Committed

by Chris Merritt

Genres: General Fiction; Thrillers; Political Thrillers

Synopsis

Six days to stop a deadly attack. And no one else believes it's real.

'Ingenious and turbocharged with suspense. A writer to surely put on your reading list.' David Baldacci

'Very well done - tight action and a smart central character.' Anthony Horowitz

'Utterly engrossing' The Sun

'A nail-biter of a thriller that will keep your heart in your throat all the way through' Lisa Regan

'As propulsive as a Bourne movie, Committed is a first-class blend of intrigue, suspense, and action.' Charles Cumming

'One of the best thrillers I've read this year.' Imran Mahmood

Former CIA undercover operative Ellen McGinley is battling to overcome PTSD when she stumbles upon a domestic terror plot. The deadly attack is due to take place in six days and will strike at the very heart of her homeland.

For Ellen, it's a chance to find redemption for her greatest mistake - one she will never allow herself to forget.

But no sooner than she alerts the authorities, she finds herself diagnosed as delusional and locked in a psychiatric ward. No one believes her story.

She's the only one who thinks the danger is real, which means she's the only one who can stop it.

Ellen must draw on all her old skills to escape, stay alive, protect her family, and find those responsible - before all hell breaks loose.

Committed is the propulsive thriller you won't want to miss this summer. Perfect for fans of Lee Child, David Baldacci, JB Turner and Robert Dugoni.

'A blistering, heart-pounding, edge-of-the-seat, adrenaline rush of a read. Absolutely outstanding and without doubt the best book I have read this year.' Carol Wyer

'Heart-pounding suspense until the very last page. I absolutely loved it!' Ava Glass

'A fast-paced thriller to rival the best. Full of unexpected twist and turns, with impeccable research and insights, this is a must-read for all crime fans.' Matt Brolly

'Committed is a smart, of-the-moment action thriller that will have you turning the pages past bedtime.' Mason Cross

Release date: August 1, 2023

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 400

Sample

SHE’S SEEN THE guy before, she’s sure of it. Two sightings in the space of twenty minutes, a mile apart. First at 69th Street station, when she arrived on the train into Philly, then again coming out of the 11th Street metro, reflected in a store window.

The guy’s maybe 5-10, 170, moving like he’s in good shape. Like he could run or fight if he needed to. Sports coat and open-necked shirt over jeans, soft shoes. The jacket just loose enough to hide a sidearm at his hip or in the small of his back, if he’s carrying.

There’s nothing remarkable about him, and that’s precisely why he’s caught her attention. It’s like he’s trying to blend in, and that’s what makes him stand out to her. Because if it looks out of place, then it probably is out of place.

That was what they’d taught her at The Farm.

She’d learnt anti-surveillance theory in a classroom at Camp Peary, Virginia. Then the practical stuff on the streets of Williamsburg and Norfolk. Exercises trained and drilled until spotting someone following you was as automatic as breathing, until you couldn’t switch it off.

Even when you’d left it all behind and had a totally new life outside the CIA.

Her shrink had said that, when we’ve been under extreme stress, our bodies can still behave like we need to be on high alert, long after the event has passed. When we’re safe. We imagine threats that don’t exist. Hypervigilance, she’d called it.

Ellen McGinley understands that, because it’s happened to her a lot.

But she also understands that, if there’s one thing you can’t afford to do, it’s ignore your instincts: that little voice in your head that tells you something’s not right. The same voice that’s talking to her right now.

She needs to change her plans.

Instead of going straight to the restaurant where she’s meeting her contact, Walter – a UPenn professor who knows more about US domestic terrorism than almost anyone in the country – she makes a detour.

She needs to flush out her surveillance, expose the guy, lose him.

She can’t put her contact in danger.

Making a left on Chestnut Street, she heads east, past Thomas Jefferson hospital, past the Bank of America, towards Independence National Historical Park. She cuts south and east a couple times before she hits the corner of the park.

Midway over the crosswalk, she glances behind – a natural action – and glimpses the guy again. It’s all the confirmation she needs.

Two sightings alone would be suspicious. But maybe, just maybe, the guy’s heading to the same place as her for his lunch. After all, their roast pork hoagie is about the best in Philly, worth a train ride in from the suburbs.

But three sightings is no coincidence.

He’s tailing her, and she can only guess it’s because of what she knows, now.

