The problem with losing hearing in the left ear wasn't the silence. It was the balance.

  The inner ear is a gyroscope. Break it, and the world tilts fifteen degrees to the right. Sean drove down I-10, leaving the limestone fortresses of the Dominion behind, but his brain was convinced he was sliding sideways off the face of the earth.

  He kept the Camry in the middle lane, gripping the wheel with a white-knuckled desperation that had nothing to do with traffic and everything to do with keeping his dinner down.

  The nosebleed had finally clotted, leaving a rusty, metallic crust on his upper lip. His shirt looked like he’d butchered a chicken in it. He dabbed at it with a fast-food napkin, checking the mirror.

  That’s when he saw them. Red and blue. Strobing in the darkness behind him like an epileptic disco.

  "Fucking shit," Sean muttered. His voice sounded hollow, echoing in his good ear.

  He checked the speedometer. 65 MPH. He wasn't speeding. He wasn't swerving—at least, he didn't think he was. He tapped the brakes. The lights stayed with him. It wasn't a patrol car. It was a Dodge Charger. Matte black. Unmarked. A Wolf.

  He pulled over onto the shoulder, the gravel crunching under the tires. The Charger pulled in behind him, blinding him with its high beams.

  Sean killed the engine. He rolled down the window. He didn't reach for the glove box. He didn't reach for the bag of money on the passenger seat. He placed his hands on the wheel, ten and two, visible and non-threatening. He took a quick, shallow breath. The cocaine still in his system gave him a sharp, jagged edge of focus.

  A door slammed. Boots on gravel. The shadow moved up to the window. A flashlight beam hit Sean in the face, burning his retinas.

  "License and registration," a voice said.

  Sean knew that voice. It was a voice that sounded like stale coffee and divorce papers.

  "Evening, Miller," Sean said, squinting into the light. "You working traffic now? I thought Homicide kept you busy enough."

  The flashlight lowered. Detective Miller Vance leaned down. He looked exactly the same as the last time he’d arrested Sean three years ago for wire fraud: tired eyes, a cheap suit that didn't fit his shoulders, and a jawline that could cut glass.

  "Sean Casias," Vance said. He didn't sound surprised. He sounded disappointed. "I saw the Camry drifting. Figured it was a drunk. Should have known it was just you being... you."

  He shined the light into the car. The beam swept over the passenger seat. It lingered on the bag. Then it moved back to Sean. It hit his chest. The blood.

  Vance’s eyes narrowed. The boredom vanished, replaced by the sharp, predatory look of a hunter catching a scent. "Step out of the car, Sean."

  "It’s a nosebleed, Miller," Sean said, keeping his voice level. "Dry air. The AC in this rental is a killer."

  "Step out of the car," Vance repeated. His hand drifted toward his hip. Not to his gun, but to the space near it. Ready.

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  Sean opened the door. He stepped out. The world tilted. He stumbled, grabbing the door frame to stay upright. Vance watched him. "You high?"

  "Just tired," Sean lied. "Long night."

  "Turn around. Hands on the roof."

  Sean did as he was told. He felt Vance’s hands pat him down. Rough. Thorough. He checked Sean's ankles. He checked his waistband. He found the pack of cigarettes and the lighter. He didn't find a weapon. Vance spun him around. They were nose to nose on the side of the highway, semi-trucks roaring past them, shaking the ground.

  "What's in the bag, Sean?" Vance asked.

  "Laundry," Sean said.

  "Laundry doesn't have corners," Vance said. "And it doesn't weigh thirty pounds. I saw the suspension dip when you got out."

  He looked past Sean, toward the car. "I'm going to open it."

  Panic is a cold thing. It started in Sean’s stomach and shot up his throat. If Vance opened that bag, he’d find three hundred thousand in cash. He’d probably try and arrest him for grand larceny. Or worse, he’d seize it as civil forfeiture. And then Hector would peel Sean like an orange.

  "You need a warrant for that, Miller," Sean said. "Probable cause."

  "Erratic driving. Blood on the suspect. Possible narcotics influence." Vance smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "I can get a warrant in ten minutes. Or I can just say I smelled weed. Your choice."

  He started walking toward the passenger door.

  Sean needed a distraction. He needed a lie so big the universe had to blink.

  He closed his eyes. He reached out into the Static. He couldn't hurt him. That was a line he didn’t want to cross. And he couldn't blow up the car. He needed... noise. He felt the radio waves buzzing in the air around them. The police band. Encrypted. Digital. Orderly. He grabbed the signal. It felt like grabbing a handful of bees.

  Shift, Sean thought. Priority One.

  He pushed the entropy into the airwaves. The cost hit him instantly. His vision blurred. A migraine spike drove a railroad spike through his right temple. He tasted copper in his mouth.

  Vance’s radio, clipped to his belt, suddenly shrieked. Static. Then a voice. Clear. Panicked. "All units. All units. Officer down. 400 block of Fredericksburg. Shots fired. Repeat, officer down."

  Vance froze. His hand was inches from the door handle. "Officer down" is the magic word. It overrides everything. Instinct. Suspicion. Logic.

  He grabbed his radio. "Dispatch, this is Vance. I'm five minutes out. in route."

  He looked at Sean. He looked at the bag. Then he looked at the flashing lights of his car. He made the calculation. He couldn't wait for a warrant while a cop was bleeding out.

  "This isn't over, Casias," Vance growled. He pointed a finger at Sean’s chest. "Get that blood off your shirt. And stay out of my city."

  He turned and sprinted to his Charger. He peeled out, tires screaming, sirens wailing as he tore down the highway.

  Sean stood alone on the shoulder of I-10. The flashing red and blue lights faded into the distance. The silence that followed was suffocating.

  He got back in the Camry. His hands were shaking so hard he couldn't get the key in the ignition for three tries. His head was splitting open, the deafness in his left ear now matched by a high-pitched ringing in his right.

  But the physical pain was nothing compared to the sudden, crushing weight in his chest.

  Officer down.

  He hadn't just created static. He didn't really know how his power worked yet. Had he just faked a radio signal? Or had he just reached across the city and caused a bullet to find a cop on Fredericksburg Road? Did he just rewrite reality to put a man in the hospital just to save his own skin?

  He pictured squad cars blowing through red lights, risking pile-ups. He pictured a patrolman bleeding out on the asphalt. He pictured a family waking up to a phone call in the middle of the night. All because Sean Casias didn't want to lose a bag of cash.

  He looked over at the passenger seat. The duffel bag didn't look like salvation anymore. It looked dirty. It felt impossibly heavy.

  "What the hell did I just do?" Sean whispered, wiping a fresh trickle of blood from his nose. The copper taste in his mouth suddenly made him want to vomit.

  He finally turned the key. The engine sputtered to life. He merged back onto the empty highway, heading toward the cartel drop. Fifty thousand belonged to Hector. Three hundred thousand belonged to him. But as he drove into the dark, the phantom wail of Vance's siren echoed in his good ear—a debt he had no idea how to repay.