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  The hooded man sniffed and then stuck both hands in the pockets of his overcoat. He peered out into the cold, wintry night. The barflies had disappeared; he was alone, a mysterious pedestrian loitering on the streets of the German Quarter at 4:00 A.M.

  Truly, though, he thought, my presence isn’t much of a mystery. They’ll know why I’m here. They’ve been expecting me, or someone like me, for years.

  Securing the objects in his left pocket, the hooded man withdrew the item in the right. He rapped against the glass, continuing to knock on the door with his knuckles until a broad, ugly face appeared in the window. The face sneered; Aryan features twisted into regret as the rest of the body—wiry, muscled, dressed in a simple black T-shirt—subtly gestured toward the GESCHLOSSEN sign. The hooded man glanced down and then looked up and apologetically shrugged and placed the fist against his chest. I don’t understand German, it suggested.

  The ugly Aryan unlocked the door, cracking it just enough through which he could stick his face and rest a fist against the jamb. The hooded man’s attention was drawn to a carving on the frame. Graffiti, dug into the wood. It was a symbol … a snake circling a fist. Three lightning bolts clutched in its grasp. He nodded at the apologetic proprietor, expressing with his hooded eyes that he recognized the mark for what it was. He might not understand German, the look said, but he understood that. The face in the door nodded with approval and then tapped against the glass on the GESCHLOSSEN sign.

  “Closed,” he grunted, barely an accent discernible in the word. “We’re closed.”

  The man smiled beneath his mask. He reaffirmed his grip on the tool in his right hand. Every tool, he believed, for a specific job. He cocked his head in reply.

  “Season’s greetings, Dolph,” Liberty whispered.

  Dolph—that was his name, the densest of three brothers that Liberty knew loitered inside the pub—opened his mouth, fairly dumbfounded. His eyes widened, and the door started to close. Idiot, Liberty scolded himself. He recognized your damn voice.

  Before Dolph could slam the door, Liberty lifted his right hand and held out the item resting securely in his fist. It was a cube—no bigger than a golf ball—black and bristling with electronics. Liberty tapped the back, and an earsplitting shriek emanated from the box, transmitting out to a five-block radius. It was a recorder, equipped with high-decibel playback, and what it currently played was the scream of a dying god. He’d recorded it in Chicago, not so long ago. And now he used it to not only bring Dolph to his knees but also shatter every door and window in and around Der Mann ohne Bier.

  Liberty punched Dolph in the face, shattering his teeth. The beefy Aryan fell back and clutched his mouth, blood spraying across the hardwood flooring. Liberty stepped over him, entering the premises, striding toward the long, circular bar. Bottles had shattered, and various types of liquid drenched the floor, so he carefully made his way around the glass and puddles of ale, Jaeger, and brandy. Another man writhed near the bar, rubbing his temple and attempting to dig out his damaged inner ear. Liberty approached just as the man—wearing a suit, slimmer and older—finally pulled himself up and grabbed for a nearby bat.

  Liberty lifted the cube, pointing it at the second German. “Tut-tut, Bruno. The first round works you over. The second one kills you.”

  Bruno lowered the bat. His accent was more pronounced. “You wouldn’t dare play it again. Every policeman in the city would be down here to arrest you for property damage, assault, and attempted robbery.”

  Liberty frowned. “Robbery? Bruno, you know me better than that.”

  Dolph groaned by the door, and a third man, splayed out on the floor, had yet to show signs of life. I might have killed that one. That will save some time, Liberty realized with a smile. He stowed the cube into his pocket and pointed to a nearby barstool. “Sit. I’d like Dolph to join you. We can do this der einfache Weg or die harte Tour, if you’ll pardon the cliché. It’s four in the morning, I’m expecting fireworks to kick off at any moment, and I don’t particularly have the time to be clever.”

  Bruno nodded, dumbfounded, and pointed at a particular stool, making sure that it would serve. Liberty gestured toward it. “Please, sit.” Bruno grinned. Something moved behind the hooded man.

