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[ONE]

Kensington, Philadelphia

Monday, November 17, 5:13 P.M.

Ricky Ramírez, draining his bottle of Yuengling lager, watched as Héctor Ramírez reached into the rusty refrigerator and pulled out two more beers. Ricky threw his empty bottle across the bare kitchen. It smacked the far wall, leaving a wet mark on the peeling tan paint, then landed in a cardboard box in the corner that served as a trashcan.

“That ain’t bad stuff,” Ricky said, “but we need something better. Something stronger, like some good dark rum. Or . . .”

He looked past Héctor at the warped kitchen counter. The dark green Formica had separated from the wooden backing. On the counter, next to the rust-stained porcelain sink, were two zip-top plastic bags packed with dried marijuana buds. A squat ceramic pipe, its bowl crusted with dark resin residue, sat between them.

Ricky stepped over and opened a bag. He dug into it with his fingers, pinching off a thumbnail-sized piece of the gold-veined green leaf. He tamped that in the bowl of the pipe, then lit it, inhaling deeply.

Héctor popped the cap off one of the Yuenglings, then handed the bottle to him. Ricky heard his go-phone make a ping.

Still holding his breath, he put the beer on the counter, handed the pipe to Héctor, then pulled the phone from his pocket.

He read the text message—and suddenly exhaled, the smoke billowing out.

Staring at the phone screen, he slowly rubbed his fingertips across his chunky pockmarked face.

Héctor was right!

Wide-eyed, he held out the phone to show Héctor the message.

“It fucking worked, man! It’s her.”

He picked up his beer and took a big swallow.

“And you had a doubt, mi amigo?” Héctor said, smiling, and tapped the neck of his beer bottle against Ricky’s.

Ricky grinned back and shrugged. Then he suddenly felt even more light-headed, the buzz from the marijuana now rising far above that from the beer.

And that hydro is really good shit.

This is all coming together!

Especially with getting Dmitri off my back.

Ricky read the next text, then fired back a reply.

There was the sound of a motorcycle pulling into the backyard. They briefly turned to it.

“And here come your sicarios. They made it happen,” Héctor said.

“Should we reward them?” Ricky said.

“I will think of something. Not too much too soon. Or they begin believing they really are assassins.”

Ricky’s phone then began ringing. He didn’t recognize the number and pushed the key to send it directly in voice mail.

A moment later—ping—his phone suddenly lit up with another text message box, this one from the number that had just called:

215-555-4525

I HAVE YOUR NOTE.

AND I HAVE WHAT YOU WANT.

NO MORE KILLINGS.

What the hell? Who is this?

How can this person have the books?

Or . . . was she shitting me?

“What?” Héctor said, putting the pipe to his lips.

Ricky held the phone back up to show him.

After a moment Héctor nodded thoughtfully. He exhaled.

“You believe that first one is the woman?” he then said.

Ricky nodded. “And I gave her two hours.”

“So ignore this one. For now. First work the woman.” He thought for a moment, then said, “We will give her more incentive. Where’s your car?”

“Not far. Blocks. Why?”

The back door began opening.

Héctor reached back into the refrigerator. He came out with two more beers.

Tito and Juan sauntered inside. They acted more cocky than usual.

“You did good,” Héctor said, handing them the bottles.

Héctor grabbed his Kalashnikov and looked at Ricky.

“You and I go,” he said, then added to Tito and Juan, “When you finish those, go out and keep watch till Jaime gets back with more halcónes.”

Ricky started to follow Héctor, then turned back and grabbed one of the bags and the pipe from the counter. He tossed the other bag to Tito.

“A little bonus for you two,” Ricky said, smiling.

[TWO]

New Hope House

Hazzard Street, Philadelphia

Monday, November 17, 6:01 P.M.

“Next block make a right,” Matt Payne said, as Jim Byrth drove the rental Ford SUV through Kensington. When they had made the turn, it was not difficult, even in the shadows, to make out the flophouse and the small crowd outside it midway down the snow-crusted street.

Byrth saw Payne looking at his cell phone, which he had put in the right cup holder of the console.

After going into the phone’s mobile multi-line application and activating a new number—giving him a third line, in addition to his personal and office ones—Payne had used it to call the number on the grease-stained note, then to send it a text massage.

