Forty-three dollars and seventeen cents. Two hours. No fares.
Ray Mercer drummed his fingers against the wheel, staring at the numbers like they might move out of pity. They didn't.
The dashboard clock read 11:42 PM. Rain hammered his windshield, transforming Chicago's neon signs into bleeding wounds of color. On nights like this, the city didn't just feel cold. It felt like it wanted you dead.
He flipped open the past-due notice again. Third one this month. Same bold red letters: FINAL WARNING.
The radio crackled.
"Mercer, you still out there?" Dispatch. Marge's cigarette-ravaged voice.
Ray snatched the handset. "Yeah."
"Got a fare for you. Drake Hotel to O'Hare. Guy's in a hurry."
Ray straightened. Airport runs paid. "On my way."
"Might be your lucky night, Mercer."
Ray didn't respond. Luck. Like the luck that put him away for eight years. Like the luck that made every job interview end the moment they saw his record.
He pulled up to the Drake Hotel ten minutes later. Wipers fighting the deluge. The doorman pointed to a man standing under the awning—mid-forties, expensive trench coat, briefcase clutched against his chest.
The man's eyes scanned the street before he sprinted to the cab, yanking the door open and diving inside. Water dripped from his coat onto leather seats Ray would be paying off for another year.
"O'Hare," the man said. Not a request. An order. "International terminal."
Ray nodded, pulling into traffic. Something about this guy scraped at the back of his neck. Wrong rhythm. Wrong energy.
In the rearview, Ray caught a sheen of sweat on the man's forehead. Nobody sweats in forty-degree rain.
"Everything okay back there?"
"Just drive."
Three blocks later, the passenger leaned forward. Close enough that Ray smelled expensive cologne trying to mask raw fear.
"Are we being followed?"
Ray checked his mirrors. Traffic was thin. A few cars behind them. Nothing unusual.
"Don't think so."
The man sank back, unconvinced. "Take Michigan Avenue."
"That's not the fastest—"
"Just do it."
Red light at Michigan and Wacker. The city stood empty, hollowed out by rain and night. Just Ray, his fare, and the sound of water hammering metal.
The passenger's knee started bouncing. His fingers drummed against the briefcase, fast and uneven. Then his phone lit up. One glance at the screen and the man turned to stone. All color drained from his face.
The light changed. Ray started to accelerate.
'Thwip.'
Not the bang from movies. Just a dull, wet snap.
The rear window spiderwebbed. Something hot sprayed the back of Ray's neck.
In the rearview mirror, the passenger's eyes were wide with shock. A small, perfect hole punched through the left side of his head.
The man pitched forward, grabbing Ray's sleeve with desperate strength. His mouth worked, trying to form words.
"They know," he wheezed. "Run."
Then nothing.
Ray's body refused to move. Brain screaming but muscles frozen. A dead man's grip still tight on his sleeve.
Movement in the side mirror caught his eye—a shadow melting into an alley.
Then headlights blazed behind him. High beams. A black SUV with no plates pulled alongside, close enough to kiss. The passenger window rolled down.
Gun barrel rising.
Ray's body finally caught up with his brain. He stomped the gas pedal.
The cab lurched forward. Second shot punched through his rear fender. The explosion of sound jolted him fully awake.
He swerved around a delivery truck, ran a red light, cut down a one-way street. Wrong direction. Horns screamed. A taxi heading toward him, headlights blinding. Ray yanked the wheel right—too hard.
The cab fishtailed on rain-slick asphalt, tires shrieking. The back end swung wide, clipping a parked car. The impact shot pain through his spine.
Keep moving. Keep moving.
The SUV stayed with him, gaining ground. Professional. Whoever they were, they weren't cops. Cops announced themselves. Cops didn't use silencers.
Ray cut down an alley barely wider than his cab. His hands slipped on the wheel, slick with sweat and rain. The passenger-side mirror ripped away against brick, showering sparks. Metal screamed against stone.
Too narrow. Too fucking narrow.
The SUV tried to follow but wedged halfway in, its engine roaring in frustrated rage.
Ray had seconds. Maybe.
Four more turns, each tighter than the last. A loading dock, then the abandoned parking lot behind the old meatpacking plant. He killed the engine and the lights, then turned to face the dead man.
The body slumped against the door. Blood pooled black in the dim light, soaking into seats, floor mats, everything. The taste of metal flooded Ray's mouth. He swallowed bile.
His hands shook violently as he reached into the man's coat pocket. A wallet. Inside, a driver's license for Michael Connors. Corporate ID card for NEXELON Global.
He checked the other pocket. Another wallet. Different name: David Reese. Another ID: U.S. Department of Justice.
