something about what had happened to Lafferty. Hell, maybe Gheeta died because she knew Lafferty. All Vincent’s letters home had been censored, but the army did make mistakes and allow sensitive, classified material through. Maybe Lafferty told Gheeta things no one should have known.
But why would Mr. Riley help the very organization that had destroyed his stepdaughter?
Maybe they had Lafferty and were using her as a bargaining chip. Or maybe he was just afraid of dying a more agonizing death than the one his cancer was offering him. Vincent had been waterboarded during his army training. It had nearly broken him, and by then, he’d been a hardened soldier. Do that once to a frightened old man…
Or simply appeal to his patriotism in some way, with some twisted story…
What about the string of murders here in New York? Was Indira the beast’s first or its seventh? Had the beast eviscerated each one as payback for the terrible thing that had been done to it? To him? To her? Or was it under the control of the army?
And how am I going to fight this thing if I panic like this?
Just thinking about it made him tremble. It engendered fear at a deep, base level. It would take more than a force of will to stay in command of himself.
He reached for his cell phone. Gone. Lost? Or taken? He thought of the names and messages on it, the damning connections to people he never wanted to put in danger. He had to get topside and find out what had happened while he was out. He hoped to God Catherine was safe. And J.T. and Tess. That they had information he could use to destroy this thing and shut down the operation that created it.
Sloshing through runoff, he employed the left-hand rule—keeping track of his route by following every twist and turn on his left—as he examined the roof of the tunnel. His hope was to see either city lights or daylight. He had no idea how long he’d been out, but he wasn’t hungry or thirsty, so that told him it was probably still night.
Finally he saw a break in the unrelieved uniformity of the curved ceiling, and to his left he spotted a ladder leading up toward it. Manhole. He climbed the ladder and pushed on the cover. It didn’t budge. Vincent closed his eyes and pictured Lafferty in her misery. What had been done to her in the name of advancing the cause of warfare.
Anger surged through him. His body responded, his beast DNA soaking up the chemical changes caused by his emotions and feeding on them. Charged, nourished, the DNA presented and he beasted out just enough to push the cover off the manhole as if it weighed no more than a sheet of paper. By the time he poked out his head, he was back to human.
He had emerged in a busy street, which was both good and bad. Bad for getting out of there as safely and discreetly as possible; good because there would likely be transportation—buses, subways. He’d have to clean up first.
Traffic stopped—had to be a red light—and he slid out beneath a rumbling semi. He lay flat as the air brakes chuffed and the truck moved forward, then quickly rolled to the side of the street and crawled into the shadows. A sign on a chain-link fence read K ELLY ’ S T RUCKING Y ARD . According to the address, he was in Queens.
About twenty feet away stood a small building, practically a shed. He darted over to it and tried the side door. It opened, and he found himself inside an office. An olive-green jumpsuit and baseball cap hung on a hook beside an interior door. A quick glance inside revealed a bathroom. Vincent stripped, cleaned up quickly, and put on the jumpsuit and cap. He found a roll of plastic trash bags among some cleaning supplies inside the sink console and put his bloody clothes in one.
Fortune continued to smile on him as he found a landline on the desk. He called Catherine.
“Chandler.”
“Catherine, it’s me.”
“Oh, my God, Vincent. Where are you? Are you all right?”
“Yes.” He knew Catherine better than anyone else on the
But why would Mr. Riley help the very organization that had destroyed his stepdaughter?
Maybe they had Lafferty and were using her as a bargaining chip. Or maybe he was just afraid of dying a more agonizing death than the one his cancer was offering him. Vincent had been waterboarded during his army training. It had nearly broken him, and by then, he’d been a hardened soldier. Do that once to a frightened old man…
Or simply appeal to his patriotism in some way, with some twisted story…
What about the string of murders here in New York? Was Indira the beast’s first or its seventh? Had the beast eviscerated each one as payback for the terrible thing that had been done to it? To him? To her? Or was it under the control of the army?
And how am I going to fight this thing if I panic like this?
Just thinking about it made him tremble. It engendered fear at a deep, base level. It would take more than a force of will to stay in command of himself.
He reached for his cell phone. Gone. Lost? Or taken? He thought of the names and messages on it, the damning connections to people he never wanted to put in danger. He had to get topside and find out what had happened while he was out. He hoped to God Catherine was safe. And J.T. and Tess. That they had information he could use to destroy this thing and shut down the operation that created it.
Sloshing through runoff, he employed the left-hand rule—keeping track of his route by following every twist and turn on his left—as he examined the roof of the tunnel. His hope was to see either city lights or daylight. He had no idea how long he’d been out, but he wasn’t hungry or thirsty, so that told him it was probably still night.
Finally he saw a break in the unrelieved uniformity of the curved ceiling, and to his left he spotted a ladder leading up toward it. Manhole. He climbed the ladder and pushed on the cover. It didn’t budge. Vincent closed his eyes and pictured Lafferty in her misery. What had been done to her in the name of advancing the cause of warfare.
Anger surged through him. His body responded, his beast DNA soaking up the chemical changes caused by his emotions and feeding on them. Charged, nourished, the DNA presented and he beasted out just enough to push the cover off the manhole as if it weighed no more than a sheet of paper. By the time he poked out his head, he was back to human.
He had emerged in a busy street, which was both good and bad. Bad for getting out of there as safely and discreetly as possible; good because there would likely be transportation—buses, subways. He’d have to clean up first.
Traffic stopped—had to be a red light—and he slid out beneath a rumbling semi. He lay flat as the air brakes chuffed and the truck moved forward, then quickly rolled to the side of the street and crawled into the shadows. A sign on a chain-link fence read K ELLY ’ S T RUCKING Y ARD . According to the address, he was in Queens.
About twenty feet away stood a small building, practically a shed. He darted over to it and tried the side door. It opened, and he found himself inside an office. An olive-green jumpsuit and baseball cap hung on a hook beside an interior door. A quick glance inside revealed a bathroom. Vincent stripped, cleaned up quickly, and put on the jumpsuit and cap. He found a roll of plastic trash bags among some cleaning supplies inside the sink console and put his bloody clothes in one.
Fortune continued to smile on him as he found a landline on the desk. He called Catherine.
“Chandler.”
“Catherine, it’s me.”
“Oh, my God, Vincent. Where are you? Are you all right?”
“Yes.” He knew Catherine better than anyone else on the
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