“Like Jason said, Matt, it was worth the chance. There could be any number of reasons why there’s been no reply yet.”

Payne shook his head. “It just makes me wonder what—if any—dominoes it started toppling. My call going right into voice mail and then no reply to the text could mean the phone is out of range or dead or . . .”

“Or it could mean nothing. Maybe it’s just because the badass—‘Yo, talk to me’—didn’t recognize the number and didn’t want to answer. At some point he will get the text.”

“Meaning no news is good news. . . . You’re probably right. But something needs to break with this.” He looked up ahead. “What makes me think our luck here will be just as crappy?”

New Hope was in a two-story row house that had seen some really bad days—not unlike the neighboring properties that were in even worse shape—and certainly far better ones in its hundred years. Its brick exterior looked as if it had been painted in the last year or so. Faint graffiti was still visible through the whitewash, and there was new graffiti tagging the sign that read “New hope—for a new life.” Industrial steel roll-up doors, painted canary yellow, covered the two first-floor windows and the front door. The ones over the windows were rolled up, and the tall one over the door was halfway open, and moving upward.

“Well, look at that,” Payne then said, “at least we’re just in time for high tea.”

Byrth pulled to the curb across the street from the flophouse. As he put the SUV in park and turned off the engine, they took in the scene.

Ten women, standing close together on the snow-packed sidewalk, formed a crooked single-file line that began at the door of the house. They appeared to range in age from their late teens to maybe early forties. Some were smoking, some talking—all of them clearly bitter cold despite wearing multiple layers of ill-fitting thrift shop clothing.

A ragged group of a half dozen men—mostly brown-skinned and gaunt, with sullen looks—milled near the end of the line.

A few of them glanced at the dirty SUV. They quickly lost interest. They were focused on the opening door, obviously more concerned with getting inside, out of the cold.

“First come, first served?” Byrth said.

“Yeah, some places will give women priority. But if they don’t get here early, and before they later lock the door, they’re going to have to find another place, even if they’ve paid for the month. Demand for an empty bed far outstrips supply.”

“Like that guy?” Byrth said.

Just up the street a gray-haired man, his clothes filthy, was curled up on the stoop of a row house. He clutched a brown liquor bottle to his chest. On the front door above the uneven hand-painted lettering that read “House of Lord Fellowship” there was a simple golden crucifix.

“A church across the street from a flophouse?” Byrth then said. “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

“Amen to that, Brother Byrth,” Payne said. He pointed over his shoulder, adding, “And there’s a middle school two blocks thataway. Think any of these pillars of the community ever stagger past the playground? Is it any wonder the kids growing up here think that crackheads, drunks, and hookers are the norm of society?”

Matt pushed back the tail of his coat and pulled his .45 off his right hip.

Like Byrth, he was sitting on his seat belt, its tang inserted in the buckle behind him. The practice of securing the belts in such a way—which of course violated Section 4581 of the Pennsylvania Vehicle Code requiring the wearing of passive restraints, and accordingly was “officially” prohibited by the department—not only stopped the damn seat sensor from incessantly sounding its annoying ding-ding-ding warning. It more importantly also allowed them faster access to their pistols and to exiting the vehicle.

With a shooter fast approaching, being “safely” strapped to a seat could turn a vehicle into a coffin.

Payne, aiming at the floorboard, thumbed the hammer back, then flipped up the lever to lock it, then slipped the pistol back behind his waistband.

Looking out the windshield and studying the crowd, Matt said, “You ever hear that a pistol is like a parachute?”

Byrth grinned. “Tell me. How?”

“When you need one, and you don’t have one, you’ll never have the need for one again.”

Byrth chuckled.

“Pabody,” he said, “the sheriff who found this Cusick girl’s ID in that trailer in the woods? He served in Special Forces and had his share of jumps—he’ll appreciate that one.” He looked at the group of men. The tallest one—who wore a multicolored knit cap and had thick dreadlocks and a scraggly beard—was jabbing his finger in another man’s face. “It’s like having to deal with the pissed-off Rastafarian there. Pabody’s always saying, ‘We’re trying to win hearts and minds, but we’re willing to splatter ’em if necessary.’”