"What the—"
His phone buzzed. Unknown number.
His thumb hesitated over the screen before answering.
Silence at first. Just breathing.
Then a voice—distorted, electronic. Intimate, like a lover's whisper.
"You left your meter running, Ray."
His breath caught. They could see the cab. Right now.
"You should have stayed in that cab."
The line went dead.
Ray's heart hammered against his ribs like it wanted out. Sweat trickled down his spine despite the cold.
The radio squawked. "Ray? Ray, you copy? Police scanner's lit up. Shooting downtown. Your cab's description is all over it."
Ray didn't answer.
"Ray, they're saying the cabbie's a suspect. That you, Ray? Ray?"
He switched off the radio.
Eight years he'd kept his head down. Done everything right. Pissed in cups. Checked in with his PO. Took shit jobs with shit pay because that's what you do when you're trying to prove you're not what they think you are.
And now?
Now he was exactly what everyone expected an ex-con to be.
A killer.
Ray pulled up outside the 12th Precinct. Cops moved inside, faces blurred by the rain streaming down his windshield.
He reached for the door handle.
Then—a black SUV. Parked across the street. Engine running. Waiting.
The ghosts of eight wasted years screamed at him to go inside. Prove them wrong. Do the right thing.
But the second he stepped inside that station, he was dead.
He let go of the handle. Drove away.
He checked the wallet again. The DOJ ID had something tucked behind it. A folded slip of paper.
A name. A time. A place.
9:30 AM. Union Station. West Entrance.
Be there.
Ray stared at it. Someone was expecting this guy tomorrow.
He wasn't running anymore.
He was going to that meeting. And whoever was waiting for Connors—
—they'd have to settle for him.
RUNNING OUT OF ROAD
ACT 2
Union Station. 9:28 AM.
Ray stood beneath the west entrance, collar up against the morning chill. Last night's rain still clung to his clothes. His mouth tasted of black coffee and fear.
Every face in the crowd looked like a killer.
He fingered the DOJ badge in his pocket. Two minutes until whoever Connors was meeting showed up. Two minutes to decide if this was suicide.
A woman cut through the crowd. Late thirties. Tailored coat. Eyes that missed nothing. She moved with the easy confidence of someone who carried a gun and knew how to use it.
She stopped three feet from Ray. "You're late."
No introduction. No hesitation. Just accusation.
Her eyes flicked to his empty hands. "Where's the case?"
Ray's throat dried. Play along. Stay alive.
"Change of plans," he said. "Had to improvise."
The woman's eyes narrowed. She knew. She fucking knew he wasn't Connors.
"Who are—"
Ray felt her suddenly tense. She was staring at his jacket pocket. Connors' phone.
"Give me that." She snatched it, thumbs flying across the screen. "Sending a message."
"To who?"
"My handler. If he's clean, we get backup in twenty minutes." She hit send. "If he's not..."
Two black SUVs swerved onto the curb thirty seconds later.
"Fuck," she whispered, a cold smile forming. "Now we know."
Men in tactical gear poured out.
"Get in the car," she hissed. "They just told us exactly who the mole is."
Ray dove into the passenger seat. The woman accelerated, cutting through traffic like a surgeon with a scalpel.
"Who the hell are you?" She didn't look at him, completely focused.
"Cab driver who picked up Connors last night."
"And the real Connors?"
"Dead in my backseat. Bullet to the head."
She absorbed this with a single blink. "Name's Shepard. DOJ Internal Affairs."
"Why are they—"
"They think you have what Connors was bringing me. And if you don't, we're both dead."
Ray pulled Connors' DOJ badge from his pocket, tossed it onto her lap.
"I wasn't just driving him. I went through his pockets after."
Her jaw tightened. "And the case? You have it?"
"What case?"
Shepard slammed the brakes. The car skidded into an alley, momentum throwing Ray against the dash.
"You're telling me you don't have it?" Her voice dropped to something dangerous. "The case Connors was carrying. That's what all this is about."
"He had a briefcase. That's it."
Her expression hardened. "And where is it now?"
Ray replayed the night. Connors clutching the briefcase to his chest. The gunshot. The chase.
"I left it. In my cab."
"Where's your cab?"
"Abandoned lot behind the old meatpacking plant on Halsted."
She threw the car into drive. "Better hope it's still there."
---
The cab sat in the center of the abandoned lot, untouched. Too perfect. Like bait.
Ray frowned. "Something's wrong."
Shepard circled the vehicle, keeping her distance. "Stay back."
She approached from the rear, gun drawn. Peered through the window.
"Briefcase is still on the back seat."
