A crimson puddle shone on the filth-strewn floor of the alley. Ben Phillips stepped over the pool of blood
and shoved his hands in his pockets. He eyed the brick walls of the passageway, his pulse skimming
upward at the telltale arc of glistening red spatter. To his knowing eye the spray of blood was a horror
story writ large on the soot-blackened walls.

Arterial blood. Violent death.

A soft groan called to him from the nearby shadows. His hand fumbled for his cell phone even as his feet
moved forward. Someone needed help and if Ben was anything, he was a sap for the needy. A cape-less
crusader with a deep well of personal flaws. A vigilante against pain and injustice, armed with a blood
pressure cuff and a scalpel. His mindless affinity toward helping the ill, the indigent, the lost, was both
his best trait and his worst.

But even as he punched the numbers, 9-1-1 into his phone he realized it was a penchant that was
destined to be his downfall.

Another soft sound had him stilling, the call unsent. His gaze narrowed against the foggy shadows that
filled the end of the closed off alley. A tall, metal fence sliced the narrow space in half, severing the
egress routes to one. His gaze skimmed upward, over the ancient, rusted fire escape, which someone
had pulled up to a distance of eight feet above ground.

He frowned. Ben had been sure he’d heard two voices. Two male voices slashing angrily back and forth
before the shout of pain and the husky call for help.

His pulse spiked. If there was only one way out…

Behind him something crashed and Ben jumped, spinning around with a cry of surprise. A wiry form
bolted from beneath the dumpster near the mouth of the alley and scampered toward the street, long
tail snapping.

Just a cat.

Ben closed his eyes, pulling air into his lungs, and when he opened them he started to laugh. His
imagination was on overdrive. He was making monsters out of scavenging felines.
“Please…” a gritty voice implored.

Ben’s gaze found the dark form huddled against the wall a mere ten feet away. He hurried forward. “It’s
okay, I’m a doctor,” he told the bedraggled form. The man’s face was softened by shadow and filth, an
oily fringe of too-long hair sticking to one cheek. Despite the fact he couldn’t really see the man’s
features, something about him seemed familiar.

As Ben knelt beside the fallen man, the stench of unwashed skin and loosened bowels wafted upward,
tugging on his gag reflex. He shoved revulsion back and placed his fingers against the man’s filthy throat.
A warm slickness coated his fingertips. Ben pulled them away and looked at the blood painting his skin.

The man coughed, spraying bloody sputum in an arc that splattered Ben’s face. Too late he realized he
wasn’t wearing a mask. Or gloves. The injured man shifted slightly, his hand coming up to grasp Ben’s
wrist. The grip was impossibly strong--painful--enhanced by adrenalin-fueled desperation. “Help…”

Ben covered the bloody hand on his arm. “It’s okay. I’m a doctor,” he repeated. He didn’t know what
else to say. He had no tools with him, nothing to ease the man’s pain. He ripped a sleeve off his shirt and
wrapped it around the man’s throat, tying it tightly to staunch the flow of blood from the long gash
there. Then he remembered his phone. He retrieved it from the alley floor where he’d dropped it, his
thumb reaching for the Send button.

But he never made the call. The soft scuff of a footfall behind him brought Ben’s head around. Pain
sheared through his skull, turning the charcoal gray of night to black.