  He ducked left just as Dolph lunged right. Liberty easily sidestepped the big German and clotheslined him with a forearm. Dolph doubled over, the wind knocked out of him, and Liberty snatched the Aryan’s white-blond hair with his right hand. His left hand still remained in his pocket, fastened to the other tool he couldn’t wait to reveal. He tossed Dolph into a set of tables, breaking several and scattering chairs. Dolph didn’t get up. Bruno, meanwhile, had launched himself from the stool. Liberty was forced to swivel and grab him by the throat. Bruno’s neck was thick and veiny, but the man in the mask crushed his windpipe with relative ease. Bruno turned red and then blue. Finally, Liberty lifted the German and heaved him over the bar, into broken glass and shattered bottles. Bruno slid down, out of view. The third German—Johann, the hooded man reminded himself—stayed where he was, completely unconscious and possibly dead.

  Liberty sniffed and stretched. He flexed the fingers on his right hand and caught his breath. Then, finally, he removed the item in his left pocket and pulled it taut with both hands. It glistened and twanged in the moonlight filtering in from the smashed window. Morning was only hours away, and he could hear people on the street, stirring as car alarms blared in reaction to his sonic volley.

  Liberty shrugged and started toward the closest German.

  “I suppose that means we do it die harte Tour,” he said to no one at all. “Not to worry, meine Freunde. That’s what I’d been hoping for.”

  He hunkered down and got to work.

  6

  December. Monday afternoon. 12:37 P.M.

  Traffic snarled as they neared Twenty-Eighth and Gallaher, slowing to a halt ten feet from Deena’s destination. Honking the horn, she craned her neck to see the snow-covered terminal ahead, rearing above the holiday shoppers, crowned with frost and graffiti. Crowds weaved around Ellis Station, ten-dollar-an-hour admins hustling past on coffee breaks, careful not to slip on patches of ice. The office drones were interspersed amid cheerful tourists, late commuters, and—more relevant to Deena’s concerns—a multitude of police officers. A barricade had been erected across Gallaher, blocking off two of the street’s four lanes. Three cruisers stuck ass-backward into traffic, forcing away drivers and cabs in order to cordon off space for approaching, blaring ambulances. Lights splashed red and blue against the station’s exterior walls, and the hubbub of the sirens and arriving detectives only served to further add to the urban morass. Deena tugged out her phone and begged it to call Walker for the third time since they’d left the precinct. As it had for the previous attempts, a pleasantly digital voice sent Deena’s message straight into Walker’s inbox. Cussing, she hurled the phone into the back, doing her best to angle her SUV toward the entrance to Ellis Station.

  Dammit. He’s probably underground, the newbie by his side.

  Sitting in the passenger seat, legs braced against the dashboard, Aaron winced as Deena gracelessly pulled her car up onto a curb. She nearly bisected a halal vendor with the two left wheels, and Aaron gaped at the poor man, jerking his hand in an awkward wave, doing his best to impart hasty, sincere apologies.

  Fuck yes, Deena seethed inwardly while stealing a furtive glance in his direction. You should apologize. This is your fault.

  They’d barely spoken since the call had come in. Walker and Kirk had abandoned Deena, having raced to the scene in one of the three already present cherry tops. She would have joined them if not for the fact that she’d been shuttered in a room, awkwardly reconnecting with the former love of her life. The last thing Deena had seen of Aaron Boucher—her first and final big romance—had been his pathetic face, shoulders slumped as she’d stormed out. That was over ten years ago, and so much had happened during the intervening period, far too much to impart in a single
encounter. Far too important to impart in a room that faintly smelled of cat piss. They’d traded pleasantries: Aaron caught Deena up on Boucher family matters—Eveline had died three years prior from a case of high-grade lymphoma; the judge, widowed and alone, was now preparing to explore the adventure that was retirement. Aaron, meanwhile, had traveled. First Texas, to which he’d escaped from the madness of Atlanta. Then Chicago for a while, leaving just as Walker and Pilgrim managed to burn it to the ground. Now Aaron lived in Washington, trekking between a two-bedroom off Dupont Circle and his father’s guest room on Delsante, here in the city. Still crazy about music, his tastes had evolved from Nine MM and Powers punk to more eclectic fare, jazz legends like Bird and the Count as well as a raft of genres ranging from neue-vogue hip-hop to disintilectronica. He asked what Deena had been listening to lately, but she was too embarrassed to answer; Deena hadn’t stacked a playlist in years. The lone CD gracing her glove compartment was a Blonde Ammo single scored during last year’s holiday party.

