Except there was no place to run. This place was crawling with gangbangers.
“I just dialed nine-one-one,” she informed them. “The police will be here any second.”
“Nice try, but you ain’t got no bars, baby.” He held up his own phone… identical to hers.
“I
do
,” she insisted. “I have a special police frequency.”
This was hilarious to them. She told herself she would not burst into tears or plead for her life. And she
would
go down fighting.
Attack him. It will scare the others
.
But it wouldn’t. All he had to do was take one step backward and she’d be sailing into the dirt at his feet.
So she opened her mouth to plead for her life and instead of begging to be spared because she was her cop-sister’s only family, she said, “Can I buy that gun off you?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
BELOW N EW Y ORK
V incent came to with a sharp gasp. He was sprawled on his back with his right leg bent underneath his left; he hurt all over and there was blood on his hands. And his arms. He raised his head and looked down at himself. His jeans were soaked with blood.
What happened? What did I do?
By the overwhelming stench he knew he was in a sewer. It was pitch dark but his night vision was functioning perfectly. He performed a visual pan of his surroundings, his mind working hard to piece together how he had gotten here. He remembered going to the warehouse and reaching the loading dock. And then…
Vincent began to quake. Fear was like a net hoisting him up into the black night and carrying him away. It wrapped itself around him and tightened, cutting off his oxygen.
There’s nothing to be afraid of
, he told himself sternly. He pushed himself to his hands and knees, then rocked back onto his feet and stood. There were bruises on his bruises. With a doctor’s practiced touch, he examined himself for broken bones. As he walked forward, he limped, but he was pretty sure he had only strained some muscles.
It was confirmed, then. This beast—or whatever kind of unholy creation it might be—could project fear onto prey or potential threats. It must have done the same thing to poor little Aliyah Patel. Even thinking about how he had felt—the abject terror—he wondered how a little girl like her could cope. Tess had told him they’d put her in a pediatric psych ward. As soon as he got out of here and checked in with everyone, he would look in on her. If only he could find words to comfort her without reassuring her that what she had seen was real.
He moved as silently as possible through the tunnels beneath the city, concentrating on tracking his adversary. He smelled the blood on his fingertips and tried to send his mind back to the stretch of time he had lost, but each instant that he began to form an image, a haze of fear blurred it. It was as though his mind simply would not allow him to face his attacker. How was it possible, and who had invented it? Karl Tiptree? This would be an amazing tool in combat: Terrify the other side into immobility, then pick them off one by one. Or as a means for conducting interrogations: Calibrate the fear-reaction and take notes as your subject babbles and begs not to be harmed.
This stinks of Muirfield
, he thought.
Or of the people who funded Muirfield.
The world’s rich and powerful, their tentacles deeply sunk into financial markets and advanced technology, ruling the world and serving up horrors for anyone who got in their way.
I’d be happy to get in their way again
, he thought fiercely.
And bring them down.
Had someone sent Mr. Riley that letter in order to flush out anyone who might be moved to strike against them? Or had the beast been directed to target Vincent through Mr. Riley, because he was the last loose end from the debacle in Afghanistan?
He feared for Mr. Riley. Unless, of course, the old man was in on it. Maybe he had invented the contract between Lafferty and Gheeta Patel and used it to gain entrance to the Patel home. Maybe the Patels had known
“I just dialed nine-one-one,” she informed them. “The police will be here any second.”
“Nice try, but you ain’t got no bars, baby.” He held up his own phone… identical to hers.
“I
do
,” she insisted. “I have a special police frequency.”
This was hilarious to them. She told herself she would not burst into tears or plead for her life. And she
would
go down fighting.
Attack him. It will scare the others
.
But it wouldn’t. All he had to do was take one step backward and she’d be sailing into the dirt at his feet.
So she opened her mouth to plead for her life and instead of begging to be spared because she was her cop-sister’s only family, she said, “Can I buy that gun off you?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
BELOW N EW Y ORK
V incent came to with a sharp gasp. He was sprawled on his back with his right leg bent underneath his left; he hurt all over and there was blood on his hands. And his arms. He raised his head and looked down at himself. His jeans were soaked with blood.
What happened? What did I do?
By the overwhelming stench he knew he was in a sewer. It was pitch dark but his night vision was functioning perfectly. He performed a visual pan of his surroundings, his mind working hard to piece together how he had gotten here. He remembered going to the warehouse and reaching the loading dock. And then…
Vincent began to quake. Fear was like a net hoisting him up into the black night and carrying him away. It wrapped itself around him and tightened, cutting off his oxygen.
There’s nothing to be afraid of
, he told himself sternly. He pushed himself to his hands and knees, then rocked back onto his feet and stood. There were bruises on his bruises. With a doctor’s practiced touch, he examined himself for broken bones. As he walked forward, he limped, but he was pretty sure he had only strained some muscles.
It was confirmed, then. This beast—or whatever kind of unholy creation it might be—could project fear onto prey or potential threats. It must have done the same thing to poor little Aliyah Patel. Even thinking about how he had felt—the abject terror—he wondered how a little girl like her could cope. Tess had told him they’d put her in a pediatric psych ward. As soon as he got out of here and checked in with everyone, he would look in on her. If only he could find words to comfort her without reassuring her that what she had seen was real.
He moved as silently as possible through the tunnels beneath the city, concentrating on tracking his adversary. He smelled the blood on his fingertips and tried to send his mind back to the stretch of time he had lost, but each instant that he began to form an image, a haze of fear blurred it. It was as though his mind simply would not allow him to face his attacker. How was it possible, and who had invented it? Karl Tiptree? This would be an amazing tool in combat: Terrify the other side into immobility, then pick them off one by one. Or as a means for conducting interrogations: Calibrate the fear-reaction and take notes as your subject babbles and begs not to be harmed.
This stinks of Muirfield
, he thought.
Or of the people who funded Muirfield.
The world’s rich and powerful, their tentacles deeply sunk into financial markets and advanced technology, ruling the world and serving up horrors for anyone who got in their way.
I’d be happy to get in their way again
, he thought fiercely.
And bring them down.
Had someone sent Mr. Riley that letter in order to flush out anyone who might be moved to strike against them? Or had the beast been directed to target Vincent through Mr. Riley, because he was the last loose end from the debacle in Afghanistan?
He feared for Mr. Riley. Unless, of course, the old man was in on it. Maybe he had invented the contract between Lafferty and Gheeta Patel and used it to gain entrance to the Patel home. Maybe the Patels had known
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