or Hack has some next level equipment,” I said, looking at the number and wincing. “Ramirez.”

“That one is all yours,” Monty said. “I’m going to go upstairs and sleep for a few days. Enjoy the conversation.”

Monty headed for the stairwell and went upstairs.

“Angel,” I said in my most cordial voice. “How are things?”

“How are things?” Angel said, then took a deep breath. “HOW ARE THINGS?”

I held the phone away from my head as Angel spent the next five minutes cursing me out. Most of the curses were in Spanish, and all of them were extra creative. I winced at some of the suggestions. A few of them were just anatomically impossible, though that didn’t stop him from repeating them several times. When I felt he had calmed down, I brought the phone to my head again.

“You might get a call from the government about an explosion above the city,” I said and held my breath waiting for another outburst. All I got was silence. “Angel?”

“Why would I be getting a call from the government about an explosion above my city, Simon?” Ramirez asked, his voice sounding tired. “Don’t you dare bullshit me about this. I need all the details. If not, I will be directing them to a certain explosive detective agency I know.”

“I’ll explain it all over dinner,” I said. “Masa, on me.”

“You better believe it’s on you,” Ramirez said, somewhat mollified. He loved Masa and leapt at any chance he got to eat there. “Bring your wallet, because I’m bringing my appetite.”

“Deal,” I said, suddenly weary. “It’s been a long night, Angel. I’ll call you in a few days.”

“You do that,” Ramirez said. “West Broadway is a mess, with some fatalities.”

“How bad?”

“One John Doe and plenty of property damage. The manager of the TINYs got caught in some kind of blast a few blocks away, but he’s going to pull through. His staff wasn’t so lucky, though. Three of them were incinerated on the spot; I don’t know how he survived.”

“It wasn’t his time, I guess.”

“Guess not.”

“Any information on what caused the blast?”

“My team is leaning toward to gas main Why? You have any information?’

“No,” I lied. “Just wondering. I’m going to call it a night. Be safe out there.”

“If you’re going to be indoors, it’s safer already.”

Ramirez hung up and I looked up into the night sky. Douglas’ blast cloud was still spreading out like a borealis. My curse had restored my body, healing me. It couldn’t do anything about my mental exhaustion; I would have to deal with that on my own. I shook myself alert and headed over to 2nd Avenue.

I just had one more stop to make.

THIRTY-FOUR

Douglas’ trailer sat alone near the pier on the East River.

I knew it was a trap. I was counting on it. It had taken me the better part of three hours to find it. I reached out to some old contacts and needed to call in several favors, but eventually, I managed to locate the double-wide trailer.

I knew it was too large to hide in a conventional parking garage. The damn thing was just too wide to fit down any of the ramps. No self-respecting garage in the city would let that beast in. The only alternative was to get it out of the city by boat.

My contacts had informed me of the ghost ferry: an illegal ferry service used to move contraband. Anything you wanted could be smuggled out of the city—for a price. Douglas’ trailer was on the schedule for tonight.

The ferry was scheduled to arrive in an hour. There was no way I was going to let that trailer leave the city. This was going to be a world of pain, and register high in the suckage factor, but it was the only way to make it look real.

It was still early. The East River esplanade was empty in the early hours of the morning, except for the Shadow Company trailer, which easily took up four spots. I walked down 34th Street to the parking lot, keeping an eye on Pier 11, which was where the ghost ferry would dock to pick up its cargo.

This was going to go one of two ways: Either I would reach the trailer and together, we would go up in a blaze of glory, or I would reach the trailer and get dropped the second I reached the door. Both options required pain, but I was tired of being flambéed tonight. I was really hoping for the second option.

I smiled and shook my head when I realized that out of the two options, getting gunned down was the one I preferred. My life had seriously become twisted.

I reached the trailer door and felt the first suppressed round hit me. Contrary to the illusion of film, suppressed rounds aren’t whisper quiet. That only happens in the imaginations of directors. A real suppressed round isn’t much quieter than a normal round fired from an unsuppressed weapon.

A rapid series of clack clack punched into my midsection, spinning me away from the door. I drew Grim Whisper, staggered for a few feet and collapsed, falling backward and remaining still—waiting. My body flushed hot as it dealt with the rounds and damage. They hurt like hell, and I wished I still had the runed jacket. I heard the footsteps a few minutes later.

“That’s what happens when you get old and slow,” Carlos said into the night. “You get dead.”

He raised his weapon for the killing blow. Shadow Company SOP was three body shots center mass and a double-tap to the head. I was counting on Carlos following protocol. I got lucky—if he had managed the double-tap, I’d still be recovering.

Or I’d be dead.

I raised Grim Whisper and fired twice, blowing out each of his knees. He screamed into the night. Combat armor is especially good at keeping major organs protected; the joints, less so. The material around the knees is thinner by design to allow for mobility and running. Great for evasion, horrible

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