Tahir heaved open a case to reveal a standard-issue M40 sniper rifle. Rusted from disuse, she’d oiled and cleaned it so that it shone against the gray, egg-crate foam cushioning. Lugging it out of the case, she carried the rifle over to the street-side window and pulled out the rifle’s kickstand. Once it was in place, she opened the window and propped it open with a steel bar.
She counted the windows of the adjacent building until she reached her target. The bedroom curtain fluttered in a breeze, and she could just make out the shape of propped sheets and bare feet.
“Rooke, spot.” Snapping a laser sight onto the rifle, she aimed and waited for Rooke's affirmative nod.
“Twelve o’clock. Bedroom, right window. Check.”
Tahir went back to the footlocker and removed a partition to reveal an assortment of other weaponry. She pulled out a Colt 38 Super and handed it to Rooke. “Are you going to be all right in the hallway?”
Rooke nodded once. “I should be.”
“Good. I’ve got point, and Key’s got to watch the street for his boyfriend or whatever.”
“I heard that!” Key bellowed from behind the closed door. “And that’s a lie!”
Tahir rolled her eyes before leveling a cool stare at Rooke. “Your position is very important. You up for this?”
Rooke’s grin was a mile wide. “Affirmative.”
Tahir grinned back before grabbing the blueprints of the apartment building opposite theirs. “Showtime.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Bon Baji stared across the room to where Parker stood, near the grandfather clock. There was a line of sweat staining the collar of Parker’s shirt, and the older man kept biting his lip. Baji frowned. She was authoritative. Ahn was the imaginative one. Seff? The quiet, brooding one. Parker? Parker was the pragmatic one. Pragmatic rarely came off as nervous.
But he was, and it set off a chain of reactions—Seff was furious, she was agitated and Ahn was…missing.
It usually took four to run their Causatum chamber. But it was no secret that Ahn was flighty, and because of that, they had collected enough of his spirit essence to make the chamber work without him. As Bon Baji took her seat, she thought of the measures she could take to track down their leader. The quickest would be involving Nuntii—the Messengers—but among the four of them, none had the time or the patience to explain why they couldn’t keep an eye on Ahn… again.
No, The Glory Beyond had better things to do.
The monotone voice of their chamber called out the current status. “The Dawn has passed.”
Another pulse event. The directionality of the timelines had shifted—Fox’s actions had mutated it—but it wasn’t enough. They still had the same conclusion.
“They’ll have to physically intervene,” Parker muttered.
“I knew we shouldn’t have let this happen! Enough hasn’t been changed. They are heading toward the same cliff. Hell, they are heading off the cliff!” Seff turned to Baji. “If they fail—”
“If,” Baji pointed out.
“If…then we deploy Seraphim.”
Bon Baji continued to stare silently over the large hologram centered in the middle of their Causatum chamber.
“Seff, that’s a hasty call,” Parker said.
“No,” Bon Baji countered. She used her hands to zoom in on the hologram. She gazed at Jin, outlining her face. “Seff’s right. If they fail, Fox should be pulled out and Seraphim deployed.”
Seff’s anger deflated and he nodded firmly before taking a seat across from her on a rococo-style settee. “I’ll send word for them to be prepared.”
Bon Baji rolled her eyes. “Ye of little faith.”
“No, ye of too much faith. Look, I don’t doubt Fox’s ability, but this is bigger than us. I’m just trying to salvage this.”
“You’re trying to salvage something that doesn’t need salvaging yet. If we use the Seraphim, we’ll have to explain it to Khavah.”
“She’ll understand. The Seraphim are powerful enough for this.”
Bon Baji let him have his moment. Seff treated Seraphim like they were his own personal divine intervention. Bon Baji, on the other hand, believed in the system, believed in their ability, and believed in Key and his team. Yet, as much as she detested the Seraphim’s methods, her team needed Jin Amaris to survive this.
No matter what.
Chapter Twenty-One
October 4; 11:15p.m.
