Page 70 of Antihero

Manny’s pupils contracted even more.

“I have called the authorities to come find you.”

As much as was possible, which was not much, Manny’s features went lax with relief.

“In D.C.,” Evan added. “I’d guess it will take at least an hour for them to coordinate a response here.”

Fresh terror bloomed beneath the skin of Manny’s face. He lost air, passed out, came back online. Broken blood vessels squiggled through his cheeks, across his nose.

“For that hour, I want you to know that the only reason you are alive is because a woman you helped rape decreed it so. Every sip of breath you take, you think about the grace she has shown you.”

Manny’s tear ducts leaked, the moisture held in place against the clear plastic, his eye sockets turned to submarine portholes.

As Evan headed back toward the fire escape, Manny tried to scream. But not much sound could escape.

Halfway onto the balcony, Evan hesitated. Lowered his head and cursed.

The soles of his boots knocked against the reclaimed wood as he reapproached with intent, knife in hand. Manny squirmed and bucked.

Evan pinned him to the floor with a knee in his chest, bent down over him, leading with the knife. A jab at his face.

The Strider had opened up the hole over Manny’s mouth.

Manny sucked oxygen, legs doing a mermaid flop. “Th-thank you,” he stuttered between gasps. “Th-th—”

Evan leaned close, their noses almost touching. “You don’t deserve this much air.”

He tore himself off Manny before his darker instincts could prevail.

The sound of Manny’s unmuffled sobbing followed him across the loft and out onto the fire escape. Even halfway down, he could still hear the wails.

29The Help That Is Coming

On Evan’s drive back to the Bronx, the flash drive in his cargo pocket refused to recede into the background of his attention. The metal rectangle dimpled the skin of his thigh, a loaded pistol with the safety off.

He dreaded having to watch what was on it.

But he needed to see if he could identify Anca’s captors, and that meant having to observe what they’d done to her.

For privacy, he booked a room a few blocks from Anca’s apartment. The hotel was a converted turn-of-the-century opera house, Italian Renaissance Revival with rusticated stone and tall arched windows. The room was cheap, clean, utilitarian.

Sitting on a maroon bed runner festooned with beige flowers, he stared at the laptop he’d picked up at a Best Buy, set up on the facing dresser. Firming his jaw, he withdrew the thumb drive from his pocket, inserted it, and called up the MP4 video.

The cursor floated above the PLAY arrow.

His mouth was dry. His hands gripped his knees.

The Fourth Commandment: Never make it personal.

He took a breath. Locked himself down.

And clicked.

He observed forensically.

A Hieronymus Bosch tableau.

Four assailants. Black ski masks. Stark lighting interspersed with shadow.