  He never asked about my father, Deena realized as she inched toward their destination, fishing for an opening in the widening silence. Mom and the job. But Dad? I doubt it’ll come up unless I bring it up.

  Deena hadn’t spoken to Waldo in years. Mom got the occasional phone call, along with the odd holiday or birthday exchange. Her mother lived in Wisconsin—Racine or Madison, one of the ones that wasn’t Green Bay. She’d remarried after leaving Waldo eight years earlier, having found sobriety and love with an auto parts dealer named Hoyt. No kids this time, but she spent her days gardening and managing the books for Hoyt, evenings playing cards with the Rotary Club. She seemed happy; Deena couldn’t deny that she deserved it, not after Atlanta. But they led separate lives now; both of them had compartmentalized their pasts and futures. As had Deena’s shit stain of a father.

  So when Aaron had asked Deena about her past, she’d replied that she hated all music, current or otherwise. She hadn’t spoken to her parents in a while. And, of course, she was single. Deena had her apartment. She had her partner. And she had her badge. Those were the things that shaped her life; not her past, which she did her best to lose in a bottle or investigation. Deena chose to live in the present. The past was too damn hard.

  “So,” he’d responded, tracing gouges in the table. “You’re single?”

  The conversation had gotten easier after that, chiefly because they’d focused on flirting and work. She asked about his commission, and Aaron evaded every question. He, in turn, pried into Walker’s life, and she pivoted toward the intriguing shit that they had seen or solved. She caught him up on Retro Girl and Triphammer. The Powers virus and Olympia’s death-by-orgasm. Z and Wolfe, and then Chicago and the setback with the bureau (which he, as a Washington insider, knew about). She skirted certain issues and elaborated on others, choosing to conceal her brief stint with powers (and ensuing pregnancy) as well as Walker’s more intimate, personal details. Aaron picked up on her fading passion, though—the way she described the events in her past, the manner in which her body language changed from confident to sorrowful made him wonder if she’d become disenchanted with the job. She admitted that the years had taken their toll. Deena balanced on the precipice; she loved law enforcement, never felt more alive than when using honed detection skills to solve a case. But the raft of bullshit that came with that high had begun to outweigh the wins. And truth be told, she had explained to Aaron, Deena wasn’t sure how much longer she could endure it.

  I haven’t even expressed that to Walker, Deena thought. Aaron is the first person I’ve told about how I’ve been feeling, That must mean something, right?

  She remained wary, worried he might be leveraging their history and minefield of a relationship to dig up dirt for his commission. But when Aaron’s face softened after that and he’d invited her to dinner, espousing the virtues of a Polynesian stew joint on Dougan and Alimagno, Deena lowered her shields to see where this might be going. She really needed a night out, despite the way her gut recoiled when she thought about how they’d left things. Her last date had ended badly—like “boot in the crotch” badly. So she’d said yes, even though she’d sensed warning lights when Aaron offered to help navigate the red tape of her open investigation: the high-profile corpse in the morgue.

  She’d hesitated, and then the call had come in. But they’d gone on reminiscing for another ten minutes, so of course Walker had left her behind.

  And now here we sit, she mused, ignoring questions best left unanswered. Meanwhile, I’m forced to cut a swath through snow-covered streets to reach a crime scene in which my superstar partner—who isn’t actually on the job—has probably solved the Hoffa disappearance. She slammed her palm on the wheel, eliciting barks of protest from her straining horn.

  “Come on, dammit! Homicide! Out of the way!” Deena sharply turned to the left, driving up and onto the sidewalk, spattering bystanders with slush. Commuters and tourists scrambled to clear a path, flattening themselves against walls as she steered toward Ellis Station. Three policemen warned Deena back, but the squeal of her tires as she launched off the curb sent them hustling for safety, too. She banked right and then left again and brought the SUV in behind the cordon that had been created for the ambulances. Shifting into park, she waved at the shouting cops and then glanced sideways to gauge her passenger’s reaction. Hand welded to the dash, left foot wedged against the glove compartment, Aaron was wide-eyed and his breathing was very still. After a moment, his chest unhitched, and he extricated himself from the crash-landing position he’d assumed until Deena inevitably, thankfully, stopped the car.

