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Synopsis
New York Times bestselling author Jeffery Deaver returns with this blockbuster thriller featuring forensic detective Lincoln Rhyme.
Amelia Sachs is hot on the trail of a killer. She’s chasing him through a department store in Brooklyn when an escalator malfunctions. The stairs give way, with one man horribly mangled by the gears. Sachs is forced to let her quarry escape as she jumps in to try to help save the victim.
She and famed forensic detective Lincoln Rhyme soon learn, however, that the incident may not have been an accident at all but the first in a series of intentional attacks. They find themselves up against one of their most formidable opponents ever: a brilliant killer who turns common products into murder weapons. As the body count threatens to grow, Sachs and Rhyme must race against the clock to unmask his identity—and discover his mission—before more people die.
Release date: March 8, 2016
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Print pages: 448
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The Steel Kiss
Jeffery Deaver
“Deaver is a genius when it comes to manipulation and deception. Stellar plot twists are in full abundance in The Steel Kiss, and the story line veers in several unpredictable directions.”
—Associated Press
“Deaver doesn’t disappoint. With an unmatched ability to create the perfect characters… Deaver takes fans to the edge in this one and dangles them over the cliff… One of the best books of 2016.”
—Suspense Magazine
“Darkly witty… unsettling.”
—New York Times Book Review
“Fiendishly inventive… all the usual thrills, which are worth every breathless minute.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“The plot twists are clever and unexpected, the dialogue is colloquial and natural, and the characters… are vividly realized. Highly recommendable.”
—Booklist
“Clever… entertaining… Convincing characters and an unexpected closing twist will remind readers why Deaver is one of today’s top thriller writers.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Deaver delivers another heart-stopping thriller in his Lincoln Rhyme series… The action, suspense and horrific crimes continue unabated.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Deaver at his best and when you are Jeffery Deaver this means the best of the best.”
—Huffington Post
“Fans will marvel at the creative manner in which Deaver incorporates current technological and societal trends into the plots of his thrillers.”
—Library Journal
“[The Steel Kiss is] like a master class in how to perfectly balance plot and character… A terrific novel.”
—Connecticut News
“A gripping thriller… As with any thriller by Jeffery Deaver, The Steel Kiss is full of plot twists, misdirections, characters whose discourse is less than truthful, and contradictions that seem beyond explanation… still the reader is shocked by the final explanation, the straightening of the twists and turns of the plot. One will wonder ‘How did I miss that?’”
—New York Journal of Books
“If you’re looking for a pedal-to-the-floor thriller with reversals and twists, this is the novel for you.”
—The Big Thrill
“Loaded from first page to (almost) last with suspense of one sort of another…The Steel Kiss is a terrific novel.”
—BookReporter.com
“What do we truly fear, and how would we react in a crisis? Would we fall apart and claw our way to safety? Or would we help someone else? Deaver forces the reader to tackle these questions, then adds his own brand of twists to play with expectations, delivering another outstanding and unpredictable thriller.”
—Associated Press
“Numerous surprises are in store for Kathryn Dance (and the reader) in bestseller Deaver’s stellar fourth novel featuring the California Bureau of Investigation kinesics expert… Deaver’s meaty thrillers are as good as they come.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“One of Deaver’s most diabolical villains.”
—New York Times Book Review
“Riveting… [Deaver] is definitely the Master of Suspense.”
—Crimespree Magazine
“Deaver once again meets and exceeds his own high water mark for surprises with Solitude Creek. Antioch March is a chilling and unforgettable antagonist… It’s a story you will not soon forget.”
—BookReporter.com
“Deaver is a genius… The cat-and-mouse elements of this story are Deaver at his best.”
—Huffington Post
“Outstanding… the endgame remains in doubt to the end. Deaver proves himself a grandmaster of the genre as each surprise leads to an even bigger surprise, like a series of reverse Russian nesting dolls.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Deaver’s ability to tell the reader everything and still manipulate the story with diabolical twists is the sign of a master at work. Readers unfamiliar with Lincoln Rhyme will find a detective that rivals Sherlock Holmes, and fans will enjoy the familial and reflective aspects of previous cases.”
—Associated Press
“Jeffery Deaver has brought a unique voice to the thriller genre, mixing high-energy action into novels about a brilliant criminalist… Lincoln Rhyme has become one of the genre’s most iconic characters.”
—South Florida Sun Sentinel
“Like all of his books, the storytelling is intricately plotted, with plenty of feints, misdirections and endgame twists to keep the reader guessing.”
—Raleigh News and Observer
“For those who have never read a Deaver book, this is definitely the time to start. Once you are hooked you will find yourself searching for everything he has written in the past, and that is plenty. He is one of the premiere writers of mysteries and each and every one of his books is a reading pleasure from beginning to end. So get a copy of The Skin Collector and settle yourself in for hours of reading satisfaction.”
—Huffington Post
“Another suspenseful and twist-filled entry in this always-exciting series.”
—Booklist
“[A] page-turner full of Deaver’s signature moves: frantic pacing, forensic minutiae, blindsides, gotchas and hairpin plot turns… a true return to classic form for Deaver.”
—Winnipeg Free Press
“‘Deavotees’ will expect and gratefully receive the many twists and sudden turns… No one is better at narrative misdirection. Just at the point you think ‘That’s impossible!’ Deaver demonstrates the exact opposite… Once again the depth of his research and characterisation has created a superb example of modern American Gothic.”