At the end of the line were two Latinas who looked about thirty but could have been younger. One had on an oversized faded blue sweatshirt, the hood covering her head. The heavier one wore a patched black knee-length woolen coat. They were passing a stub of a joint between them. After a moment, the heavier of the two took the last toke, a very short one, and tossed the sliver of glowing paper to the ground, crushing it into the snow with the toe of her once white sneaker.

The Jamaican walked over and said something to the girl in the sweatshirt. She impatiently waved him off and turned her back to him. He had the last word, an angry one, then went back to the other men.

Byrth glanced at Payne.

“Call me a skeptic,” he said, “but I’m guessing neither girl—or any of them, for that matter—is going to be rushing across the street to confess their sins of the day. . . .”

Payne grunted. “If you mean the pot, the times they are a-changin’, as someone once said. They know nothing’s going to happen. These days the SOP for that would be to charge them with personal possession. Less than thirty grams. That would get them a night in jail, and they’d just pay the fine.”

“That’s what happened with the Cusick girl?”

“Yeah. Twice, as I recall. But she skipped the option of being sent to SAM—Small Amount of Marijuana program. It’s another couple hundred bucks to take a one-day drug class, and then the charge is expunged from the record.”

“All but decriminalized.”

“All but. In these austere times, the powers—particularly the DA, who’s pretty outspoken about it—have decided that spending thousands to prosecute someone with twenty bucks of weed isn’t exactly efficient. They say it’s a money-saver. Frees up courts for bigger cases. Keeps cops on the street, not filling out paperwork or waiting to testify in court and collecting overtime.”

“A couple hundred? These people don’t look like they have a couple bucks.”

“No argument.” He slipped his phone into his pocket and grabbed the door handle. “Come on. Let’s see what they have to say. If anything.”

Byrth cocked and locked the .45 from his hip holster, then pulled his Stetson from the backseat.

As they crossed the street, Payne wasn’t surprised that now all eyes were on them.

“Damn, this cold is miserable!” Byrth muttered.

Like Payne, he had left his coat unzipped. Suffering the wicked weather—like not wearing a seat belt in the event of a wreck—was the trade-off for faster access to their weapons.

Toward the front of the line, they walked past a pale-skinned girl with dark hair. She looked maybe eighteen and, though it took a little imagination to see it, had a pretty face. Across her white cheeks was a disturbing pinkish brown web of scarring that looked not quite healed. The lines cut from near her temples to her chin, and from ears to nose. She lowered her head and turned away.

After they passed, Payne looked at Byrth and answered the unasked question: “That’s called a ‘buck-fitty.’ She pissed off someone, probably by saying no to some gangbanger’s girlfriend who was trying to recruit her as fresh meat for her gangbanger buddies. Or maybe to pimp her out. Probably both.”

“She dissed them?” Byrth asked, but it was more a statement.

Payne nodded. “And to make the point you don’t disrespect the gang, they disfigured her. Held her down so the dissed gangbanger’s girlfriend could carve her up with a box cutter razor blade. Buck-fitty is a hundred fifty, the number of stitches they hope it will take to close the wounds.”

Byrth exhaled audibly. “I’ve heard of that happening in Houston’s Third Ward and in south Dallas, just not called that. Barbaric beyond belief . . .”

Payne and Byrth reached the two young women bringing up the end of the line. They reeked of marijuana. Expressionless, they looked numb from the cold, if not the pot, and seemed slow to focus when Payne held out his badge. He saw that under the blue hoodie the woman had a black eye, one that was almost faded.

“Evening, ladies,” he said. “I’m Sergeant Payne. Need to ask you a couple quick questions.”

They did not answer and made no eye contact.

No surprise, Payne thought. No one talks to cops.

But we have to go through the motions . . .

Byrth already had his cell phone out and was holding it up, showing them Elizabeth Cusick’s photograph on the Department of Transportation ID.

“Do you know this girl?” Byrth said, then added in Spanish, “¿Conoces a Elizabeth?”

They both glanced at it, then at each other, then shrugged and slowly shook their heads.

“How long have you been coming here?” Payne pursued.

They shrugged again. Then the line moved forward. They wordlessly turned and quickly shuffled across the snow to close the gap.

Payne looked at Byrth, and nodded toward the door.

