I leave the cab in an empty lot by the river with a nice view. I shut it off, leave the keys in the ignition, and ease the seat back so the cabbie can lie in a slightly more dignified position. His death is my fault, and leaving him like this makes me feel even worse than I already do. But I've been tangled up in too much action in the past forty-eight hours to risk being tied to this, too.
It won't take long-half an hour, maybe-for the taxi company to notice Cab 899's idleness. When they can't get through to the driver, they'll check its coordinates and send somebody to check it out. By then, I need to be gone. If I make it through the long night alive, I'll tell the authorities what happened to this man. No one should have to die in the crossfire like that, especially without his story being told.