What she thinks she knows. What she needs someone she trusts to make sense of for her.

Her heart rate has already rocketed. Her palms are sweaty. It’s the familiar anticipation of having to act on those instincts she’s learnt to trust.

Learnt the hard way.

She heads for a group of tourists gathered outside Independence Hall. Weaves in between the bodies, blending into them. Brushes right by a lady speaking Korean and plucks the compact umbrella poking out of the tote bag on the woman’s shoulder. Reaches inside her own purse for the pepper spray she always carries. Then slips through the arches to the side of the building and behind one of the tall red-brick pillars, where she’s away from the bustle and cameras, alone.

Waits.

Tries to slow her breathing.

She guesses that the guy will parallel her to avoid being seen, and hope to catch her again on the other side of the arches. But when she doesn’t appear on the other side, he’ll need to come through and look for her.

She waits some more, pulse pounding at her temples. Pepper spray in her left hand. Umbrella in the right.

Ready.

It’s maybe a full minute before she hears footsteps behind her. Cautious at first, the movements of someone searching.

She stays absolutely still.

Then he appears. A few strides and he’s in front of her, now, with his back to her. He stops dead in the shadow between the two rows of arches.

“Hey,” she says.

The guy turns.

Their eyes lock and she knows that she’s made the right call. That what she heard last week must have been for real.

And she has just a couple of seconds to act.

Ellen has just finished talking to the babysitter on her cell phone, a minor thing about a misplaced bedtime book for her six-year-old son, Josh. But she didn’t mind the interruption; she liked that the young woman bothered to call and ask because she wanted to read Josh his favourite story. In any case, the function she’s at with Harry is kind of dull, full of political donors he’s schmoozing, so she takes a minute in this quiet little nook of the sprawling five-star hotel to check her WhatsApp messages before she has to step back in for another round of smiles and small talk.

And that’s when she catches the words, spoken softly in the corridor around the corner from where she’s sitting. A moment of conversation between two men. She can’t see them, but she can hear they’re walking.

“Keystone Boys are on for the big one,” says the first. “It’ll be a game-changer. Like nothing we’ve ever seen here before.”

“Is that right, son?” drawls the second. His accent is southern. He sounds impressed.

“Yes, sir,” replies the first. “Real soon, they’re gonna need more graves out there than when the pandemic hit. Boom!”

“Well, in that case, God bless America.”

Both men laugh and she hears their steps fade.

Slowly, she rounds the corner. They’ve already gone. If she’d had a little more wine, she might’ve thought she’d imagined it.

But Ellen knows what she just heard, because she’s heard something a lot like it once before, in France, back when she used to work for the Agency. When it was her responsibility to stop it, and she failed.

A terror plot.

Ellen doesn’t hesitate. She hits the guy who’s been tailing her full in the face with a burst of pepper spray.

He gasps, his hands rushing to his eyes, leaving his neck completely exposed. And that’s where she plants the umbrella. Hard. Right in his Adam’s apple.

A single backhand jab is all it takes. He gives a choking sound, his tongue out like he’s going to puke.

He folds forward a little, as though he might collapse, but steadies himself. Then his hand goes to his hip and that’s when she sees the pistol.

She recognizes the shape of a Sig Sauer. The exact model doesn’t matter. The fact that it’s one of the few 9mm handguns made without an external safety catch does.

She drops the spray cannister and the umbrella and lunges for him.

But he’s already drawn the gun.

There’s a single scream from somewhere behind her, then raised voices.

She wraps her hands around the weapon, turns her shoulder into him so the barrel points away from her – away from the tourists – toward the wall.

His finger is on the trigger.

She grasps the pistol grip and twists, bending his index finger the wrong way. She hears his tendon snap at the knuckle right before the shot rings out. It’s loud as hell.

She doesn’t know where the bullet goes, only that it hits the 250-year-old brickwork someplace, and next thing she’s got the Sig out of his hand and in her control.

His eyes are red, half-closed, streaming with tears. He can’t see properly. He throws a haymaker at her with his left. She rocks back and the punch catches nothing but air.

She aims a hard kick between his legs and this time he goes down. Standing over him, out of striking range, she holds the gun steady in both hands. Points it right at his chest.

“Who are you?” she demands. There’s a buzzing noise in her ears, tinnitus from the gunshot, and she can barely hear herself speak.