“Let’s just work the line. We know where they’re going if we need them.”

Ten minutes later, they had reached the door. Not a single person acknowledged knowing the girl in the ID photograph.

“Let’s see how much worse our luck can get in here,” Payne said, and stepped through the doorway.

The house was warm but had a stale, musty odor.

Just inside the door, a folding table was set up, behind which an obese black woman sat in a folding chair. Her weight stressed the flimsy chair to the point it leaned left. She had her head down and was writing on a yellow legal pad. When she looked up she immediately looked right past Payne, then farther up, at the Hat. The white of her eyes grew impossibly large. Then she tried to recover from the initial surprise.

“What you two want?” she blurted, finally finding her voice as her big eyes darted between them.

“I’m guessing you’re in charge?” Payne said.

“Guess all you want. Who’s asking?”

Matt showed her his badge.

“No offense,” she then said, “but you don’t look like you walk no beat. Never can trust who’s who coming round here.”

“I’m with the Homicide Unit,” Payne said, as he saw Byrth surveying the area.

The dirty living room, with a flight of stairs along the left wall leading to the upstairs bedrooms and baths, had a wooden floor worn bare. A mismatched pair of sagging threadbare sofas faced each other in the middle. A dozen plastic stackable chairs were scattered around a low table that held an old television with an antenna of aluminum-foil-wrapped rabbit ears and a picture that flickered between color and black and white. On the right wall, beyond one of the sofas, a dusty hand-printed poster with faded lettering read: NO SMOKING, NO DRINKING, NO DRUGGING, NO DAM EXCUSE!

“Someone dead?” the woman said, her tone matter-of-fact.

“From the looks of it . . .” Byrth muttered, looking toward the back of the room.

The woman’s eyes went to him, and not pleasantly.

Payne forced back a grin.

“We’re looking into that,” Payne said, “and need to ask some questions.”

She glanced over her shoulder toward the open doorway at the back wall.

“Eldridge!” she called out.

A moment later a muscular black male stood backlit in the doorway that obviously led to the kitchen. Eldridge wore a stained chef’s apron. With a practiced rhythm he was working a large carving knife up and down a foot-long sharpening rod. He had very short gray hair and looked to be in his forties. His bulging biceps stretched the sleeves of his black T-shirt.

The enormous black woman looked at Payne.

“He the man. Talk to him.”

[THREE]

Little Bight Bay

Saint John, United States Virgin Islands

Monday, November 17, 7:10 P.M.

After shutting down the Internet connection and finishing her traditional sunset glass of wine, Maggie had gone inside the cabin and thrown the lighting breakers on the electrical panel. Then, back on the well-lit deck, trying to figure out what she could possibly do next, she busied herself going around the boat methodically making sure everything was as it should be.

She neatly coiled all the lines on the deck—from the mainsail and jib halyards and sheets down to the last docking line—and then re-coiled ones that she thought didn’t look exactly right. She went forward to where the anchor line was cleated, untied it, tugged hard on the line to ensure the hook was still secure in the bay bottom, then re-cleated the line, snugging each wrap before finally tightly cinching the line. Then she neatly coiled the remaining line.

And then she went around the boat a second time.

And then, frustrated, she leaned against the aluminum mast, sighing as she looked out.

Now what? I can’t keep spinning my wheels.

Ricky said two hours. And that was at five-thirty.

So—after what, the next twenty minutes?—he carries out his threat?

Who gets to die now?

Under the thin crescent of moon she watched the navigation lights of sailboats slowly moving in the distance. A blanket of twinkling stars reflected everywhere. Waves crashed just outside the mouth of the bay.

I’m just so damn far away.

She went back inside the cabin and poured another glass of wine.

She saw the notebooks on the table, next to the casino bag with the poker chips and stack of cash she had photographed.

This is absolutely insane.

It’s impossible to physically get those books back.

And even if by some miracle I did give them to those bastards, there is no question that they would kill me. Either right there on the spot, or eventually . . .

She rocked the wineglass stem, slowly spinning the merlot around the glass as she thought, then took a big swallow.

But . . .

She quickly went to her computer and got back online.

Signing in to the text messaging website, she found the conversation with the one she considered the Eastern European.

