The Good Race

Prologue

Detective Daniel McKenzie was pretty sure he was dying. A New York City cop didn't have a long life expectancy anyway, right? He knew that going in. He'd gone from one dangerous job to another. He was angling to live longer than thirty though. That would have been nice. He didn't have specific plans for his life per say, but he hoped it would be a relatively long one. Things didn't always turn out the way you hoped though. Hazy faces kept appearing before him, ceiling tiles and lights flew by above him and voices seemed to radiate off the walls, "Gunshot wound! Upper right quadrant. Entry and exit wound. Vitals are falling."

He closed his eyes and enjoyed the ride. Maybe he'd just rest a bit. There was a pleasantness creeping its way through his body, and he felt himself drifting off to sleep. Dimly, he was still aware of the voices around him, but they were echoing now, as if he were in a tunnel. Oh, he knew about the tunnel. Everybody did. Strangely enough, his didn't have a light. Why didn't he see the light? Was that not real? Here he was dying, and the light was out in his tunnel? Was the bulb not replaced? Did the Angel of Death fall down on the job?

And another thing, where was his life? Wasn't he supposed to be seeing his life flashing before his eyes? Why did he have nothing but darkness and echoes getting louder? He had good moments—not a lot—but towards the end of his time at Trent, things had started looking up.

"Danny! Oh, God! Danny, open your eyes!" called a female voice. He knew he was dying now because he hadn't heard that voice in twelve years. But if getting screwed out of the tunnel and the movie of his life meant that he got to spend his last moments thinking of her, then he'd make that sacrifice. He'd come to New York because he wanted to see her again, though he could admit this wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind.

"McKenzie! Open your eyes!"

"All right! All right!" he yelled. "Quit nagging!"

"Did he say something?" asked another voice. "I didn't hear him."

"He's trying to talk. Let's cut these clothes off of him."

Trying to talk? He wasn't trying to talk. He was yelling at them! Couldn't they hear him scream?

"It looks like there's an exit wound out his back. Let's turn him on three so I can take a look. Take the head, Terry, on your count."

"One ... two ... three!"

"AAGGGGHHH!"

Danny's eyes flew open and in an instant, everything was crystal clear—the lights, the sounds, the faces and the pain. Oh, the pain.

"There he is," said that angelic voice that was ordering him around.

"FUCK!"

His breath came in gasps as he stayed on his side while the doctor worked to stabilize the wound on his back.

"I see you still swear like a drunken sailor," said the voice. He blew out breaths and squinted his eyes tight. He was going to lose his cool in front of her. There was no way to avoid it. It hurt too damn much. This was not the reintroduction he was looking for.

"I think I'm going to puke."

"Terry, get a bed pan."

Danny tried to take deep breaths in through his nose and let them out through his mouth. It didn't help too much, but the immediate feeling of being about to vomit all over her was gone. He had that much going for him. They eased him back, and he laid his head down and waited for the dizzy feeling to subside enough to open his eyes. When it finally did, he turned to look at her.

"Am I dead?"

"No."

"What are you doing here then?"