All I can think about is how much I want to live.
I moved to New York City a month ago to become the best journalist the world had ever seen. To find the greatest stories never told. And now here I am—Henry Parker, twenty-four years old and weary beyond rational thought, a bullet one trigger pull from ending my life.
I can't run. Running is all Amanda and I have done for the past seventy-two hours. And I'm tired. Tired of knowing the truth and not being able to tell it.
Five minutes ago I thought I had the story all figured out.
I knew that both of these men—one an FBI agent, the other an assassin—wanted me dead, but for very different reasons.
If I die tonight—more people will die tomorrow.