She rapidly typed in the new bubble:

MEET AT LUCKY STARS CASINO AT 10 TONIGHT.

She then quickly clicked SEND—and stared at the screen.

The clock in the upper corner showed: 7:14.

Come on, c’mon . . .

It took three minutes for him to reply:

267-555-9100

CASINO IS NOT SATISFACTORY.

I wonder why? Too many people?

Too bad. Then all the more reason to do it there.

My rules . . .

She sent:

I GET TO SELECT THE PLACE. AND THE CASINO IS QUITE SATISFACTORY.

BUT NOT INSIDE.

ON THE BOARDWALK ALONG THE RIVER IS A PIER. WHERE THE CASINO HAS A TOUR BOAT.

She waited, sipping her wine, her eyes darting to the clock as the minutes ticked off: 7:16 . . . 7:17.

Why the hell no reply?

I don’t have much time . . .

She then typed:

OKAY. THE NOTEBOOKS WILL BE IN THE CASINO BAG THAT WAS IN THE PHOTO I SENT YOU EARLIER. I WILL TIE ON ITS HANDLE ONE OF THOSE SMALL PLASTIC BAGS FROM THE DOG PARK THAT’S THERE AT THE BOARDWALK.

YOU WILL GET AN EXACT SAME BAG FROM THE CASINO, PUT THE CASH IN IT, AND TIE ONE OF THOSE PET BAGS TO ITS HANDLE.

AT 10 P.M. YOU WILL WALK TO THE END OF THE CASINO’S PIER, DROP THE BAG IN THE TRASHCAN BESIDE THE LAST IRON BENCH THERE, THEN LIGHT A CIGARETTE. YOU WILL THEN LEAVE THE BOARDWALK AND CIRCLE THE PARKING LOT, FINISHING YOUR CIGARETTE.

EXACTLY 20 MINUTES LATER YOU WILL REALIZE YOU ACCIDENTALLY LEFT SOMETHING IN THE BAG AND RETURN TO RETRIEVE IT.

IF I FIND THAT ALL THE MONEY YOU PROMISED IS IN THE BAG THAT YOU LEAVE, YOU WILL FIND THE NOTEBOOKS IN THE BAG THAT I LEAVE.

I WILL BE WATCHING. WHAT WILL YOU BE WEARING?

She read that over once—Not that I could possibly count two hundred thousand dollars in the freezing dark—then sent it.

Five minutes later she nervously upended her wineglass, then fired off:

WELL?? THESE ARE MY RULES. DO YOU WANT THE BOOKS OR NOT?

The clock now read: 7:23.

Then a bubble popped up:

267-555-9100

I WEAR BLACK PANTS AND A BLACK LEATHER JACKET. ALSO WILL HAVE A GRAY WOOL FEDORA WITH SMALL FEATHER IN HATBAND.

BUT I WARN YOU — DO NOT WASTE MY TIME.

Maggie felt her heart trying to burst through her chest.

Okay, now, Ricky . . .

She went to that conversation thread, then looked at the clock. It turned to 7:25.

Her hands shaking, she quickly typed:

BE AT LUCKY STARS CASINO BOARDWALK TONIGHT.

THE NOTEBOOKS WILL BE IN THE CASINO BAG THAT WAS IN THE PHOTO I SENT YOU EARLIER. YOU WILL GET FROM THE CASINO ONE OF THE EXACT SAME BAGS. THERE IS A DOG PARK BY THE BOARDWALK. TAKE ONE OF THE BLACK PLASTIC BAGGIES FROM IT AND TIE IT TO THE CASINO BAG HANDLE SO MY MAN WILL RECOGNIZE YOU.

THEN AT 10:15 BE WAITING ON THE BOARDWALK FOR THE EXCHANGE TO TAKE PLACE.

MY MAN WILL WEAR BLACK PANTS AND JACKET AND A GRAY FEDORA THAT HAS A FEATHER IN THE HATBAND.

She reread it and clicked SEND.

Five minutes later, a bubble popped up:

215-555-3452

WHO IS THIS MAN? THIS IS BULLSHIT!

I GAVE YOU TWO HOURS!

She looked at that for a long moment, took a deep breath, and then sent:

CALM DOWN, RICKY. JUST BE THERE. 10:15.