Ray moved closer. "That's impossible. They'd have taken it."
"Unless they wanted to know who else was coming for it." Shepard reached for the door handle, then froze. Her eyes locked on something inside. "They left us a present."
Ray followed her gaze. A small red light blinked steadily from beneath the dashboard.
"Tracker?"
"Or worse." She backed away. "They're watching right now."
Ray scanned the surrounding buildings. The glint of light on glass caught his eye – third floor of the abandoned warehouse across the street.
He nodded almost imperceptibly toward it. Shepard's eyes flicked in the direction, then back to him.
"We need to move," she whispered. "Now."
The crack of a rifle shot split the air. Concrete exploded inches from Ray's foot.
They sprinted toward a wall of rusted shipping containers. Another shot ricocheted off metal.
Shepard's breath came hard. "They're herding us."
"Into what?"
Her eyes went cold. "A kill box."
Ray spotted a maze of scrap metal twenty yards left. "There."
They zigzagged through a forest of rusty car frames and industrial debris. Ray grabbed a jagged piece of mirror, angled it around a corner.
"Second floor. White window. He's repositioning."
Shepard nodded. "Keep him busy."
She disappeared deeper into the scrapyard while Ray moved in the opposite direction, deliberately exposing himself for half-seconds before ducking back into cover.
Another shot. Closer.
He caught glimpses of Shepard through gaps in the debris, circling behind the shooter's position.
Two minutes passed. Then three.
A single gunshot echoed from inside the warehouse.
Silence followed.
Shepard appeared at the building's side entrance, nodding once. "Clear."
They returned to the cab. Ray popped the trunk, found a tire iron. Carefully, he reached through the open window, hooked the tracker, and pulled it out.
"Military grade," Shepard said, examining it. "Not something you buy at RadioShack."
Ray moved to the back door, opened it. The briefcase sat on the seat, exactly where he'd left it.
Shepard stopped him before he could grab it. "Wait."
She ran her hands along the seams, checking for wires or triggers. Finding none, she lifted it.
"Feels light."
She placed it on the hood, clicked the latches.
Empty.
"Jesus," she whispered. "They already have it."
"Have what?" Ray asked. "What was Connors carrying?"
Shepard's laugh was hollow. "Evidence. Enough to burn Nexelon to the ground."
Ray swallowed. "Nexelon... Connors had their ID."
"Cover. Connors was DOJ. Undercover for sixteen months building a case against them."
"For what?"
She didn't answer. Just stared at the empty case.
"We need to go," she said finally. "They know we're here."
---
The auto shop smelled of oil and rust. Shepard locked the door behind them.
"Temporary safe house," she said. "We've got twenty minutes before we move again."
Ray pulled out his stolen wallets. "Connors had these."
Shepard took them, rifled through. Stopped at the note with the meeting details.
"Wait." She frowned. "His watch. Where is it?"
"What watch?"
"Connors never took it off. Steel Omega."
Ray remembered. "He was wearing it. I didn't take it."
"Shit." Shepard paced. "That watch was a dead drop. The real evidence would have been hidden inside."
Ray shook his head. "I didn't—" He stopped. "Wait."
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a handful of items. Keys, loose change, and something else – a watch face, separated from its band.
"It fell off when I moved him. I grabbed it without thinking."
Shepard snatched it. "Give me that screwdriver."
She worked at the back plate, prying at the edges. It popped free, revealing a small cavity. Inside sat a micro SD card.
Her hands trembled as she pulled out her phone, inserted the card, tapped the screen.
"My God," she whispered. "It's all here."
Ray looked over her shoulder. Spreadsheets. Bank transfers. Code names.
"Project SENTRY?" he read.
Shepard's voice was tight. "Assassinations. Political targets. Corporate rivals. All made to look like accidents or random crimes."
Ray thought of the passenger in his cab. The clean shot. The silencer.
"Connors was bringing this to you? To the DOJ?"
She nodded. "Internal Affairs. We knew Nexelon had people inside the Justice Department. Connors was my only clean contact."
Ray exhaled slowly. "And now he's dead."
"And now they think you have what they want."
His phone buzzed. Unknown number.
Ray looked at Shepard. She nodded once.
He answered. Speaker.
"You're running out of road, Ray." The same electronic voice from last night.
"Took you long enough to call," Ray said, surprised at the steadiness in his voice.
"We have your cab. We found the briefcase. But something's missing."
Ray locked eyes with Shepard. "You want the SD card? Make me an offer."
A pause. Then: "We'll let you walk. Hand it over, and this all goes away."
Ray's pulse hammered in his ears. Run or fight. Hide or burn.