—The Evening Standard (UK)
“Don’t skip ahead to the beginning and spoil the fun that’s guaranteed for anyone interested in a thriller that forces readers to use their brains in a creative way… Deaver is a master of manipulation and The October List is [a] powerful book.”
—Associated Press
“Brilliant… might well be Deaver’s most fiendish thriller ever… as the pace quickens and the story continues to backtrack, solid evidence, established plot points, and sturdily built characters all begin to come undone, until what started out as an interactive game becomes a truly unnerving exercise in deception.”
—New York Times Book Review
“[Deaver] delivers a clever, demanding stand-alone… As the ingenious plot folds back on itself, the reader has to reevaluate and reinterpret the constantly shifting ‘facts’ in the case. The finished picture finally emerges with a shock of recognition. This is brilliant craftsmanship in a vastly entertaining package.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Elegantly clever… The novel takes a mischievous delight in misleading the reader, without ever outright cheating. It offers a delightful game of wits… Deaver wraps the novel up with breathtaking success.”
—Columbus Dispatch
“Perhaps the cleverest of all Deaver’s exceptionally clever thrillers. If you’ve ever wished you could take the film Memento to the beach, here’s your chance.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“[A] mind-bending novel with twists and turns… a masterful race-against-the-clock mystery.”
—BookPage
“Intriguing and enjoyable… If any author could pull this off, it is Deaver. This is because he has the intelligence and skills to do anything and everything… It is a book like no other you have read.”
—Huffington Post
“The premise is clever, but Deaver’s ability to execute it successfully makes this experimental novel even more impressive. Revealing the ending first, he still manages to surprise with a few twists, constantly challenging readers’ understanding of the story. Read it backward, forward, once or twice, to see how all the pieces fit together—just be sure to chase down this List yourself.”
—Shelf Awareness
“An absorbing read… Deaver skillfully patches together a compelling story that is filled with his trademark twists.”
—Oklahoman
“Fast and furious… an ace thriller [by] a master magician with words.”
—Associated Press
“This is Deaver at his very best and not to be missed by any thriller fan.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Chillingly effective… Equal parts Marathon Man and top-notch political thriller, this is Deaver at the top of his game. Rhyme remains the most original hero in thriller fiction today… Not to be missed.”
—Providence Sunday Journal
“Well-researched, expertly written, and nicely paced…Deaver makes it all work, with style.”
—Columbus Dispatch
“A thrill ride… will keep readers guessing… The endless twists and turns in The Kill Room come so fast that, by the novel’s end, the reader will be dizzy—and clamoring for more.”
—San Jose Mercury News
“Another well-crafted, unpredictable novel from a master of the genre.”
—Booklist
“The Kill Room will knock your socks off… If [it] doesn’t get your pulse racing, your head spinning, and your adrenaline pumping then nothing will… If you are a person who enjoys a tight, twisted, terrific crime thriller which also has a personal story woven into it then you have to read Jeffery Deaver. He is one of the best writers on the scene today.”
—Huffington Post
“Deaver, who can’t resist any opportunity for ingenuity… keeps mixing fastballs, curveballs, and change-ups.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“The Kill Room is full of his trademark twists, breathless suspense, and ironic humor. It is a thriller [that] never cheats the reader, so that the only response can be sighs of satisfaction and admiration.”
—Evening Standard (London)
“Deaver delivers a dark tale of espionage, patriotism, and egos as his clever detective puts the pieces of an intricately drawn jigsaw together while a killer targets his investigation.”
—RT Book Reviews
“The Kill Room is very powerful in its exploration of current issues… This book is a page-turner with nothing as it seems to be, culminating in many surprise endings.”
—Military Press
“Entertaining and suspenseful… Deaver’s best book to date.”
—BookReporter.com
“Fans will appreciate Deaver’s customary detailing of each plot sequence, thereby heightening their anticipation of the upcoming clincher. Thriller aficionados will be lining up for this one.”
—Library Journal
Sometimes you catch a break.
Amelia Sachs had been driving her arterial-blood-red Ford Torino along a commercial stretch of Brooklyn’s Henry Street, more or less minding pedestrians and traffic, when she spotted the suspect.
What’re the odds?
She was helped by the fact that Unsub 40 was unusual in appearance. Tall and quite thin, he’d stood out in the crowd. Still, that alone would hardly get you noticed in the throng here. But on the night he’d beaten his victim to death, two weeks before, a witness reported that he’d been wearing a pale-green checked sport coat and Braves baseball cap. Sachs had done the requisite—if hopeless—posting of this info on the wire and moved on to other aspects of the investigation… and on to other investigations; Major Cases detectives have plenty to look after.
But an hour ago a patrolman from the 84th Precinct, walking a beat near the Brooklyn Heights Promenade, had spotted a possible and called Sachs—the lead gold shield on the case. The murder had been late at night, in a deserted construction site, and the perp apparently hadn’t known he’d been witnessed in the outfit, so he must’ve felt safe donning the garb again. The patrol officer had lost him in the crowds but she’d sped in the direction anyway, calling in backup, even if this part of the city was an urban sprawl populated by ten thousand camouflaging souls. The odds that she’d find Mr. Forty were, she told herself wryly, nonexistent at best.
But, damn, there he was, walking in a long lope. Tall, skinny, green jacket, cap and all, though from behind she couldn’t tell what team was being championed on the headgear.