  “Come on, Blitzen,” she said, smiling sweetly. Deena exited onto the street, and Aaron joined her after a moment, visibly shaken. Deena started toward the doors, ignoring astonished stares while beckoning for Aaron to follow. They ducked beneath the tape and headed into the evacuated building.

  Ellis Station, situated on the city’s western harbor, was a sprawling hub into which all sorts of public transportation converged. Seven stories high, comprised of a series of interconnected terminals, Ellis had been named after one of the city’s original governors and the building’s financier, Tiberius Reginald Ellis. The building’s architect, a half-drunken refugee with vast ambitions and scant resources, had taken the assignment in hopes of landing future work from the city leaders. Unfortunately, said leaders deemed his plans too subdued for the forward-thinking metropolis they’d hoped to create, so Ellis paid for three more engineers to come aboard (one of whom may have been the city’s first evil genius type). The resultant mess, squalid and odorous due to years of urban decay, squatted upon the west side like a flatulent gargoyle. As successive layers of government continued to mold the city, they built up eateries, pharmacies, coffeehouses, and tchotchke shops around the pulsing, belching arteries through which coursed the lifeblood of interconnected multistate transit. Along with the army of stores came a deluge of mouth breathers searching for a way to distract themselves from shitty jobs, shittier vacations, and—during inspired moments—sporadic instances of petty thievery and sexual harassment. Now, striding past a gourmet pastry shop, Deena paid attention to the unusual, welcome silence that had descended on Ellis Station. Boucher nipped at her heels, following onto the escalators.

  “So catch me up. Is this case new?” Aaron adjusted his tie and induced color back into his cheeks. “Can you afford the time while dealing with the Soldier fallout?”

  She shrugged. “We’ll have to find out.”

  “What did you and Detective Kirk uncover at the precinct?”

  “Big list. That’s about it.”

  Aaron raised his hands in mock prayer as they descended. “Praise and hallelujah.”

  She smiled despite herself. “We compiled a roll call of the Soldier’s known enemies with ties to the Front, stretching back to the organization’s inception.”

  “Only the ones who are currently active?”

  “Uh-uh,” Deena replied. “Can’t rule anyone out. Do
n’t know when Monroe got those tats; can’t tell how deep it is, if it’s deep at all.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning the tats, the Human Front—could be a blind. Someone pointing us away from the culprit.” Deena stepped off the escalator and waited for Aaron to join her. They continued down a corridor, heading for a sign indicating stairs leading deeper into the station’s bowels. The sign was pockmarked and dented. It read SUBWAY, with an arrow pointing down.

  “But you said that the tattoos weren’t new. Older, faded … Walker all but confirmed that to me.”

  “True, but even if Joe subscribed to an anti-Powers agenda, that doesn’t mean they had anything to do with his death.”

  He eyed her as they reached the subway stairs. “But you don’t believe that. You’ve got a hunch it’s Malachi Crane and his band of goons.”

  Deena shrugged again. “I follow my nose. It always knows.”

  She could see commotion on the platform below—lights, stretchers, and more yellow tape. She fidgeted, feeling the moment of paradise-purgatory once again; the same thing Deena had felt before entering Joe’s apartment. Come on. My partner’s down there. You’re cute and all, but he needs my help.

  Aaron held out a hand, placing it on her shoulder. “You all right?”

  Deena tapped her finger against the bridge of her nose and grinned, ignoring the queasiness that had settled in her stomach. “Car ride caught up with my guts.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Later. Trying to breathe first.” Two cops headed toward them, walking up the stairs. One of them spied Deena, whispered to his partner, and then performed an about-face and hustled back down to the platform. The second kept coming, unconvincingly trying to ignore Deena and her guest as he continued toward the escalator.

  “Your case,” Aaron continued. “You must have a hunch, something enough to have disturbed Walker back at the precinct. Clue me in; I can run interference with the feds, toss them a lead they can feed the media. Then we can go see what fresh hell Walker’s discovered.”