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—
While Eve waited, so did the apprentice. Mixed with the cold blood was a hot thread of anticipation. This time it would be different. This time the knowledge of how it felt, how that power pumped from finger to target colored all.
The flop smelled of piss and roaches. But it didn’t matter. The sight line straight up Broadway to Times Square was unobstructed. The thinning sleet, even the occasional sky tram winging by didn’t distract.
“I have the target.”
The trainer nodded, picking out the target himself through a scope. “You have the green. Take your time. Take the target out.”
“I want more than three this time. I can do six. I want six.”
“Speed and accuracy, remember. Three is enough.”
“It sets a pattern, and I can take six.”
After a moment, the trainer lowered the glasses. “Four. Don’t argue. Do the job. Argue, we abort.”
Pleased, the apprentice watched the people thronging the streets of Times Square, watched them walk and gawk, snap their pictures, run their videos, haul their bags of worthless souvenirs.
And began to do the job.
Officer Kevin Russo patrolled with his friend and fellow cop, Sheridon Jacobs. They’d just grabbed a couple of loaded dogs off a cart on their break, and his sat warm in his belly.
He liked his beat—always something happening, always something to see. Of course, he’d only been assigned to Times Square the last four months, but he didn’t see it getting old anytime soon.
“There’s Grabby Larry,” he said to Jacobs as he watched the aging street thief casing the tourists. “Guess we’d better run him off.”
“He’s showing the miles.” Jacobs shook her head. “There ought to be a retirement home for old street thieves. Guy has to be pushing the century mark.”
“I think he passed it a few years ago. Jesus, he doesn’t even see us coming.”
They didn’t hurry. Grabby Larry wasn’t as nimble as he’d been in his prime; and the week before, his mark had beat him to the ground with her purse—the one he’d hoped to steal.
Russo started to grin at the memory, then today’s mark—a woman of about seventy, with a bright red purse dangling from her arm—dropped like a stone.
“Ah, shit, call the MTs, Sherry.” As Russo darted forward, a kid on an airboard in a small pack of kids on airboards went flying, took out a trio of pedestrians like bowling pins.
Russo saw blood bloom on the back of the kid’s bright blue jacket.
“Get down! Down! Take cover.”
Before the first scream, the first realization of those around him, Russo pulled his weapon. He leaped toward the kid in hopes of shielding him from another strike. But the third hit Russo in the center of his forehead, a scant inch below the brim of his cap. Russo was gone before he hit the ground, before the fourth body fell, and a fifth.
While chaos erupted blocks away, while screams ripped the air and tires squealed, the apprentice sat back, smiled up at the trainer.
“Five was a compromise.”
The trainer lowered the scope, aimed stern disapproval. But pride shone through it. “Pack it up. We’re done here.”
—
In Whitney’s office, Dallas’s communicator buzzed almost simultaneously with Whitney’s ’link signaling a breakthrough communication.
“I’ll get back to you,” he told the media liaison. His eyes met Eve’s as they both answered.
“Dallas.”
“Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Officer down, Broadway and Forty-Four. Multiple victims. Four confirmed dead. Wounded unverified.”