She skidded the ’60s muscle car to a stop in a bus zone, tossed the NYPD official-business placard onto the dash and eased out of the car, minding the suicidal bicyclist who came within inches of collision. He glanced back, not in recrimination, but, she supposed, to get a better look at the tall, redheaded former fashion model, focus in her eyes and a weapon on her black-jeaned hip.
Onto the sidewalk, following a killer.
This was her first look at the prey. The gangly man moved in lengthy strides, feet long but narrow (in running shoes, she noted: good for sprinting over the damp April concrete—much better than her leather-soled boots). Part of her wished he was more wary—so he would look around and she could get a glimpse of his face. That was still an unknown. But, no, he just plodded along in that weird gait, his long arms at his sides, backpack slung via one strap over his sloping shoulder.
She wondered if the murder weapon was inside: the ball-peen hammer, with its rounded end, meant for smoothing edges of metal and tapping rivets flat. That was the side he’d used for the murder, not the claw on the opposite end. The conclusion as to what had caved in Todd Williams’s skull had come from a database that Lincoln Rhyme had created for the NYPD and the Medical Examiner’s Office, the folder title: Weapon Impact on Human Bodies. Section Three: Blunt Force Trauma.
It was Rhyme’s database but Sachs had been forced to do the analysis herself. Without Rhyme.
A thud in her gut at this thought. Forced herself to move past it.
Picturing the wounds again. Horrific, what the twenty-nine-year-old Manhattanite had suffered, beaten to death and robbed as he approached an after-hours club named, so very meta, 40 Degrees North, a reference, Sachs had learned, to the latitude of the East Village, where it was located.
Now Unsub 40—the club was the source of the nic—was crossing the street, with the light. What an odd build. Well over six feet yet he couldn’t’ve weighed more than 140 or 150.
Sachs saw his destination and alerted Dispatch to tell her backup that the suspect now was entering a five-story shopping center on Henry. She plunged in after him.
With his shadow behind at a discreet distance Mr. Forty moved through the crowds of shoppers. People were always in a state of motion, like humming atoms, in this city, droves of people, all ages, sexes, colors, sizes. New York kept its own clock and, though it was after lunch hour, businesspeople who should have been in the office and students, in school, were here, spending money, eating, milling, browsing, texting and talking.
And complicating Amelia Sachs’s take-down plans considerably.
Forty headed up to the second floor. He continued walking purposefully through the brightly lit mall, which could have been in Paramus, Austin or Portland, it was that generic. The smells were of cooking oil and onions from the food court and perfume from the counters near the open entranceways of the anchor stores. She wondered for a moment what 40 was doing here, what did he want to buy?
Maybe shopping wasn’t his plan at the moment, just sustenance; he walked into a Starbucks.
Sachs eased behind a pillar near the escalator, about twenty feet from the open entryway to the coffee franchise. Careful to remain out of sight. She needed to make sure he didn’t suspect there were eyes on him. He wasn’t presenting as if carrying—there’s a way people tend to walk when they have a gun in their waistband or pocket, as any street cop knows, a wariness, a stiffer gait—but that hardly meant he was pistol free. And if he tipped to her and started shooting? Carnage.
Glancing inside the shop quickly, she saw him reach down to the food section and pick up two sandwiches, then apparently order a drink. Or, possibly, two. He paid and stepped out of sight, waiting for his cappuccino or mocha. Something fancy. A filtered coffee would have been handed over right away.
Would he eat in or leave? Two sandwiches. Waiting for someone? Or one for now and one for later?
Sachs debated. Where was the best place to take him? Would it be better outside on the street, in the shop or in the mall itself? Yes, the center and the Starbucks were crowded. But the street more so. No arrest solution was great.
A few minutes later he was still inside. His drink must have been ready by now and he’d made no effort to leave. He was having a late lunch, she supposed. But was he meeting someone?
Making a complicated take-down even more so.
She got a call.
“Amelia, Buddy Everett.”
“Hey,” she said softly to the patrolman out of the 84. They knew each other well.
“We’re outside. Me and Dodd. Another car with three.”
“He’s in Starbucks, second floor.”
It was then that she saw a deliveryman wheel by with some cartons emblazoned with the Starbucks logo, the mermaid. Which meant there was no back entrance to the shop. Forty was trapped in a cul-de-sac. Yes, there were people inside, potential bystanders, but fewer than in the mall or on the street.
She said to Everett, “I want to take him here.”
“Inside, Amelia? Sure.” A pause. “That’s best?”
He’s not getting away, Sachs thought. “Yes. Get up here stat.”
“We’re moving.”
A fast glance inside then back to cover. She still couldn’t see him. He must be sitting in the rear of the place. She eased to the right and then moved closer to the open archway of the coffee shop. If she couldn’t see him, he couldn’t see her.
She and the team would flank—
Just then Sachs gasped at the abrupt, piercing scream close behind her. A horrid wail of a person in pain. So raw, so high, she couldn’t tell male or female.
The sound came from the top of the up escalator, connecting the floor below with this one.
Oh, Jesus…
The top panel of the device, which riders stepped onto from the moving stairs, had popped open and a passenger had fallen into the moving works.
“Help me! No! Please please please!” A man’s voice. Then the words coalesced into a scream once more.
Customers and employees gasped and cried out. Those on the steps of the malfunctioning unit, which were still moving up, leapt off or charged backward. The riders on the adjoining escalator, going down, jumped too, maybe thinking it was about to engulf them as well. Several landed in a heap on the floor.
