dumpster still askew, the singed pavement, “we can only assume he was ambushed.”
One of the uniforms nearby shifted uncomfortably. “Ma'am, are we sure about that? Maybe Sergeant Lundy just-”
Her hand snapped up, silencing him like an ax hitting wood.
“He'd never walk away without his sidearm,” she agreed with LaFiamma, “I want everything in this alley processed, top to bottom, every shell casing, footprint, cigarette butt, even gum. We run the truck description to every patrol west of here. And put out a BOLO: Detective Lundy, missing, possibly abducted.”
LaFiamma gave a sharp nod, one hand tightening to a fist in his jacket pocket.
Beaumont stepped closer, lowering her voice, “We'll find him, Joe.”
LaFiamma did not answer right away. His eyes lingered on the scorched spot in front of the Jimmy, the shadows stretching long down the alley.
“Yes, we'll find him.”
Satisfied, he watched the lieutenant taking over control of the scene, speaking on her radio.
A police cruiser stopped in the mouth of the alley, one of the officers calling, "LaFiamma! We got something."
"What is it?" he asked back, striding over to the patrol car.
"These folks here were just a block down south." Turning to a pair in their early forties sitting in the back seat, he demanded, "Tell the sergeant what you told me."
Glowering at the cop, the man answered through the open window, "We were mugged. Well, at least those thugs wanted to mug us. But I showed them how the wind blows."
"What did you do, sir?" LaFiamma asked, though he already had a pretty good idea.
"I'm carrying," the man declared. "Licensed. Fired warning shots that got them running."
That explains the gunfire Lundy called in, LaFiamma thought, before asking aloud, "How many were they?"
"Two. Idle, foolish teenagers who thought they could make a quick dollar."
"You need to give us a description, sir," LaFiamma stated. "You'll describe them to a sketch artist, and have a look at yearbooks."
"Now?"
"Yes, sir. Now."
"Sorry, but we're already late for our business dinner, officer," the man declared in a tone that clearly said he believed the police to be far beneath him.
It was all LaFiamma could do not to explode. Taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly, he opened the patrol car's door.
"Sir, I need you to step out for a moment," he said in such a polite tone that all colleagues who were within earshot paused in what they were doing.
"Darling, we're running late," the man's wife muttered.
"I have to insist." LaFiamma really tried to withstand the urge to grab the man's lapels and drag him out of the vehicle. Almost to his chagrin, the man moved and went with him as directed, "I need to show you something."
Leading the man into the side alley, LaFiamma showed him the crime scene, the scorched asphalt, the damaged car boxed in by the dumpster. Deceptively calmly he told the uncooperative witness, "A police sergeant off duty has pursued your muggers and is missing since then."
The witness opened his mouth to say something, but a hand alighting on his shoulder stopped him.
"Said sergeant is my partner, sir," LaFiamma drawled, "and if you keep insisting everything else is more important than the search for him, I'll bust you for obstruction, aiding and abetting, kidnapping..." At that the witness started to protest. "...and failure to assist a person in danger. Understand?"
"Yes."
"What are you going to do next?"
"Help identify the teenagers," the man muttered.
"Good," LaFiamma mock praised, patting his upper arm jovially. "Now go and make yourself useful."
Satisfied, he watched the witness sprint back to the patrol car.
HK*HK*HK
When the Chevy finally jolted to a stop, brakes squealing, the pressure on Lundy's limbs lifted. He heard boots hit gravel but did not make the mistake of feeling relief. By now sweat soaked the gag and plastered his shirt to his chest.
The tailgate clanged down and the jacket pulled away. Strong hands grabbed Lundy under the arms, hauling him to the rear of the bed and over the edge. For a sickening moment, he felt like falling, but it was just his legs that touched down as they dragged him off the loading space. His boots scraped over gravel and rust flakes, disorientation making the ground sway when they turned him. The night air smelled different here, stale, with a faint tang of standing water and machine oil.
“Inside,” Scrat barked.