“Is it a right or a left, you stupid piece-of-shit machine?” Jon yelled as he smacked the steering wheel. He wasn’t loud enough to drown out the monotonous “Make the nearest right” from his GPS. Glaring at it, because he detested its existence, he jabbed it with a finger before punching it.
“Recalculating.”
“You make me sick!”
The route from his hotel in lower Manhattan to Aiden and Jin’s apartment should have been an easy trip, a simple drive up West Street to Spring Street and he would be there. Except the signs for the Holland Tunnel confused the hell out of him, and then there was construction, and to avoid it, Jon tried to drive around it. That was his first mistake.
Jon wasn’t Magellan or Columbus, and ignoring the bleating of his GPS left him too far north—or east, he wasn’t sure—of where he needed to go, and none of the streets went where he thought he needed to go. His second mistake was actually using the GPS to get back on course. At this rate, he’d trade in this fancy-shmancy SUV and its demonic GPS for a travel guide.
Or someone who cared.
Jon took a look around him. He couldn’t blame this on the city, or the people around him. His real anger stemmed from the fact that he had no real idea where Aiden lived.
Jon and Aiden had been partners for three years, far longer than anyone else in their department. The shelf life for most partnerships was a few months. Most couldn’t stomach one another and the stress any longer than that. They were different. Years ago, they’d clicked as friends, and as far as being partners, it was inherent. Whatever symbiosis they’d discovered and built over time had managed to be the one solitary fiber of collective success they both could rely on. That was, until the Shen case, when Jin showed up out of nowhere and changed Aiden.
Not that it was a bad change. It was actually an improvement. Where Aiden used to be gruff and quiet, he was now open and expressive, happy even. And this wasn’t jealousy. Jon didn’t blame Jin. He just missed his old friend and his old life.
“Recalculating.”
Cursing, Jon looked through the tinted SUV windows and knew his best bet was to try and ask for directions again. He pulled up to the curb beside a nightclub and scanned the line for friendly faces. No luck there, so he threw the dice, put the window down, and shouted at the first person who walked by. “Yah! You! In the black!”
The person froze before flipping the hood of his jacket over his baseball cap. Slowly, he sidled to the curb, head lowered and hands jammed into jacket pockets. “Yeah?” the man answered, his head swiveling back and forth, peering up and down the street as if he didn’t want to be seen talking to Jon—who raised an eyebrow and considered letting the man be on his way.
The GPS mewling like a cat in heat in the background made him change his mind. Jon shoved the written instructions into the man's hands. “Relax, buddy, I just want some directions.”
A quick, firm nod was his answer. “I'm looking for this address.”
The hoodie cast a shadow over the man’s face and kept most of it hidden, except for his lips set in a grim line. The man gaped at the slip of paper, lips moving as he read the words over and over, as if he were stuck somewhere between the lines. Jon snapped his fingers in the man’s face to break him out of his trance. The man blinked up at him, still apparently wading around in his thoughts, before pointing straight ahead.
“Uh,” he tittered nervously. “Uh, yeah. Make a left at the Starbucks. That’ll put you on Spring Street.” He hesitated before blurting out a hushed, “Hurry.”
Jon frowned, but befor
e he could ask the man to elaborate on the warning, the man tugged his baseball cap lower and rushed off. “Uh, thanks?” Jon called out to his back, watching him disappear around a corner. He put his window up and eased back into traffic.
****
From the shadows, a pair of heterochromous eyes watched as the stranger merged into traffic, enroute to his destination. The bright red of his brake lights lit up, and for a moment Jerome thought he was stopping again, but the car followed the flow of traffic until he eventually disappeared around the corner.
Jerome wouldn’t have paid the man any attention until he looked down at the SUV’s tires—blackwall tires with plain steel rims. Then other things screamed out at him. The puck antennas on the roof, heavily tinted windows, the strobe lights behind the grille.