Sachs glanced toward the coffee shop.
No sign of 40. Had he seen her badge, on her belt, or weapon when he, like everyone else, turned to stare?
She called Everett and told him about the accident and to call it in to Dispatch. Then to cover the exits; Unsub 40 might’ve seen her and now be escaping. She sprinted to the escalator, noting somebody had pressed the emergency button. The stairs slowed and then halted.
“Make it stop, make it stop!” More screams from the person trapped inside.
Sachs stepped into the upper part of the platform and looked into the gaping hole. A middle-aged man—around forty-five or fifty—was trapped in the gears of the motor, which was mounted to the floor about eight feet below the aluminum panel that had popped open. The motor continued to turn, despite someone’s hitting the emergency switch; she supposed that doing so merely disengaged a clutch to the moving stairs. The poor man was caught at the waist. He was on his side, flailing at the mechanism. The gears had dug deep into his body; blood had soaked his clothing and was flowing onto the floor of the escalator pit. He wore a white shirt with a name badge on it, an employee of one of the stores probably.
Sachs looked at the crowd. There were employees here, a few security people, but no one was doing anything to help. Stricken faces. Some were calling 911, it seemed, but most were taking cell phone pics and video.
She called down to him, “We’ve got rescue on the way. I’m NYPD. I’m coming down there.”
“God, it hurts!” More screaming. She felt the vibration in her chest.
That bleeding had to stop, she assessed. And you’re the only one who’s going to do it. So move!
She muscled the hinged panel farther open. Amelia Sachs wore little jewelry. But she slipped her one accessory—a ring with a blue stone—from her finger, afraid it would catch her hand in the gears. Though his body was jamming one set of them, a second—operating the down escalator—churned away. Ignoring her claustrophobia, but barely, Sachs started into the narrow pit. There was a ladder for workers to use—but it consisted of narrow metal bars, which were slick with the man’s blood; apparently he’d been slashed when he first tumbled inside by the sharp edge of the access panel. She gripped the hand- and footholds of the ladder hard; if she’d fallen she’d land on top of the man and, directly beside him, the second set of grinding gears. Once, her feet went out from under her and her arm muscles cramped to keep her from falling. A booted foot brushed the working gears, which dug a trough in the heel and tugged at her jean cuff. She yanked her leg away.
Then down to the floor… Hold on, hold on. Saying, or thinking, this to both him and herself.
The poor man’s screams weren’t diminishing. His ashen face was a knot, skin shiny with sweat.
“Please, oh God, oh God… ”
She jockeyed carefully around the second set of gears, slipping twice on the blood. Once, his leg lashed out involuntarily, caught her solidly on the hip, and she fell forward toward the revolving teeth.
She managed to stop herself just before her face brushed the metal. Slipped again. Caught herself. “I’m a police officer,” she repeated. “Medics’ll be here any minute.”
“It’s bad, it’s bad. It hurts so much. Oh, so much.”
Lifting her head, she shouted, “Somebody from maintenance, somebody from management! Shut this damn thing off! Not the stairs, the motor! Cut the power!”
Where the hell’s the fire department? Sachs surveyed the injury. She had no idea what to do. She pulled her jacket off and pressed it against the shredded flesh of his belly and groin. It did little to stanch the blood.
“Ah, ah, ah,” he whimpered.
Looking for wires to cut—she carried her very illegal but very sharp switchblade knife in her back pocket—but there were no visible cables. How can you make a machine like this and not have an off switch? Jesus. Furious at the incompetence.
“My wife,” the man whispered.
“Shhh,” Sachs soothed. “It’ll be all right.” Though she knew it wouldn’t be all right. His body was a bloody mess. Even if he survived, he’d never be the same.
“My wife. She’s… Will you go see her? My son. Tell them I love them.”
“You’re going to tell ’em that yourself, Greg.” Reading the name badge.
“You’re a cop.” Gasping.
“That’s right. And there’ll be medics here—”
“Give me your gun.”
“Give you—”
More screaming. Tears down his face.
“Please, give me your gun! How do I shoot it? Tell me!”
“I can’t do that, Greg,” she whispered. She put her hand on his arm. With her other palm she wiped the pouring sweat from his face.
“It hurts so much… I can’t take it.” A scream louder than the others. “I want it to be over with!”
She had never seen such a hopeless look in anyone’s eyes.
“Please, for Chrissake, your gun!”
Amelia Sachs hesitated, then reached down and drew her Glock from her belt.
A cop.
Not good. Not good.
That tall woman. Black jeans. Pretty face. And, oh, the red hair…
A cop.
I’ve left her behind at the escalator and am moving through the crowds at the mall.
She didn’t know I’d seen her, I think, but I had. Oh, yeah. Seen her nice and clear. The scream of the man disappearing into the jaws of that machine had prodded everybody to look toward the sound. Not her, though. She was turning to look for me in the friendly Starbucks.
I saw the gun on her hip, the badge on her hip. Not private, not rental. A real cop. A Blue Bloods cop. She—
Well. What was that?
A gunshot. I’m not much on firearms but I’ve shot a pistol some. No doubt that was a handgun.
