[Ethan's POV]
The sirens sounded like a choir of screaming metal.
Every police car, fire engine, and ambulance in Vienna was converging on the Hofburg Palace. The flashing red and blue lights painted the snow-covered statues of the imperial gardens in frantic, strobing colors.
I leaned heavily against the cold stone of a garden wall, gasping for air. Every breath felt like inhaling hot ash. The chemical dust had seared the lining of my throat, and my left arm hung uselessly at my side, hot blood soaking through the torn sleeve of Julian Croft's ruined tuxedo.
"Keep moving, Ethan," Claire urged, her voice tight with panic. She had her arm wrapped around my waist, taking most of my weight. The emerald silk gown was torn at the hem and stained with soot, but she didn't care. "We can't stay in the perimeter. The police are locking down the district."
"Varga," I coughed, spitting a wad of bloody saliva into the snow. "He's still alive."