He groans on the floor, clutching his groin.

She raises her voice. “Why are you following me?”

He doesn’t answer.

The sounds behind her are getting louder, now, and she can feel the movement of a crowd. She throws a glance between the arches and sees a dozen people watching, dozens more running for cover. She turns back to him, knowing there’s not much time to make it out of this.

“Who are you working for?” she growls.

“Fuck you,” he hisses.

“I’m not playing.” She takes up some slack on the trigger. “Are you one of them?”

“Put down your weapon!” The order comes from the other side of the arches.

She keeps the Sig trained on the guy but takes a second to locate the new voice. Two uniformed cops have drawn their Glocks, the black eyes of their square barrels looking right at her. They’re ready to shoot.

Goddammit.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

“Drop it right now!” the cop yells.

She briefly considers her options. Decides she doesn’t really have any.

Still aiming at the guy, she adjusts her stance, clenches her teeth. Closes her left eye. Feels her trigger finger tightening.

And then she lowers the weapon. Puts it slowly on the flagstones at her feet.

Raises her hands. Gets on the ground like they’re telling her.

Next thing, she’s being arrested. Cuffed behind her back, manhandled to her feet by the cops. There are more of them now, and she sees one working his radio, kneeling by the guy she just took out. Another is moving the tourists back, away from Independence Hall.

“That guy was following me,” she says. “He pulled a gun on me. You gonna arrest him, too?”

But they don’t answer. They’re marching her towards a cop car that’s pulled up on the sidewalk of South 6th Street. They open the rear door and shove her in. She cracks her head on the doorframe. Next thing they’re on the move, the radio up front bleeping, callsigns given and received. The vehicle smells of old takeout and male sweat.

“This is a mistake,” she says. “I’m the victim.”

Neither of the cops up front respond. She guesses they’ve heard that one before.

Her head is throbbing where it hit the doorframe.

“Officer, am I bleeding?” she asks.

The cop in the passenger seat swivels back, his gaze sweeping up and down.

“Nah, you’re good,” he replies.

As the streets flash past, she thinks of Walter, sitting in the restaurant, waiting for her. Not knowing what she wanted to talk to him about, but knowing it was important. Wondering how long he’ll stay, what he’ll make of her no-show. She hopes he’ll be safe. At least she didn’t lead the guy right to him.

She’ll find a way to contact Walter later on and explain, rearrange. She still has questions to ask him. Questions whose answers could save a whole lot of American lives.

Her next thought is of her son, Josh.

She needs to pick him up from his baseball camp in three hours.

She’s not sure she’s going to be able to do that.

SHE’S BEEN SITTING in the little airless room for almost two hours when the door opens.

A bald-headed, middle-aged man in a suit walks in, carrying a thin folder and a notebook. He has deep, dark bags under his eyes, like he hasn’t slept in a week. She guesses that comes with the job. Being a detective in one of America’s most violent cities would be enough to give anyone insomnia.

“Can you please tell me what’s happening?” she says.

“Good to meet you, ma’am,” he replies. “I’m Detective Brennan, Homeland Security Unit. Get you anything? Water? The drinks menu sucks, but as I always say, this ain’t the Ritz Carlton.” He chuckles and places the file and notepad on the table between them as he sits.

She knows what he’s doing, trying to build rapport. The 101 of interview techniques. 101 is probably also the number of times he’s used that line about the drinks menu to give the impression he’s a nice guy. But she’s not in the mood for any B.S.

“Homeland Security Unit?” she queries.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Why does this require Homeland Security?”

“Any incident involving firearms at a national landmark comes straight to us. We’re based out of south Philly. That’s why it took me a while to get up here, what with the traffic.”

She’s heard about the unit. A ‘fusion center’ featuring Philly P.D., FBI and DHS.

“So, you guys think I was the victim of a terror attack?” she asks.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” His smile is going for reassuring. It’s anything but. She wants out.

“Am I free to go?”

“I’m afraid not, ma’am. You’ve been arrested.”

“Am I being charged with anything?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

Brennan tilts his head. “On whether we can establish why Independence Park almost turned into the Battle of Gettysburg today.”

“Do I need a lawyer?”

He shrugs. “You have a right to one, as I’m sure they told you, but if you’ve got nothing to hide, you got nothing to worry about.”