Puzzling. Yeah, yeah, something’s weird. Was the police girl—Red I’m calling her, after the hair—planning to arrest somebody else? Hard to say. She could be after me for lots of the mischief I’ve been up to. Possibly the bodies I left in that sludgy pond near Newark some time ago, weighted down with barbells like the sort pudgy people buy, use six and a half times and never again. No word in the press about that incident but, well, it was New Jersey. Body-land, that place is. Another corpse? Not worth reporting; the Mets won by seven! So. Or she might be hunting for me for the run-in not long after that on a dim street in Manhattan, swish goes the throat. Or maybe that construction site behind club 40°, where I left such a pretty package of, once again, snapped head bone.
Did somebody recognize me at one of those places, cutting or cracking?
Could be. I’m, well, distinctive looking, height and weight.
I just assume it’s me she wants. Better safe… I need to get away and that means keeping my head down, that means slouching. It’s easier to shrink three inches than grow.
But the shot? What was that about? Was she after someone even more dangerous than me? I’ll check the news later.
People are everywhere now, moving fast. Most are not looking at tall me, skinny me, me of the long feet and fingers. They just want out, fleeing the screams and gunshot. Stores are emptying, food court emptying. Afraid of terrorists, afraid of crazy men dressed in camo, stabbing, slashing, shooting up the world in anger or thanks to loose-wired brains. ISIS. Al-Qaeda. Militias. Everyone’s on edge.
I’m turning here, slipping through socks and underwear, men’s.
Henry Street, Exit Four, is right ahead of me. Should I get out that way?
Better pause. I take in a deep breath. Let’s not go too fast here. First, I should lose the green jacket and cap. Buy something new. I duck into a cheap store to pay cash for some China-made Italian blue blazer. Thirty-five long, which is lucky. That size is hard to find. Hipster fedora hat. A Middle Eastern kid rings the sale up while texting. Rude. My desire is to crack a bone in his head. At least he’s not looking at me. That’s good. Put the old jacket in my backpack. The green plaid one. The jacket is from my brother, so I’m not throwing it out. The sports cap goes inside too.
The Chinese Italian hipster leaves the store and goes back into the mall. So, which way to escape? Henry Street?
No. Not smart. There’ll be plenty of cops outside.
I’m looking around. Everywhere, everywhere. Ah, a service door. There’ll be a loading dock, I’m sure.
I push through the doorway like I belong here, knuckles not palm (prints, of course), past a sign saying Employees Only. Except not now.
Thinking: What lucky timing, the escalator, Red next to it when the screams began. Lucky me.
Head down, I keep walking steadily. Nobody stops me in the corridor.
Ah, here’s a cotton jacket on a peg. I unpin the employee name badge and repin the shiny rectangle on my chest. I’m now Courteous Team Member Mario. I don’t look much like a Mario but it’ll have to do.
Just now two workers, young men, one brown, one white, come through a door ahead of me. I nod at them. They nod back.
Hope one isn’t Mario. Or his best friend. If so, I’ll have to reach into my backpack and we know what that means: cracking bones from on high. I pass them.
Good.
Or not good: A voice shoots my way: “Yo?”
“Yeah?” I ask, hand near the hammer.
“What’s going on out there?”
“Robbery, I think. That jewelry store. Maybe.”
“Fuckers never had security there. I coulda told ’em.”
His co-worker: “Only had cheap crap. Zircons, shit like that. Who’d get his ass shot for a zircon?”
I see a sign for Deliveries and dutifully follow the arrow.
I hear voices ahead, stop and look around the corner. One little black guard, skinny as me, a twig, is all. On his radio. I could break him easily with the hammer. Make his face crack into ten pieces. And then—
Oh, no. Why is life such a chore?
Two others show up. One white, one black. Both twice my weight.
I duck back. And then things get worse yet. Behind me, other end of the corridor I’ve just come down. I hear more voices. Maybe it’s Red and some others, making a sweep this way.
And the only exit, ahead of me, has three rental cops, who live for the day they too have a chance to break bones… or Tase or spray.
Me, in the middle and nowhere to go.
Where?”
“Still searching, Amelia,” Buddy Everett, the patrolman from the 84, told her. “Six teams. Exits’re all covered, us or private security. He’s got to be here somewhere.”
Wiping away the blood on her boot with a Starbucks napkin. Or trying to, futilely. Her jacket, in a trash bag she’d gotten from the coffee shop too, might not be irreparably ruined but she wasn’t inclined to wear a garment that had been saturated with blood. The young patrolman noted the stains on her hands, his eyes troubled. Cops are, of course, human too. Immunity comes eventually but later to some than others, and Buddy Everett was young still.
Through red-framed glasses, he looked at the open access panel. “And he… ?”
“He didn’t make it.”
A nod. Eyes now on the floor, Sachs’s bloody boot prints leading away from the escalator.
“No idea which direction he went?” he asked.
“None.” She sighed. Only a few minutes had elapsed between the time that Unsub 40 might have seen her and fled, and the deployment of the backup officers. But that seemed to be enough to turn him invisible. “All right. I’ll be searching with you.”
“They’ll nee
—Associated Press
“Deaver doesn’t disappoint. With an unmatched ability to create the perfect characters… Deaver takes fans to the edge in this one and dangles them over the cliff… One of the best books of 2016.”
—Suspense Magazine
“Darkly witty… unsettling.”
—New York Times Book Review
“Fiendishly inventive… all the usual thrills, which are worth every breathless minute.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“The plot twists are clever and unexpected, the dialogue is colloquial and natural, and the characters… are vividly realized. Highly recommendable.”
