The sedan had folded around a concrete median like a crushed cigarette box, its frame buckled inward, glass scattered across the wet asphalt in a glittering carpet. Felix did not wait for the fire crew. He seized the driver's side door with both hands and wrenched it free of its hinges, the metal screaming as it gave way. The driver was already gone. His neck bent at an angle that left no room for hope, his body slumped against the deflated airbag. Felix did not spare him a second glance. He climbed through the wreckage to the back seat, where a woman lay crumpled against the crushed interior panel, her golden-blonde hair matted dark with blood, a single streak of black visible beneath the crimson.
His hands shook. Felix Valducci, who had once put three bullets into a man's chest without blinking, felt his hands shake as he gathered his sister's body from the ruin.