Eight years in prison taught him something: Surrender never ends well.
"Where's the meeting?" he asked.
A soft chuckle on the line. They thought they had him.
"7 PM. Warehouse on 51st. Come alone. If we see Shepard with you, the deal's off."
Ray felt cold. "How do you—"
"You think you still have a move left, Ray? We're already there."
A second of confusion, then Ray saw it – Shepard's phone screen flickering with a security feed. Outside the auto shop. A black SUV pulling up.
"We have friends everywhere, Ray. Even inside the DOJ. How do you think we found you at Union Station? How do you think we knew about the watch?"
The line went dead.
Shepard stared at him. "They know my name."
"They know everything. They're outside. Right now."
Shepard moved fast, grabbing her gun, the SD card, and Connors' phone.
"You think DOJ is compromised?" She tossed the phone under a toolbox, screen up, voice memo still recording. "Not all of it. Someone's gonna hear this."
"So what now? You're not actually going to hand it over?"
Ray looked at the SD card in Shepard's hand. At the evidence that could bring down killers.
The chance to be something more than what everyone thought he was.
He curled his fingers around the SD card. Eight years inside taught him one thing—surrender never ends well.
"They think I'm bringing them the SD card."
Shepard frowned. "You're not?"
Ray shook his head. "I'm bringing them hell."
ACT 3 – RUNNING OUT OF ROAD
The only way out is through.
Ray's fingers tightened around the SD card, its hard plastic edges cutting into his palm. Morning light slashed through the auto shop's grimy windows as the black SUV idled outside, engine purring like a predator. Tinted windows swallowed the sunlight. No faces. Just the promise of violence.
"We need an exit," Ray said, scanning the walls for weakness.
But Shepard was already moving, shoving a heavy tool chest aside with a metallic screech. The storm drain hatch underneath was rusted, forgotten. Perfect.
"They won't expect us to go down," she said, already prying at the edges.
Ray watched the SUV's doors, still closed but not for long. He could feel seconds ticking away in his pulse. "They expect us to panic," he said. "Let's disappoint them."
The hatch groaned open, revealing rusted rungs descending into darkness. The smell of stagnant water and decay rushed up to meet them. Ray clutched the SD card tighter, its edges a reminder of everything at stake.
"They think they have control," he said, voice hardening. "That ends tonight."
Shepard's lips curled into a dangerous smile. "Then let's rewrite the ending."
They dropped into the darkness just as the SUV doors swung open. Boots hit pavement. Weapons clicked ready. But their prey was already gone.
---
The underground tunnels stretched beneath the city like secret veins, carrying them away from danger. Ray and Shepard moved fast, ankle-deep in murky water. Each splash echoed against concrete walls. Every sound a betrayal of their position.
"We can't just show up to the meet," Shepard said, her voice cutting through the hollow darkness. "They'll kill you the second you step inside."
Ray pulled Connors' DOJ badge from his pocket. The dead agent's face stared back at him, eyes frozen in an official smile that meant nothing now. He rolled the badge between his fingers, feeling its weight, its possibility.
"We don't need to be there," he said, mind racing ahead. "We just need them to think we are."
Shepard stopped, water swirling around her ankles. Her eyes narrowed, reading his face. "You have a plan."
"More of a bet," Ray said. His heart hammered against his ribs. Eight years on the run taught you when to hide and when to strike. "We need to flip the script."
---
5:40 PM. Two hours until the meeting.
The internet café smelled of burned coffee and desperation. One of those places that still ran on cash and didn't ask questions. Perfect. Ray broke the lock with practiced ease while Shepard kept watch, her body coiled like a spring.
Inside, the ancient computers hummed and flickered. Shepard's fingers flew across the keyboard, breaking through firewalls, tapping into security feeds across the city. Meanwhile, Ray pulled out a burner phone, thumbs hammering out a message to Nexelon.
7 PM. I'll be there. Alone.
The bait was set.
They waited, breathing in the stale air, watching the minutes bleed away on the cracked wall clock. At 6:00 PM, Shepard tapped into the warehouse cameras. Movement everywhere—Nexelon's teams sweeping the perimeter, snipers settling onto rooftops, men in suits checking weapons like they were checking watches.
Shepard exhaled slowly. "They're expecting a bloodbath."
Ray studied the screens, face hardened into something unreadable. Eight years of running had taught him to recognize traps. Eight years had taught him how to set his own.
"So let's give them one."
---
6:50 PM. The warehouse on 51st stood against the darkening sky like a steel coffin.
A convoy of black SUVs poured into the lot, circling the building like sharks. Nexelon's top people were here. The ones who never showed their faces in the daylight. The ones who signed the death warrants but never pulled triggers themselves.