—Booklist
“Clever… entertaining… Convincing characters and an unexpected closing twist will remind readers why Deaver is one of today’s top thriller writers.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Deaver delivers another heart-stopping thriller in his Lincoln Rhyme series… The action, suspense and horrific crimes continue unabated.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Deaver at his best and when you are Jeffery Deaver this means the best of the best.”
—Huffington Post
“Fans will marvel at the creative manner in which Deaver incorporates current technological and societal trends into the plots of his thrillers.”
—Library Journal
“[The Steel Kiss is] like a master class in how to perfectly balance plot and character… A terrific novel.”
—Connecticut News
“A gripping thriller… As with any thriller by Jeffery Deaver, The Steel Kiss is full of plot twists, misdirections, characters whose discourse is less than truthful, and contradictions that seem beyond explanation… still the reader is shocked by the final explanation, the straightening of the twists and turns of the plot. One will wonder ‘How did I miss that?’”
—New York Journal of Books
“If you’re looking for a pedal-to-the-floor thriller with reversals and twists, this is the novel for you.”
—The Big Thrill
“Loaded from first page to (almost) last with suspense of one sort of another…The Steel Kiss is a terrific novel.”
—BookReporter.com
“What do we truly fear, and how would we react in a crisis? Would we fall apart and claw our way to safety? Or would we help someone else? Deaver forces the reader to tackle these questions, then adds his own brand of twists to play with expectations, delivering another outstanding and unpredictable thriller.”
—Associated Press
“Numerous surprises are in store for Kathryn Dance (and the reader) in bestseller Deaver’s stellar fourth novel featuring the California Bureau of Investigation kinesics expert… Deaver’s meaty thrillers are as good as they come.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“One of Deaver’s most diabolical villains.”
—New York Times Book Review
“Riveting… [Deaver] is definitely the Master of Suspense.”
—Crimespree Magazine
“Deaver once again meets and exceeds his own high water mark for surprises with Solitude Creek. Antioch March is a chilling and unforgettable antagonist… It’s a story you will not soon forget.”
—BookReporter.com
“Deaver is a genius… The cat-and-mouse elements of this story are Deaver at his best.”
—Huffington Post
“Outstanding… the endgame remains in doubt to the end. Deaver proves himself a grandmaster of the genre as each surprise leads to an even bigger surprise, like a series of reverse Russian nesting dolls.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Deaver’s ability to tell the reader everything and still manipulate the story with diabolical twists is the sign of a master at work. Readers unfamiliar with Lincoln Rhyme will find a detective that rivals Sherlock Holmes, and fans will enjoy the familial and reflective aspects of previous cases.”
—Associated Press
“Jeffery Deaver has brought a unique voice to the thriller genre, mixing high-energy action into novels about a brilliant criminalist… Lincoln Rhyme has become one of the genre’s most iconic characters.”
—South Florida Sun Sentinel
“Like all of his books, the storytelling is intricately plotted, with plenty of feints, misdirections and endgame twists to keep the reader guessing.”
—Raleigh News and Observer
“For those who have never read a Deaver book, this is definitely the time to start. Once you are hooked you will find yourself searching for everything he has written in the past, and that is plenty. He is one of the premiere writers of mysteries and each and every one of his books is a reading pleasure from beginning to end. So get a copy of The Skin Collector and settle yourself in for hours of reading satisfaction.”
—Huffington Post
“Another suspenseful and twist-filled entry in this always-exciting series.”
—Booklist
“[A] page-turner full of Deaver’s signature moves: frantic pacing, forensic minutiae, blindsides, gotchas and hairpin plot turns… a true return to classic form for Deaver.”
—Winnipeg Free Press
“‘Deavotees’ will expect and gratefully receive the many twists and sudden turns… No one is better at narrative misdirection. Just at the point you think ‘That’s impossible!’ Deaver demonstrates the exact opposite… Once again the depth of his research and characterisation has created a superb example of modern American Gothic.”
—The Evening Standard (UK)
“Don’t skip ahead to the beginning and spoil the fun that’s guaranteed for anyone interested in a thriller that forces readers to use their brains in a creative way… Deaver is a master of manipulation and The October List is [a] powerful book.”
—Associated Press
“Brilliant… might well be Deaver’s most fiendish thriller ever… as the pace quickens and the story continues to backtrack, solid evidence, established plot points, and sturdily built characters all begin to come undone, until what started out as an interactive game becomes a truly unnerving exercise in deception.”
—New York Times Book Review
“[Deaver] delivers a clever, demanding stand-alone… As the ingenious plot folds back on itself, the reader has to reevaluate and reinterpret the constantly shifting ‘facts’ in the case. The finished picture finally emerges with a shock of recognition. This is brilliant craftsmanship in a vastly entertaining package.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Elegantly clever… The novel takes a mischievous delight in misleading the reader, without ever outright cheating. It offers a delightful game of wits… Deaver wraps the novel up with breathtaking success.”
—Columbus Dispatch
“Perhaps the cleverest of all Deaver’s exceptionally clever thrillers. If you’ve ever wished you could take the film Memento to the beach, here’s your chance.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“[A] mind-bending novel with twists and turns… a masterful race-against-the-clock mystery.”
—BookPage
“Intriguing and enjoyable… If any author could pull this off, it is Deaver. This is because he has the intelligence and skills to do anything and everything… It is a book like no other you have read.”
