I glanced over at the Model-T and whistled. Compared to those two, I’d gotten off easy. I peeled my coat off and half-embedded shrapnel pulled loose and clinked onto the street. I tossed the trench aside. My back would heal fine, but the coat had seen its last.

It wasn’t but a second later when I heard the first of the sirens, off in the distance. I whistled, impressed. Normally, I’d beat feet and get my obviously involved ass down the road, but I still had a job to do. While the explosion had shattered the windows of the club, it was still standing. As much of a message as torching Bugs’ goons was, it wasn’t the one I’d been sent to deliver. Uncle Lou wasn’t big on independent thought.

With my grenade gone, I’d have to do things the hard way. I looked to the burning remnants of the Model-T and smiled. Everything I needed was right there. The sirens grew in the background, so I ran to the car and peered inside. What was left of Paulie was charred and smoking in the seat. The steering wheel had melted and was covered in dripping red and black, one of Paulie’s hands now a permanent part of it. I glanced down at the tires and saw that they too were gone, little more than black goop that puddled on the pockmarked street.

No time left for finesse or rational thought, I reached my hands beneath the side of the car and grabbed ahold. Flames licked at my fingers and I felt my palms burn, but it couldn’t be helped. My legs bunched beneath me, I rolled the Model-T over onto its side. It hit with a crash, shattered glass crunching beneath it. I shoved the car again, my hands smoking, blisters bubbling up. The T flipped, landing on its roof. Pieces of Paulie and Jimmy dripped down in long, wet streamers of red as I hit the T one last time, sending it sliding into the front wall of the club.