A mercenary trotted toward where Rachel was cuffed to the low metal vent. He was carrying a bang stick and a cylinder with a perforated casing--a stun grenade. She froze warily but he hustled past, and a minute later a muffled thump sounded from behind her, the far side of the room

From the direction where they'd dragged me.

Then a louder bang rolled across the room, accompanied by a flash of lightning. That one they'd aimed directly at me, not the orbs. Behind any number of obstructions, the flash-bang didn’t do more than raise Rachel's heart rate, so she twisted for a better view.

She couldn't see anything. She twisted further ... and beside her, the man with the freckles made a noise in his throat.

Rachel glanced at him--then stared. Two words were scrawled on his cheek: MY PHONE.

The letters were written in freckles.That was his power?

The freckles moved, sliding over his skin until they spelled: THEYL KILL US.

She nodded. She knew.

The freckles scattered then re-formed. PHON N MY POCKT. CALL 911.

She looked at this pocket, then looked at him. How was she supposed to get to his phone?

He shrugged, like that was her problem, then his freckles scattered into a random pattern and she saw PJ strolling through the doorway, happy and replete. Spandle followed more stiffly, the lines around her mouth etched with pain and the burn dressings visible under her dowdy shirt.

PJ chuckled at the sight of Rachel. "Welcome to the AHU, Miss Boone."

"What’s that, the assholes union?"

His smile widened, and he gestured toward the metal box in the corner with the vents and pipes. "That’s ‘air handling unit’ to laymen. It's got a blower and a filter, dampers and sound attenuators. Listen to me, I’m a HVAC expert."

"Not a bad job," she said. "I learned some cabinetmaking in prison."

PJ laughed. "See, that’s what I like about you. Always the optimist."

"Where are we?" she asked.

"No, you’re supposed to say what you like about me."

Her grin looked more wolf than human. "I'm going to like shooting you."

He considered her for a moment, then his empty smile returned. "One thing about Mrs. Spandle is, she fits anywhere--a drainpipe, garden hose, a keyhole--and she knows how to tunnel. Give her a day, she’ll give you a rabbit warren. We’re under the Municipal Building and City Hall … and One Police Plaza. That mean anything to you?"

"The police station," Rachel said. "And you’re making civilians kill cops. What does that buy you other than a lot of bodies?"

"Why should I tell you? You think we're playing ‘animal, vegetable, mineral?’"

"I choose animal," she said. "You’ve slipped my father's leash but you’re still his little doggie."

He slapped her face, a stinging blow that brought tears to her eyes. "I’ve got mobs in the street," he said, "tearing apart anyone in uniform. And you know how the police feel about cop killers. They are not happy campers. One guy in a squad car dropped half a tenth grade class outside the museum."

Rachel blinked away the tears. Tenth grade was too close to Audrey’s age, but she couldn’t think about that, about all those kids and all those parents.

"He was knee-deep in corpses by the time we turned the corner," PJ said.

"That still doesn’t buy you anything," she said.

From near the doorway, the doctor said, "Sir?"

"What’s that?" PJ asked, half-turning.

"The mayor is in the building."

PJ grinned at Rachel. "We’re standing in the central vent system, Rachel. Which Spandle modified. You beginning to see what this buys me?"

"You're starting riots," she said. "So cops are firing on civilians. Now you're bringing the mayor and police chief together. Once you breathe into that air handling unit--"

"They're mine. The entire command structure of the NYPD is mine. I'll own them and they are already amped for blood--and better armed than most countries. Plus, from the mayor to the governor is one short hop."

"Okay," she said, slowly. "So you manufactured a crisis--"

"A meltdown," PJ said. "A warzone. And guess who’s going to stop this catastrophe?"

"You?"

"That’s right." His eyes twinkled. "Me and my puppets upstairs. We’re talking martial law, my own personal police force. My own army. New Park City--twenty-two square miles, and all the power in the world."

"That’s not bad," Rachel said. "You’ve got Wall Street, the UN--"

"Priceless art, sixty-two billion dollars in cash." PJ exhaled, and the rotting stench filled the room. "Plus two million hostages. If anyone moves against me, every one of them goes on a rampage. Mothers killing babies, fathers killing sons. You think they’ll risk that?"

She shook her head. They wouldn't risk that. They couldn’t.

"That's right," PJ said. "They'll do whatever I tell them. They'll stay away and let me do what I please with my property. Say hello to the King of New Park."

"The only problem," she told him, "is that once the smoke clears you'll be the same jerkoff you always were."

PJ gestured widely, almost operatically, with his right arm. A blade appeared in his hand, and he slashed Freckles across the throat. Blood pulsed from the wound and splashed to the floor, and the man arched his back and died.

"Not exactly," PJ said, and breathed.

Stench rolled off him and Rachel felt herself inhale through her nose, a deep breath, savoring the scent. She closed her eyes, trying to resist.

Then she inhaled again, and in her private darkness, she heard a voice. The doctor saying, "They’re here, sir, everything’s ready."

"Good," PJ said. "Bring the kid."