The first thing the bleeding man did after stumbling into my arms was beg me to keep the cops away.

The harsh gray light of a Seattle morning crept through the cracks in my blinds, illuminating a scene straight out of a nightmare. The linoleum was stained. Bloody rags were piled in the sink. And the most dangerous man in the city was unconscious in my bed.

I approached him cautiously. His breathing was shallow, his skin glistening with a thin layer of sweat. I pressed the back of my hand to his forehead and swallowed hard. He was burning up. The wound was infected, or his body was going into shock. Either way, basic first aid wasn't going to cut it anymore.

“Julian,” I whispered, shaking his good shoulder. “Julian, wake up.”

He groaned, his eyes fluttering open. The sharp clarity from the night before was clouded by fever. “Water,” he rasped.

I grabbed a glass from the tap and helped him sit up just enough to drink. He downed it greedily, his chest heaving. “I need antibiotics,” he muttered, his head falling back against the headboard. “Broad spectrum. And painkillers.”

“I don't have a pharmacy in my bathroom,” I said, panic rising in my throat. “I can't just buy prescription antibiotics over the counter!”

Julian reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick money clip, tossing it onto the mattress. It was a stack of hundred-dollar bills thicker than my wrist. “Take the cash. Go to the clinic on 9th Avenue. Ask for Dr. Evans. Tell him the King needs a favor. He’ll give you a bag. Don't speak to anyone else.”

I stared at the money. It was more than I made in a year. “If I walk out that door, I could just keep running.”

Julian’s fever-bright eyes locked onto mine. A faint, knowing smile touched his pale lips. “You could. But you won't.”

He was infuriatingly right. I grabbed my coat, pulling the hood over my messy hair, and stuffed the cash into my pocket.

The walk to the clinic was terrifying. Every black SUV that drove past made my heart stop. Every man in a suit looked like an assassin. I found Dr. Evans, a nervous, balding man in a rundown back-alley practice. The moment I said "the King," all the blood drained from his face. He didn't ask questions. He packed a black duffel bag full of medical supplies, heavy antibiotics, and syringes, and shoved it into my hands.

When I returned to my apartment building, I paused at the bottom of the stairs. Two men in heavy leather jackets were standing by the alleyway, smoking cigarettes and looking up at the fire escapes. They weren't cops. They had the cold, dead-eyed look of predators.

I kept my head down, my pulse roaring in my ears, and walked right past them, slipping into the stairwell. I took the steps two at a time, bursting into my apartment and locking the deadbolt behind me.

Julian was awake, sitting up against the wall, a sleek black handgun resting on his knee. He had dragged himself out of bed.