The pack surged, half-dragged, half-shoved him across open space littered with glass shards, broken bricks, and old wrappers that crunched underfoot. Lundy could not see much, but judging by the echoes of their steps, they were inside something large, maybe a warehouse, maybe a plant long since shut down. The air inside the abandoned building was only marginally cooler than the night, heavy with dust and the sour tang of rust. He caught a blur of shadows and steel beams, broken windows cutting jagged squares of moonlight into the gloom.
“Where the hell are we gonna put him?” one asked.
“Don’t matter,” Scrat's voice cracked like a whip, then dropped back to a lazy drawl, “He ain’t goin’ anywhere.”
“Could’ve dropped him back there," Scrat scoffed. "Would’ve been easy.”
“Yeah, but… he’s a cop,” someone else muttered. “Ain’t like hittin’ some random guy. You do that, they hunt you forever.”
A sharp laugh from another, “They’ll hunt us anyway.”
Lundy would have loved to give them a piece of his mind about that, but with his mouth stuffed and tied with the belt, he was rendered utterly speechless.
They looked around, searching for a place to dump him.
"There," one gestured at something behind Lundy.
They heaved him toward a wide pit in the cracked concrete. Lundy struggled, his boots digging furrows in the dust, but their grip held. They shoved him toward the hole, and suddenly the ground vanished. His boots skidded against the edge before he pitched forward, tumbling down a short flight of stairs. Struggling with every step, Lundy fought for balance, but gravity took over and he crashed sideways into grime and debris. His shoulder slammed first, then his hip, bone jolting against cold concrete. The gag turned his groan into a muffled choke as dust billowed up, stinging his nose and throat. By the time he came to a stop, his head was ringing and the pit had swallowed him whole.
“Right here’s fine,” Scrat snickered.
Above him, the boys crowded the rim, dark shapes that seemed to melt into each other.
“Now what, Scrat?” one asked, voice pitching high with nerves, “We can't just keep him here.”
“Why not?” another shot back. “Who's gonna find him?”
Lundy forced a breath, coughed against the gag, his chest burning. The pit smelled of damp earth and oil, shadows pressing in on all sides.
Scrat crouched by the pit and flicked a pebble down at Lundy, grinning when it bounced off his shoulder. Elbows braced on his knees, he stared down at him with a predator's patience. He was not just looking, he was claiming the space, making sure every boy behind him saw who held control. His shadow stretched long into the pit, draping over Lundy like a net. When he finally spoke, his voice was slow, deliberate, meant as much for his crew as for the man pinned below.
“Cops, crooks, don't make no difference. World chews us all up the same. Only question's who spits first.”
The pack shifted uneasily, but nobody challenged him.
“For now... he stays.”
Accepting that verdict, the group dissolved. Lundy heard them rummage around, then someone lit a fire. It popped, throwing sparks into the darkness. Not far from the pit, the youngsters settled down, their chatter and laughter mocking the trapped Texan.
Craning his neck, Lundy tried to get his bearings and realized he was in a working pit. Somewhere, water dripped, and farther off, a transformer hummed.
Casting one last glance at their captive, Scrat straightened. His sneaker scuffed the floor, sending dust and gravel skittering over the edge, raining down on the bound sergeant. With a snicker, he turned away.
Lundy stared up at the retreating back and listened to the footsteps, deducing when Scrat settled near the fire. Two, maybe three yards, he estimated, which told him that they could still hear him.
Forcing his breath through his nose as evenly as he could, Lundy lay in the pit and seethed. Twisting his hands, he tested the rope.
Eight years on the force and I let myself get overrun like a damn rookie. I'll never hear the end of it when I get back to the precinct.
If he got back to the precinct.
Judging by Scrat's words, they had no intention of letting him go anytime soon. The group's dynamic was volatile, orbiting around the tall brute. If he lashed out, the others would likely follow.
Lundy did not scare easily, but when their sheer number had driven him into the side of the Jimmy, knocking the wind from him, he had felt fear. Now, with his breathing impaired by the gag, the anxiety lingered in his gut. The rope held fast, every twist digging fibers deeper into his skin. His chances right now were bleak.
This wasn't planned, just kids lashing out. There must be evidence LaFiamma can follow.
In a rare moment of weakness, fear coiled within him as he stared at the pit's outline above.
As if I lay in a grave.
What if no one comes?
tbc...