Unmarked car. Feds? He hadn’t looked like a cop, but the gruff, commanding voice implied law enforcement.
So there was a cop on his way.
Jerome sighed and pulled his cell from his pocket. Do your job. He stared at it, flipping through his contacts until he came to his boss’s phone number.
His finger hovered over the screen.
No.
Jerome pulled the battery from the phone, tossed the cell phone into the trash and walked away.
Enough.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Spring Street, Manhattan
October 4; 11:15 p.m.
The hiss of the walkie-talkie caught Tahir's attention, but not enough for her to take her eyes from the scope of the gun. She pressed the button on her flak jacket, and the hissing quieted down as she opened the line. “Uh, yeah?”
“Breaker one-nine.”
Tahir rolled her eyes. “Rooke…dude, you don't have to talk like that!”
“Breaker one-nine, I repeat copy, breaker one-nine.”
“Dude, I copy or whatever. What do you want?”
“What's your twenty?”
“What's my—what do you mean what's my twenty? I'm in the apartment.”
“Copy that. I need an affir—”
Tahir twisted the frequency dial, just a little, and was rewarded with a loud squeal of feedback.
There was a shout on the other end. “Why would you do that? That hurt.”
Tahir outright laughed. This was the first time Rooke had been out in the field as a part of their team. He’d been on a Causatum mission before, but never as a Luminary, and never on a mission as big as this. Tahir believed the word nervous was an understatement.
“Now that I have your attention, cut the walkie-talkie lingo shit out. Just be alert and keep your position.”
There was a beat of silence and Tahir imagined it was because the younger man was surveying his environment. “The hallway is empty. I haven't seen a soul for the last ten minutes or so.”
Tahir grinned. “Good. I should see him before you do, and I have a clear shot to the front door just in case he gets by Aiden. If I don't, and he approaches that door, you hit the relay button and you get the hell out of there. Key is positioned at the entrance and can get to you in a flash.” She looked down at her watch. “We've got approximately twenty-seven minutes. The last pulse event just went off, so we know he's coming for that door.”
“Copy that. Roger. Over and out. Ten-four.”
“If you don't shut up...”
“Cop...I mean. Right.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Spring Street
4th floor fire-escape
October 4; 11:22 p.m.
Shen Park always knew he thought best in hindsight. He analyzed in retrospect, tallied up wins and allocated his losses to distant memory. In light of his generous attention to his own methods, Shen knew he was a sick son of a bitch. He knew that he had flaws, knew that he was damaged.
He was absolutely fine with that.
It was a talent, a testament, to recognize that. His art, however, was the ability to ignore it, to keep his overwhelming urge for deviance under wraps. He’d managed to control it, stare at it from afar, imagine it away by sheer will. But four years in prison had allowed every sick and foul urge that motivated his overall destructive and heinous personality to grow and flourish, to anchor itself to him and never let go.
Shen didn't mind it, though. Being who he was came easy, it was natural, and it felt right. Still, there was the fact that he had tried, feverishly, to be a different person—kinder, more lenient, maybe softer, more thoughtful—and it meant nothing to the person he'd done it all for. Those characteristics were a learned behavior. Because he’d cared…he’d learned to care about someone. For nothing.
Shen glared into the apartment. It was small, paltry. He could fit three of these in her former apartment. It pissed him off that she was okay with this, that she’d traded in everything for this. This plain…ordinary…bullshit.
Shen could just let it all go. The prison psychologist said it was called “moving on,” a path to true healing. A chance to grow, he said. The prison psychologist could eat dick. To hell with healing, moving on, and forgetting.
One of them had to remember.
Shen chuckled as he watched them sitting there, completely unaware of his presence. Did they think locking him up was going to keep him away?
He took a drag from his cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke into the air. Moving silently, he stood in front of the window with the moonlight at his back. She thought she could betray him? He'd show her what betrayal looked like. He'd show her how cold revenge could be. He'd show her who death really was.