That’s exactly the problem. She’s got a whole lot to hide.

“Besides,” he adds, “if you want an attorney, it’s gonna take them a while to get here. And you did just ask if you could leave . . .”

“My son’s at a baseball camp, out in East Norriton. He’s six. I’ve got to collect him at three thirty.”

They both look at the clock on the wall.

“Well, that’s gonna be a little tight,” Brennan says. He glances at her engagement ring and wedding band. “Do you want to call your husband? Maybe he can pick up—”

“He’s in D.C.” She doesn’t tell him what Harry does. Not yet. She’d also prefer it if Harry didn’t know about this until it’s sorted out. Embarrassing would be an understatement, given his job.

Hell, this might even cost Harry his job if it goes really bad. The situation she encountered today is exactly why she left her old life behind. She left it for Harry – whose profile is a little more public, now, than when they first got together – and for Josh, to be the mom he needs.

And for her own sanity.

“Okay,” Brennan says. “There anyone else who could help?”

She knows that her parents would drive a half-hour from Doylestown to collect Josh in a heartbeat. But she doesn’t want them knowing she’s here, either. Not if she can help it. They’d just worry. That’s what parents do, no matter how old their kids are. And she wants to keep this as low-key as possible.

“I can come back tomorrow,” she offers. “Make a statement or whatever.”

“I think it’s a little more complicated than that, Mrs,” he opens the file, checks the top sheet inside, “McGinley. Can I call you Ellen?”

“Sure.”

“All right, Ellen, why don’t you just tell me in your own words what happened at Independence Hall, and we’ll see if we can sort this thing out, quick as we can?”

“Great. I want to help.”

“I’m glad we’re on the same page.” He spreads his hands. “Go right ahead.”

The first rule of CIA interrogation training is seared into her memory: don’t get caught. But, if something goes bad and you do, you have two options.

Option one is to say absolutely nothing at all, don’t even give them a yes or a no to work with, and wait for the cavalry to arrive. Option two is to play nice – make them think you’re cooperating, but still don’t give them anything of value.

Ellen’s problem is that there is no cavalry on the way. No one’s got her back, and there’s no one in an operations room at Langley watching out for her. Not anymore, not since she quit. She’s been on the outside ever since Paris. So, she decides option two is her best bet right now.

“So, I’m downtown, and I see this guy behind me,” she begins.

“Okay.” Brennan nods.

“I get on the metro and, when I come out, he’s there again. The same guy.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Positive.”

He makes a note, gestures for her to continue.

“Then I’m walking to get some food, like six blocks away, and he’s still behind me, following.”

“How do you know he was following you?”

“I just . . . did.”

“All right.” He purses his lips, clearly unconvinced. “And why would he be doing that?”

She hesitates. Thinks, because of what I heard about a possible attack on US soil. Because I’m a target now, and I don’t even know who for. She knows it’ll sound crazy if she tells him that, though. She’s only told one person so far, and that’s Harry. Walter would’ve been the second.

“Uh, I don’t know. You’d have to ask him. Maybe he was going to assault me.”

Brennan clicks his pen a couple times. “And, yet, you assaulted him. With pepper spray.”

“He came right up to me, I was scared.”

“You put him in a medical center.”

“It was self-defence.”

There’s a moment’s silence while Brennan makes another note.

“Is he hurt?” she asks, not because she feels sorry for the guy, but because it could be a problem for her if he is.

“Not seriously. He isn’t pressing charges.” The detective pauses a beat. “I think his ego’s taken a bruising, though.”

“Because he got his ass kicked by a woman?”

“Something like that.” There’s a flicker of amusement in his expression. “So, what about the gun?”

“He pulled it on me.”

“After you sprayed him in the face?”

She hesitates. Can’t really claim it happened any other way. “Yes.”

“All right. Then what?”

“I took the gun off him and that’s when it fired. Then the officers arrived.”

“You took the gun off him, huh?” Brennan blinks. “Just like that?”

“Yeah.” She realizes he wants an explanation of how a 5-6, 130-lb civilian woman in her late thirties could do that. She doesn’t blame him. And telling him she does CrossFit won’t cut it. “I’ve taken some classes,” she adds.

“No kidding.” He looks like he doesn’t quite believe her, though. “How did the weapon come to be discharged?”

“He had his finger on the trigger when I grabbed it.”