The next minute felt like it lasted forever. Then came the reply:

215-555-3452

THIS IS THE LAST CHANCE!

DO NOT SCREW UP. YOU OR YOUR MAN.

OR HER BLOOD IS ON YOUR HANDS.

Her?

Almost immediately another message bubble popped up.

Maggie gasped.

The message had no words, only an image.

It was a close-up photograph of the face of a very young brown-skinned girl, maybe ten or eleven, her head turned at a sharp angle. A strip of silver duct tape covered her mouth. Her big dark eyes were looking as far left as they could possibly turn—toward her temple, where the muzzle of a big black pistol was pressed.

Oh my God . . .

Maggie’s mind flooded with thoughts.

The first, which caused Maggie to begin tearing up herself as she stared at the young girl’s tearing eyes, was: That is the look of total terror.

The next was: I can’t tell who that is. It could be Janine. But does it matter who it is?

Then: What have I done? This is crazy. Completely out of control.

And finally: I give up. Now there’s only one option. . . .

[FOUR]

After Payne and Byrth made their introductions, Byrth showed Eldridge his phone with the photograph from the Department of Transportation ID.

“Elizabeth Cusick,” Byrth said, “age twenty, five-one, one-ten, blonde, blue eyes. The address on this ID is this address.”

“Beth?” Eldridge said, nodding. “Sure. She was here maybe two months ago. And most girls use this address, especially when they apply for SNAP?”

Payne nodded and said, mostly for Byrth’s benefit, “Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program. Food stamps.”

“Right,” Eldridge said. “She came with a friend, nice-looking girl afraid of her own shadow. Hardly ever talked, this girlfriend. Beth did most of the talking. But when she did, it was with an accent. I’m guessing Russian?”

Payne and Byrth exchanged glances.

Byrth then said, “How long were they at your flophouse—”

“‘Transitional housing,’” he interrupted. “We prefer that. Lots of folks winding up here first got referred to other homes right out of jail. To get in those, though, they got to be clean. Which sometimes the jail time does for them. But when they sometimes slip—and most times they slip—they’re thrown out. Tragic cycle, sad to say. That’s how come we tell them to be clean, just don’t demand it. We’re hoping they can ease off the addiction.”

“Does that work?” Byrth asked, his tone skeptical.

“Sometimes. It ain’t easy. Ever. Believe me, I know. I’ve been fighting my own monkey on my back longer than I care to say.”

“What about this Cusick girl?” Byrth said.

He shrugged. “A runaway at some point is what I’m thinking. She never said outright. But some signs were pretty clear. She was hiding from a pimp. Both girls were. Some figure it out faster than others.”

“Figure out . . . ?” Payne said.

“That they ain’t gonna last long. Pimp makes them charge fifty bucks for fifteen minutes of screwing, thirty bucks for a blow job. Twenty, thirty tricks a day. Day after day. And then maybe split that money with the pimp, or he takes it all? Bastard who beats them, maybe sells them to another pimp, and worse?” Eldridge looked between them, then added, “You’re cops. You know they wind up dead all the time.”

“Wish I could say that’s the first I’ve heard of that,” Payne said, nodding.

Byrth said, “So, any idea what happened to Beth and her friend?”

“Only that it was same as most. One day here, next never heard from them again. Till you guys showed up.”

“They leave anything behind?”

Eldridge cocked his head. “You kidding me? Place like this?”

“I have to ask. You never know. And we need something we could run for fingerprints—a hairbrush, toothbrush, razor—or DNA off, say, a pair of used panties.”

Eldridge shrugged. “It’s been two months. If it ain’t nailed down, it’s stolen in minutes. Even clothes, old underwear, too. Still, we’re better here than a lot. We take in only twenty, four to a room, each paying three hundred a month. Some places it’s forty or more packed in. Plus we feed them and preach the . . .”

His voice trailed off as he looked past them toward the front door.

“Don’t be coming in here causing no trouble!” the big woman at the table then called out.

Byrth and Payne looked. It was the Jamaican, the big guy with the dreadlocks, at the front door. He towered over the crowd and was pacing, pointing his finger at the Latina with the black eye and blue hoodie.

“What’s Bob Marley’s problem?” Payne said.