Him.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Spring Street
4th floor, Apartment 401
October 4; 11:23p.m.
Is this reality?
The thought burned through Aiden’s mind with lightning precision, seeking an answer and finding nothing. So he pushed it away and drew on pure instinct.
The lights went out and Aiden dove for the bed. As his body hit the mattress, a bullet shattered the window. Another bullet splintered the bedroom door, and Jin screamed as debris flew toward them.
Her scream fueled Aiden’s actions. He grabbed her and rolled them hard over the edge of the bed. As they fell, he grunted as he pillowed their weight. He rolled again, this time pulling her under him so he was hovering over her body. Another piece of something—glass, wood, metal—flew over their heads and smashed into the lamp, raining bits of sharp porcelain across his back.
The sound of the blinds collapsing was followed by a menacing growl. “Hiding from me? That’s adorable,” the voice called out.
Aiden looked down and saw Jin’s fear clouding her large brown eyes, the cold sweat that covered her brow, the disbelief as she pressed closer to Aiden. Her hands flew to her ears as Shen called from the other side of the window.
“Jinni,” he sang.
“No…” Jin squeezed her eyes shut. “This isn’t happening. We’re supposed to be safe. We’re supposed to be safe,” she repeated over and over.
“All that hiding, and for what? Why don’t you come over here so I don’t have to put a bullet through Aiden’s pretty little head while you watch, huh? You don’t want that to happen do you—?” Shen’s voice halted with a sharp cry as a boom echoed and bounced off the buildings.
The cry sounded painful, but Aiden didn’t have time to worry about Shen. The only thing that mattered lay in front of him, between the columns of his arms.
He had no plans of losing her again.
He needed his gun. Aiden lowered himself next to Jin, careful to keep her close. He looked under the bed for his gun case, saw the suitcase instead and panicked. Then he remembered. There. Next to the nightstand. Pulling the case clear of the bed, he grabbed the gun, jammed the magazine in, and shoved it into the waistband of his pants.
Aiden pulled her back to him. “Jin, look at me.” He raised two shaking hands to cradle her face. “I'm going distract him. Get out. Go next door, any door, and grab someone. Call the bureau. Julius will know what is happening, what to do,” Aiden
whispered hurriedly.
“Why would I…” Jin’s eyes dipped to the gun and the realization hit her. “Wait. No,” she yelled back. “I go, you go. We don't even know what's going on.”
“It's not hard to figure out, Jin. He’s trying to kill you.”
“I don't care.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
“I don't want you to go,” she pleaded as she wrapped her arms around his neck and crushed him against her. “Don’t…please.”
He ignored her whimpering, and slowly and softly untangled her arms from around him. “Run,” he whispered before he pushed up from the floor, already switching from lover to agent.
Approach the suspect from a distance, keep the element of surprise, keep your eyes on the suspect’s hands.
That’s what he had been taught to do. Yet adrenaline trumped Aiden’s training and something feral took over as he tore across the room at Shen, a roar ripping from his throat. It was loud and full of anger and was the only warning Shen got before Aiden tackled him over the windowsill.
Shen cried out as his back collided with the steel grate, but he recovered quickly and moved faster than Aiden had calculated. Shen swung the muzzle of his gun at him, but Aiden rammed his elbow into Shen’s midsection before he could aim. Shen tensed at the last second, lessening the impact, so Aiden opted for another route, noticing the blood dripping down Shen’s arm. The cry from earlier. He was shot. He grabbed Shen's injured shoulder and dug his fingers into the wound, satisfied when Shen howled.
While Shen writhed in pain under him, Aiden took the opportunity to take a swing. Shen’s head hit the grating, rebounded, and Aiden jammed his palm up into Shen’s face, listening to the sickening crack as the delicate bones in Shen’s nose broke. Shen dropped the gun as both of his hands flew up to cover his face. The gun tumbled against the grate, and Aiden stood and kicked it away. Remembering his own weapon, he tugged the pistol from his waistband.
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