“Mm-hm. And did you give a thought to the potential public safety impact of that action, given your location?”

“No. But I did give a thought to him shooting me.” She leans forward. “Have you asked him why he was carrying a concealed weapon, anyway?”

Brennan doesn’t look up from his notebook. “His licence checks out. He doesn’t need a reason. This is Pennsylvania.”

So, they’ve traced the guy. It’s an opportunity for a lead that might connect to what she heard last week. The thing that started all this. A potential threat against the US, from within. From among its own citizens.

. . .they’re gonna need more graves out there than when the pandemic hit . . .

“What’s his name?” she asks, trying to ignore the chill that those remembered words just sent through her.

The detective frowns. “I can’t tell you that.”

“Does he have a record? Is he a terror suspect?”

“I can’t tell you that, either.”

“Look, I just want to know who was following me. Whether I’m in danger or not.”

“We haven’t established that he was following you.”

She rubs her eyes. “Jeez, okay.”

“And you’d never seen the guy you attacked before today?”

“It was self—” She stops, decides to play nice instead. “Not that I’m aware of. But if I don’t know who he is, I can’t really be sure.”

“Hm.”

Brennan goes quiet. He opens the file, licks his fingertip and lifts the corner of the first page, just for a second. She scans the text upside-down and catches the words: Michael John Smith.

Is that the guy’s name? It has to be. But it’s so generic, it sounds to her like an alias. An alias firearms licence? She wonders what opposition she’s up against here.

“Any history of violence?” The detective’s voice snaps her out of the thought.

“Excuse me?”

“Do you have any history of violent behavior, Ellen?”

A bunch of film clips flash through her mind. Times she’s had to defend herself or someone else. Enemies who wound up worse than the guy today. But the secrecy agreement she signed on day one at Langley means she can’t tell Brennan about that. She doesn’t even want to tell him where she used to work, but she’s running out of options.

“No,” she lies.

“Any membership or contact with extreme groups, either past or present?”

“No . . .” That’s not strictly true, either. But she sees what he’s getting at here. He thinks she’s a potential terrorist, not the creep who was tailing her.

“Just standard questions for an incident like this. Trust me.” He’s flashes her a crocodile’s smile. “How about your psychiatric history? Ever had any diagnoses?”

She wonders if he knows, already. Whether he can find out. “Yes,” she admits. She’s not ashamed of it. “Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, a while back.”

“PTSD?”

“Yeah.”

“Like, all the flashbacks and stuff?” He’s writing more, now, and quicker.

“That’s part of it,” she replies, cautiously.

There was a whole lot more besides. Enough to put her in hospital on anti-psychotic medication at one point. She misinterpreted harmless, everyday stuff as danger. Like the time she heard a loud bang at home one day and threw herself under the kitchen table, thinking a bomb had gone off in the street. But it was just her neighbor’s old station wagon backfiring. Harry found her hiding, shaking, cell phone in hand. She’d called 911.

“And thinking people are out to get you, right?” Brennan continues.

“Not necessarily,” Ellen says, recalling how she’d had that symptom, too. She’s sure that’s not the case this time. It can’t be.

“PTSD is no joke,” he says. “It’s a serious condition.”

“I know.”

She doesn’t like how this is going. She needs to put a stop to it before they start talking about locking her up in a psychiatric ward again. Because she’s not going back there. And she has one more card to play before asking for an attorney.

“Listen, uh, Detective Brennan. Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“This might sound a little odd, but can you call your colleagues at the fusion center and ask them to check my name, please?”

“We already did.”

“On classified channels.”

“Oh.” He sits back in his chair, like this has changed everything. Sighs, as if she’s been wasting his time. “Right, it’s like that. And you can’t just tell me right now what I’m gonna find?”

“I can’t. Sorry.”

“Okay. You got it.” Brennan slowly gets to his feet, picks up the file, and leaves.

Getting his team to check with Langley isn’t ideal, but she held out as long as she could. Hopefully, the confirmation of her old job will make Brennan see that they’re on the same side. That she’s one of the good guys. Then he’ll let her go home.

Go and pick up little Josh.

She decides she’ll make him his favourite for dinner: mac ’n’ cheese. She imagines his reaction when she tells him what he’s having. His big grin, those cute dimples in his cheeks, and that fist-pumping celebration he does whenever a treat is announced.

