Frank Inglewood sprinted down the narrow backstreet, the mere thought of what was pursuing him driving his weary legs past the point of collapse. Whatever pain he was in was nothing compared to what… he had in store. Inglewood ducked down an alley, knocking over a stack of festering metal garbage cans, but his pursuer wasn’t slowed. He turned down another alley. Another. Another. Dead end. Shit. But there is no way in hell he could’ve caught up. Frank leaned up against the rusted metal door frame and caught his breath.
“Stop right there,” Scott Walker said.