direction. The
small mercy evaporated with a second shot. Someone was coming
closer, their feet crunching through the debris. Owen had no idea
where either of his guns were, and he found himself groping around
on the floor for anything that he could use.
A foot came down on his left
wrist and he grunted in pain. A shadow above him and the
unmistakable silhouette of a gun pointed at this face.
"Is she dead?" the shadow
asked, pulling back the hammer on the pistol.
Owen nodded.
"Then you're the lucky one,"
said the shadow. "I only need one of you alive."
The shadow's boot came down
onto Owen's face, and the world went black.
***
Grace Faraway wasn't used to
running. The last time that she had run had been from the Stasi in
East Berlin, back in '66 or '67 if memory served. They had been
hunting magicians, trying to stop them defecting to the freedoms of
the West. She had been hunting magicians too, but for her own
reasons. It had suited her to use the Stasi, convenient bloodhounds
who knew the lay of the land, until they found out she was running
her own agenda and had turned on her. She'd run then.
But not like she was running
now. Back then, she had run whilst she worked out her next move. It
was a tactical retreat, an escape to gather her strength and
regroup. Now she was just running. Running because if she didn't,
she was dead. And that wouldn't be the end of it.
Her trap couldn't hold Adam
King. None of her magic worked on Kings, that was part of the deal.
He'd stepped out of it as easily as he would have stepped indoors
from the rain. He'd let her think she had him, let her talk out her
strategy. He'd waited for the perfect moment to make his move, just
like she'd taught him.
She should have been proud, but
she was too busy running for her life.
"You can't run forever," he
called after her, clattering something metal against the flank of
one of the great printing presses. "I'm going to find you."
Grace didn't answer, she just
ran, and prayed that the sound of her footfalls was lost in the
echoes of the basement.
***
Owen slipped in and out of
consciousness as he was dragged by his damaged leg through the
paper mill. Down one corridor, then another. Up a flight of stairs,
through door after door. They wanted him alive, but that was all. A
few more broken bones weren't a problem.
"Have you ever been
hunting?"
Great, thought Owen, a Talker.
The temptation was to talk back, to try and build a rapport. Buy
some time, pray for a rescue. It was what they taught you to do,
psychology 101. They'd tell you the best cops on the force never
had to discharge their weapon, just open a dialogue, make a
connection, reach out and touch someone. Maybe in some small town
somewhere where the local dentist gets his gun because his wife's
sleeping with his golf buddy and nobody needs to get hurt, we can
all talk about this, and the sheriff isn't going to write anybody
up so he can still drink in the lodge with all his buddies that
weekend. Sure, maybe there. But not on the streets that Owen White
had worked on, and not when you were bloody and getting dragged to
what was inevitably a painful death.
But he'd made a mistake. The
stranger had killed three cops already, but he wanted... needed
Owen alive. So screw opening a dialogue, thought Owen, this fuck
could talk to the air. Let him flap his gums and see what else he
lets slip.
"When I hunt, I like to bait
the trap with a wounded animal."
Owen and the stranger stopped
moving. Owen twisted his head left and right, tried to pull himself
upright. He head the snap of handcuffs and felt the tight, cold
metal around one wrist and one ankle.
"If you can get one of their
young? That works every time. It's primal, you see. Even the
smartest animals, the ones that know to watch out for hunters, will
come if they think their young are in danger."
The shadow stepped over Owen
and squatted down, finally coming into focus in the darkness.
"Jack Taylor," coughed
small mercy evaporated with a second shot. Someone was coming
closer, their feet crunching through the debris. Owen had no idea
where either of his guns were, and he found himself groping around
on the floor for anything that he could use.
A foot came down on his left
wrist and he grunted in pain. A shadow above him and the
unmistakable silhouette of a gun pointed at this face.
"Is she dead?" the shadow
asked, pulling back the hammer on the pistol.
Owen nodded.
"Then you're the lucky one,"
said the shadow. "I only need one of you alive."
The shadow's boot came down
onto Owen's face, and the world went black.
***
Grace Faraway wasn't used to
running. The last time that she had run had been from the Stasi in
East Berlin, back in '66 or '67 if memory served. They had been
hunting magicians, trying to stop them defecting to the freedoms of
the West. She had been hunting magicians too, but for her own
reasons. It had suited her to use the Stasi, convenient bloodhounds
who knew the lay of the land, until they found out she was running
her own agenda and had turned on her. She'd run then.
But not like she was running
now. Back then, she had run whilst she worked out her next move. It
was a tactical retreat, an escape to gather her strength and
regroup. Now she was just running. Running because if she didn't,
she was dead. And that wouldn't be the end of it.
Her trap couldn't hold Adam
King. None of her magic worked on Kings, that was part of the deal.
He'd stepped out of it as easily as he would have stepped indoors
from the rain. He'd let her think she had him, let her talk out her
strategy. He'd waited for the perfect moment to make his move, just
like she'd taught him.
She should have been proud, but
she was too busy running for her life.
"You can't run forever," he
called after her, clattering something metal against the flank of
one of the great printing presses. "I'm going to find you."
Grace didn't answer, she just
ran, and prayed that the sound of her footfalls was lost in the
echoes of the basement.
***
Owen slipped in and out of
consciousness as he was dragged by his damaged leg through the
paper mill. Down one corridor, then another. Up a flight of stairs,
through door after door. They wanted him alive, but that was all. A
few more broken bones weren't a problem.
"Have you ever been
hunting?"
Great, thought Owen, a Talker.
The temptation was to talk back, to try and build a rapport. Buy
some time, pray for a rescue. It was what they taught you to do,
psychology 101. They'd tell you the best cops on the force never
had to discharge their weapon, just open a dialogue, make a
connection, reach out and touch someone. Maybe in some small town
somewhere where the local dentist gets his gun because his wife's
sleeping with his golf buddy and nobody needs to get hurt, we can
all talk about this, and the sheriff isn't going to write anybody
up so he can still drink in the lodge with all his buddies that
weekend. Sure, maybe there. But not on the streets that Owen White
had worked on, and not when you were bloody and getting dragged to
what was inevitably a painful death.
But he'd made a mistake. The
stranger had killed three cops already, but he wanted... needed
Owen alive. So screw opening a dialogue, thought Owen, this fuck
could talk to the air. Let him flap his gums and see what else he
lets slip.
"When I hunt, I like to bait
the trap with a wounded animal."
Owen and the stranger stopped
moving. Owen twisted his head left and right, tried to pull himself
upright. He head the snap of handcuffs and felt the tight, cold
metal around one wrist and one ankle.
"If you can get one of their
young? That works every time. It's primal, you see. Even the
smartest animals, the ones that know to watch out for hunters, will
come if they think their young are in danger."
The shadow stepped over Owen
and squatted down, finally coming into focus in the darkness.
"Jack Taylor," coughed
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