The turnstile blocks my path for half a second. I grab it, tear it from its rusted housing, and set it aside with more restraint than it deserves. Metal screeches. The sound echoes beneath the broken archway and disappears deeper into the park.
Good.
Let them hear.
The main path curves past the old welcome center. Vines creep through cracks in the concrete. Rainwater pours from a split gutter into an overflowing trash bin. The ticket booths have been stripped for wiring. One has a mannequin sitting inside wearing a purple jacket and a child’s paper crown, its plastic face painted with a skull-bloom. The joke is crude, theatrical, and exactly what I expect from boys who think ugliness becomes power if they perform it loudly enough.
A voice calls from the shadows beyond the gift shop. “Yo. Park’s closed.”
I keep walking.
Two humans step into view under the overhang of the reptile house. One carries a metal pipe wrapped in grip tape. The other lifts a compact slugthrower with a shaking hand and tries to aim it at my chest.
Recognition hits them slowly, then all at once.
The one with the pipe whispers, “Oh, shit.”
“Yes,” I say.
The slugthrower rises.
I cross the distance before his finger finishes tightening. My left hand closes around the barrel and jerks it upward as the weapon fires. The shot cracks into the ruined awning overhead, showering us with fragments of old plascrete. I twist the weapon free, crush the firing assembly in my palm, and drive my elbow into his ribs. He leaves his feet and hits the side of the ticket kiosk hard enough to break the old plex panel behind him.
Pipe swings at my head.
I catch it.
For a moment, the boy and I both hold the pipe between us. He pulls. I do not move. Rain runs down his face, cutting clean tracks through grime and bravado.
“You should leave,” I tell him.
He lets go.
Smart.
He turns to run. I catch the back of his jacket, haul him backward, and slam him onto the pavement. Not hard enough to break his spine. Hard enough that he will remember the shape of the ground for weeks.
“Tell me where Ron is.”
He gasps like a landed fish. “Don’t know.”
I put one boot beside his head, close enough that he feels the weight of it through the puddle splashing against his ear. “That was your only lie.”
His eyes roll toward the crushed slugthrower in my hand. “Primate house. Old primate house. Him and the crew are in there.”
“Numbers.”
“Maybe twenty. Maybe more.”
“Armed?”
“Some.”
“Civilians?”
“What?”
“Civilians. Hostages. Customers. Children. Anyone not wearing your colors.”