She pictures herself smothering him with a hug, stroking his hair, telling him he’s safe.

Hoping that it’s true.

It’s forty minutes before the door opens again and she’s about to start complaining when she sees it’s not Brennan.

It’s another middle-aged white guy. This one is pretty similar to the detective, except he’s a little older, got a little more hair, and his suit is a little nicer. She wonders if he’s a fed. Maybe she’ll be able to tell him about the threat she overheard.

She has to tell someone else, sooner or later.

“Hello, Ellen,” he says gently.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Doctor Schulz,” he replies, sitting down opposite her. “I’ve been asked to conduct your psychiatric evaluation.”

“Psychiatric? But . . . Detective Brennan was supposed to check—”

“Classified channels, yes.”

“So, what happened?”

“He checked.”

“And?”

“There’s no record of you ever working for the United States government.”

SHE FEELS AS though the floor’s dropping away beneath her. There’s a tightness in her chest, a churning in her belly, and her head is starting to hurt again where it hit the doorframe of the cop car. She tries to process what’s gone wrong, but her thoughts are racing so fast it’s hard to think straight.

“That can’t be right,” she says. “You sure?”

“That’s what they told me,” replies Schulz.

“But . . . there must’ve been a mistake,” she protests.

“I’m not with law enforcement, I’m afraid.” His tone is almost apologetic, but not quite.

“They checked classified channels, though?”

“Oh yes.” The psychiatrist gives her a benevolent smile. “I’m assured of that.”

No wonder they sent a goddamn shrink to evaluate her, she thinks. They obviously figure she’s crazy because she’s claiming to be a spook after attacking a man – apparently an ordinary citizen – at a national monument.

She realizes it’s actually worse than that. They believe she’s crazy and dangerous.

Which is a not a good look when you’re under arrest.

“This is so fucked up,” she mutters to herself.

“I’m sorry?”

“Nothing.”

She wonders how this could have happened. Forces herself to go through the logical steps. Most likely, they made the wrong check. Brennan called a junior colleague, who spelled her name wrong, checked the wrong box on the search app, maybe read the wrong result.

Because she should be in the system at Langley.

So, why wasn’t she?

Even as a NOC – a non-official cover operative – she has to be on a list, someplace in the building. One that can be checked in case of incidents exactly like this one. She knows she’s on that list – hell, they must’ve checked it when Harry got his new job – so it’s probably just human error that she wasn’t found.

That’s the simplest explanation, and the most probable.

But she acknowledges that there are two other possibilities. Both a whole lot worse than some junior analyst pressing the wrong key because he’s watching the Phillies highlights on his second monitor while he works.

One is that the people she’s onto here – the group whose name she heard whispered by two men in D.C. last week – have friends in high places. Friends who can, say, dictate what happens to someone once they’re in custody. That frightens the hell out of her. But the other possibility is just as bad.

That the Agency has scrubbed her from its books.

They must’ve done it right after they forced her out.

After what happened in France.

Covering their asses. Accusing her of “freelancing” and “incompetence”. Standing by their public assessment that Paris had been totally unpredictable. Putting distance between Langley and any future investigations or congressional hearings. Delete, deny. That’s what they do.

They’d effectively washed their hands of her. Put her on gardening leave pending an investigation. Then offered to terminate the investigation if she just quit. She’d wanted to fight her case, but she didn’t have the energy. Her mental health was shot to pieces, her career was over, and she was done with the Agency.

So, she quit. And, after Harry had wrapped up his charity work in France, they returned to the US and started over. Which meant a whole lot of therapy for Ellen as she tried to work through her trauma.

As she considers which is more likely, she wonders if Paris is, in fact, the real reason for her no trace. That churning in her belly has turned into full-blown nausea, now, as bad as the first trimester of her pregnancy with Josh. She thinks she might throw up.

It could be a symptom of concussion from where she hit her head earlier.

More likely, it’s the memory that’s just come back to her. A scene she’ll never forget for as long as she lives.

The noise hits her from a half-mile away, long before she can see the chaos. It’s loud enough to be heard over her Vespa engine and through her helmet. She slows to take the corner as a fire truck blows right by her, blue lights flashing and siren screaming. It races ahead of her, towards the crowd a few blocks down. There are a bunch more of the sapeur-pompiers – the city’s paramedic firefighters – already here. They’re always the first to be. . .