—Huffington Post
“The premise is clever, but Deaver’s ability to execute it successfully makes this experimental novel even more impressive. Revealing the ending first, he still manages to surprise with a few twists, constantly challenging readers’ understanding of the story. Read it backward, forward, once or twice, to see how all the pieces fit together—just be sure to chase down this List yourself.”
—Shelf Awareness
“An absorbing read… Deaver skillfully patches together a compelling story that is filled with his trademark twists.”
—Oklahoman
“Fast and furious… an ace thriller [by] a master magician with words.”
—Associated Press
“This is Deaver at his very best and not to be missed by any thriller fan.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Chillingly effective… Equal parts Marathon Man and top-notch political thriller, this is Deaver at the top of his game. Rhyme remains the most original hero in thriller fiction today… Not to be missed.”
—Providence Sunday Journal
“Well-researched, expertly written, and nicely paced…Deaver makes it all work, with style.”
—Columbus Dispatch
“A thrill ride… will keep readers guessing… The endless twists and turns in The Kill Room come so fast that, by the novel’s end, the reader will be dizzy—and clamoring for more.”
—San Jose Mercury News
“Another well-crafted, unpredictable novel from a master of the genre.”
—Booklist
“The Kill Room will knock your socks off… If [it] doesn’t get your pulse racing, your head spinning, and your adrenaline pumping then nothing will… If you are a person who enjoys a tight, twisted, terrific crime thriller which also has a personal story woven into it then you have to read Jeffery Deaver. He is one of the best writers on the scene today.”
—Huffington Post
“Deaver, who can’t resist any opportunity for ingenuity… keeps mixing fastballs, curveballs, and change-ups.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“The Kill Room is full of his trademark twists, breathless suspense, and ironic humor. It is a thriller [that] never cheats the reader, so that the only response can be sighs of satisfaction and admiration.”
—Evening Standard (London)
“Deaver delivers a dark tale of espionage, patriotism, and egos as his clever detective puts the pieces of an intricately drawn jigsaw together while a killer targets his investigation.”
—RT Book Reviews
“The Kill Room is very powerful in its exploration of current issues… This book is a page-turner with nothing as it seems to be, culminating in many surprise endings.”
—Military Press
“Entertaining and suspenseful… Deaver’s best book to date.”
—BookReporter.com
“Fans will appreciate Deaver’s customary detailing of each plot sequence, thereby heightening their anticipation of the upcoming clincher. Thriller aficionados will be lining up for this one.”
—Library Journal
Sometimes you catch a break.
Amelia Sachs had been driving her arterial-blood-red Ford Torino along a commercial stretch of Brooklyn’s Henry Street, more or less minding pedestrians and traffic, when she spotted the suspect.
What’re the odds?
She was helped by the fact that Unsub 40 was unusual in appearance. Tall and quite thin, he’d stood out in the crowd. Still, that alone would hardly get you noticed in the throng here. But on the night he’d beaten his victim to death, two weeks before, a witness reported that he’d been wearing a pale-green checked sport coat and Braves baseball cap. Sachs had done the requisite—if hopeless—posting of this info on the wire and moved on to other aspects of the investigation… and on to other investigations; Major Cases detectives have plenty to look after.
But an hour ago a patrolman from the 84th Precinct, walking a beat near the Brooklyn Heights Promenade, had spotted a possible and called Sachs—the lead gold shield on the case. The murder had been late at night, in a deserted construction site, and the perp apparently hadn’t known he’d been witnessed in the outfit, so he must’ve felt safe donning the garb again. The patrol officer had lost him in the crowds but she’d sped in the direction anyway, calling in backup, even if this part of the city was an urban sprawl populated by ten thousand camouflaging souls. The odds that she’d find Mr. Forty were, she told herself wryly, nonexistent at best.
But, damn, there he was, walking in a long lope. Tall, skinny, green jacket, cap and all, though from behind she couldn’t tell what team was being championed on the headgear.
She skidded the ’60s muscle car to a stop in a bus zone, tossed the NYPD official-business placard onto the dash and eased out of the car, minding the suicidal bicyclist who came within inches of collision. He glanced back, not in recrimination, but, she supposed, to get a better look at the tall, redheaded former fashion model, focus in her eyes and a weapon on her black-jeaned hip.
Onto the sidewalk, following a killer.
This was her first look at the prey. The gangly man moved in lengthy strides, feet long but narrow (in running shoes, she noted: good for sprinting over the damp April concrete—much better than her leather-soled boots). Part of her wished he was more wary—so he would look around and she could get a glimpse of his face. That was still an unknown. But, no, he just plodded along in that weird gait, his long arms at his sides, backpack slung via one strap over his sloping shoulder.
She wondered if the murder weapon was inside: the ball-peen hammer, with its rounded end, meant for smoothing edges of metal and tapping rivets flat. That was the side he’d used for the murder, not the claw on the opposite end. The conclusion as to what had caved in Todd Williams’s skull had come from a database that Lincoln Rhyme had created for the NYPD and the Medical Examiner’s Office, the folder title: Weapon Impact on Human Bodies. Section Three: Blunt Force Trauma.
It was Rhyme’s database but Sachs had been forced to do the analysis herself. Without Rhyme.
A thud in her gut at this thought. Forced herself to move past it.
Picturing the wounds again. Horrific, what the twenty-nine-year-old Manhattanite had suffered, beaten to death and robbed as he approached an after-hours club named, so very meta, 40 Degrees North, a reference, Sachs had learned, to the latitude of the East Village, where it was located.