“Name’s Marcus,” Eldridge said. “Says some punks shot at him this afternoon. He’s been on edge ever since. Usually really mellow, especially when he’s high.”

Byrth, pushing back his jacket and moving his right hand near his hip, said, “Well, mellow or not, that bastard’s a few sandwiches short of a picnic.”

“I told you I want another spliff, bitch!” Marcus then demanded, his deep Caribbean accent booming through the room.

“And I told you fuck off, I ain’t got none!” the Latina snapped back.

In the next instant, Marcus had pulled a knife from his pants pocket and was swinging it wildly.

A moment later he heard two men shout:

“Drop it!”

“Drop the damn knife now!”

When Marcus looked toward the back of the room he saw that the man with the big hat and his partner had pistols drawn—and that they were aiming if not directly at Marcus’s head then just above his multicolored knit cap.

They stepped toward him.

Marcus started to run, then stopped and grabbed the Latina, putting the knife point to her throat. Marcus quickly moved backward with her toward the front door—then let her loose and bolted outside.

“Great,” Payne said, pointing his pistol at the ceiling as he and Byrth started moving faster. “I was tempted to just let the sonofabitch run before he stuck the knife on her.”

Matt Payne, keeping the muzzle of his .45 up, flew through the doorway—then slipped when he hit the snow-packed sidewalk. He managed to recover just as Jim Byrth leapt over the slippery spot, landing in the street. They exchanged glances, then took off.

They saw, half a block ahead, Marcus moving quickly. He had his head back, knees flying high, arms pumping.

“Stop! Police!” Payne yelled.

Marcus then made a sliding right turn at the corner.

Approaching the next block, Payne saw that he and Byrth were slowly closing the gap. Payne then saw Marcus look back, then cut across the street. Then he saw at the far corner two human shapes standing beside a dumpster. Marcus, looking back again, ran right toward them.

One of the pair pulled something from his coat pocket. As it was raised, it glinted.

“Sonofabitch! Gun!” Payne said, and quickly crouched, motioning for Byrth to get down.

The pop-pop-pop of gunfire immediately followed, the muzzle flash reflecting on the icy street. The big Jamaican tried to change direction but lost his footing. He went down, striking the base of a metal utility pole headfirst.

Payne was trying to get a good aim on the shooter when there was another series of three shots. And then the firing stopped and there was a clunk as the gun hit the concrete.

The shooter and his partner bolted toward an empty lot beyond the dumpster.

Payne was about to kneel beside the Jamaican when Byrth called, “I’ve got him. Don’t let those other fuckers get away!”

Byrth, sliding to a stop at the Jamaican, pulled handcuffs from his coat pocket. He smoothly slapped a cuff on the man’s big right wrist, then pulled him in place so that he was hugging the metal pole and clipped his left wrist.

Then Byrth took off after Payne.

“Over here!” Payne called in a loud whisper from the shadows at the back corner of a line of row houses. He was breathing heavily, the cold air feeling like ice picks to his lungs.

When Byrth came up, Payne said, “They’re in here. They tried wrapping the cable back but didn’t get it locked.”

Payne pointed to a gate in the chain-link fence topped with razor wire. Hanging from the gate was the loose end of heavy-gauge steel cable that had been threaded around a metal post.

In a crouch, his pistol close in at chest level, Payne slowly swung the gate open. He cleared the immediate area, then entered the backyard, signaling with his left hand for Byrth to follow.

Suddenly, the cold air carried a chemical-like stench. It burned his nostrils.

What the hell is that? he wondered, and had to clear his throat.

He heard Byrth grunt, then cough involuntarily.

They moved quickly toward what was the back porch of the completely darkened house, snow crunching with each step. Once across the backyard, they came to another gate. It was wide open. They cleared it and went through.

Then from the far side of the next yard came the clanking sound of another chain-link gate opening, then the fast crunching of feet running on snow and the whine of an engine starter engaging. A big motorcycle rumbled to life—and almost instantly roared off.

“Damn it!” Payne said.

After a moment he felt a nudge on his right shoulder and he saw Byrth pointing at the back door. The porch light was on.

They could see that the door had a piece of torn fabric from an overcoat, and what looked like its insulating filler, caught in the jamb right above the dead bolt.

And that the door was cracked open.