Inside, a long table dominated the center of the warehouse floor. Empty chairs waited like sentinels. At the head sat a man with cold eyes and a sharper suit.
Graham Kessler. The ghost in the system. The man who actually ran Nexelon from the shadows.
A figure entered the warehouse. Hood up. Shoulders tense with the weight of prey that knows it's being hunted.
Kessler's lips curled into a satisfied smirk. "Punctual. That's good."
But something was wrong. The second the hooded figure stopped moving—
The feed glitched.
Kessler's smirk evaporated. "Check the cameras."
His men scrambled, barking into radios, fingers flying across tablets. The warehouse feeds were looping. The same ten seconds, over and over.
They weren't watching live footage.
The realization hit just as the doors burst open.
But it wasn't Ray. It wasn't Shepard.
It was the FBI, weapons drawn, faces grim with purpose.
---
On a rooftop across the street, Ray and Shepard watched the chaos unfold. Blue lights sliced through the night, illuminating the faces of men who thought themselves untouchable finally discovering their own mortality.
"I told you," Ray said, the wind whipping his words away. "They expect us to be scared."
Through high-powered binoculars, Shepard watched Kessler shouting at his men, pointing furiously at the SD card sitting on the table. A steel briefcase sat next to it. Nexelon's backups. The real hard drives. The kind of evidence that erased people from existence.
"You did it," Shepard breathed.
But Ray wasn't watching the warehouse anymore. His eyes had caught a glint of metal on the adjacent rooftop. His blood turned to ice.
"Sniper," he said. "Not one of ours."
Shepard followed his gaze. There, on the edge of the building, a single shooter was lining up his rifle—
Not at the FBI.
Not at Kessler.
At the evidence.
"They're going to wipe the proof," Ray hissed. "Burn everything."
Shepard yanked her gun from its holster, calculation in her eyes. "Not if I get there first."
Ray grabbed her arm. "No. Not like that."
His mind raced, scanning the darkened street, the abandoned alleyways, the infrastructure of a city he'd hidden in for eight years. He'd been here before. Eight years of running. Eight years of knowing when a fight was lost.
Not tonight.
He spotted it. A loose power line dangling from a pole. The sniper's rooftop was directly beneath an old street transformer, its metal casing rusted with neglect.
"Cover me," Ray said, already moving.
Shepard hesitated, then followed, her footsteps sure against the gravel rooftop.
---
The sniper adjusted his scope, breath slow and controlled. One squeeze of the trigger, and everything would disappear in fire. All evidence. All proof. All hope.
Then—
A metallic snap cut through the night.
Ray yanked the power line free, the live wire sparking in his gloved hand. The current surged through the transformer—
And the rooftop exploded in a shower of sparks and concrete.
The sniper was launched backward, body arching through the air like a broken puppet. His rifle clattered over the edge, tumbling four stories to the street below.
Inside the warehouse, FBI agents pinned Kessler to the ground, knee in his back, cuffs biting into wrists that had never known consequence. The SD card and hard drives were already disappearing into evidence bags.
It was over.
---
Later. Union Station hummed with late-night travelers, each rushing toward something or away from something else. Ray and Shepard sat on a bench beneath the grand clock, watching the world move past them.
Shepard held up the SD card between two fingers, turning it in the light. "This is going to put a lot of powerful people away."
Ray exhaled, feeling something uncoil inside him. "Good."
She studied him, seeing past the exhaustion to the question underneath. "What about you? You could disappear. New name, new life."
Ray shook his head. The thought of running again hollowed him out. "I spent eight years inside. Running. Hiding." He looked up at the vaulted ceiling, the vast open space. "I don't want to do that anymore."
Shepard nodded, understanding in her eyes.
She stood, straightening her jacket. "You ever think about law enforcement?"
Ray couldn't help the dry chuckle that escaped him. "Me? A cop?"
She smirked. "I've seen worse."
He watched her go, her confident stride carrying her into the crowd until she disappeared.
The night air hit his face as he turned toward the street. A yellow cab pulled to the curb, its light glowing in the darkness. The driver leaned out, eyes meeting Ray's.
"Hey. You need a ride?"
Ray paused, the question hanging between them. For eight years, the answer had always been yes. Another ride. Another escape. Another road leading nowhere.
He shook his head. "Not this time."
The cab pulled away, taillights fading into the night traffic.
Ray stood there, watching the city move around him, breathing it in for the first time without fear clouding his lungs. The weight of the past eight years slid from his shoulders like shedding an old skin.
For the first time in a long time—
He wasn't running.
He was home.