Now Unsub 40—the club was the source of the nic—was crossing the street, with the light. What an odd build. Well over six feet yet he couldn’t’ve weighed more than 140 or 150.
Sachs saw his destination and alerted Dispatch to tell her backup that the suspect now was entering a five-story shopping center on Henry. She plunged in after him.
With his shadow behind at a discreet distance Mr. Forty moved through the crowds of shoppers. People were always in a state of motion, like humming atoms, in this city, droves of people, all ages, sexes, colors, sizes. New York kept its own clock and, though it was after lunch hour, businesspeople who should have been in the office and students, in school, were here, spending money, eating, milling, browsing, texting and talking.
And complicating Amelia Sachs’s take-down plans considerably.
Forty headed up to the second floor. He continued walking purposefully through the brightly lit mall, which could have been in Paramus, Austin or Portland, it was that generic. The smells were of cooking oil and onions from the food court and perfume from the counters near the open entranceways of the anchor stores. She wondered for a moment what 40 was doing here, what did he want to buy?
Maybe shopping wasn’t his plan at the moment, just sustenance; he walked into a Starbucks.
Sachs eased behind a pillar near the escalator, about twenty feet from the open entryway to the coffee franchise. Careful to remain out of sight. She needed to make sure he didn’t suspect there were eyes on him. He wasn’t presenting as if carrying—there’s a way people tend to walk when they have a gun in their waistband or pocket, as any street cop knows, a wariness, a stiffer gait—but that hardly meant he was pistol free. And if he tipped to her and started shooting? Carnage.
Glancing inside the shop quickly, she saw him reach down to the food section and pick up two sandwiches, then apparently order a drink. Or, possibly, two. He paid and stepped out of sight, waiting for his cappuccino or mocha. Something fancy. A filtered coffee would have been handed over right away.
Would he eat in or leave? Two sandwiches. Waiting for someone? Or one for now and one for later?
Sachs debated. Where was the best place to take him? Would it be better outside on the street, in the shop or in the mall itself? Yes, the center and the Starbucks were crowded. But the street more so. No arrest solution was great.
A few minutes later he was still inside. His drink must have been ready by now and he’d made no effort to leave. He was having a late lunch, she supposed. But was he meeting someone?
Making a complicated take-down even more so.
She got a call.
“Amelia, Buddy Everett.”
“Hey,” she said softly to the patrolman out of the 84. They knew each other well.
“We’re outside. Me and Dodd. Another car with three.”
“He’s in Starbucks, second floor.”
It was then that she saw a deliveryman wheel by with some cartons emblazoned with the Starbucks logo, the mermaid. Which meant there was no back entrance to the shop. Forty was trapped in a cul-de-sac. Yes, there were people inside, potential bystanders, but fewer than in the mall or on the street.
She said to Everett, “I want to take him here.”
“Inside, Amelia? Sure.” A pause. “That’s best?”
He’s not getting away, Sachs thought. “Yes. Get up here stat.”
“We’re moving.”
A fast glance inside then back to cover. She still couldn’t see him. He must be sitting in the rear of the place. She eased to the right and then moved closer to the open archway of the coffee shop. If she couldn’t see him, he couldn’t see her.
She and the team would flank—
Just then Sachs gasped at the abrupt, piercing scream close behind her. A horrid wail of a person in pain. So raw, so high, she couldn’t tell male or female.
The sound came from the top of the up escalator, connecting the floor below with this one.
Oh, Jesus…
The top panel of the device, which riders stepped onto from the moving stairs, had popped open and a passenger had fallen into the moving works.
“Help me! No! Please please please!” A man’s voice. Then the words coalesced into a scream once more.
Customers and employees gasped and cried out. Those on the steps of the malfunctioning unit, which were still moving up, leapt off or charged backward. The riders on the adjoining escalator, going down, jumped too, maybe thinking it was about to engulf them as well. Several landed in a heap on the floor.
Sachs glanced toward the coffee shop.
No sign of 40. Had he seen her badge, on her belt, or weapon when he, like everyone else, turned to stare?
She called Everett and told him about the accident and to call it in to Dispatch. Then to cover the exits; Unsub 40 might’ve seen her and now be escaping. She sprinted to the escalator, noting somebody had pressed the emergency button. The stairs slowed and then halted.
“Make it stop, make it stop!” More screams from the person trapped inside.
Sachs stepped into the upper part of the platform and looked into the gaping hole. A middle-aged man—around forty-five or fifty—was trapped in the gears of the motor, which was mounted to the floor about eight feet below the aluminum panel that had popped open. The motor continued to turn, despite someone’s hitting the emergency switch; she supposed that doing so merely disengaged a clutch to the moving stairs. The poor man was caught at the waist. He was on his side, flailing at the mechanism. The gears had dug deep into his body; blood had soaked his clothing and was flowing onto the floor of the escalator pit. He wore a white shirt with a name badge on it, an employee of one of the stores probably.
Sachs looked at the crowd. There were employees here, a few security people, but no one was doing anything to help. Stricken faces. Some were calling 911, it seemed, but most were taking cell phone pics and video.
She called down to him, “We’ve got rescue on the way. I’m NYPD. I’m coming down there.”
“God, it hurts!” More screaming. She felt the vibration in her chest.
That bleeding had to stop, she assessed. And you’re the only one who’s going to do it. So move!
She muscled the hinged panel farther open. Amelia Sachs wore little jewelry. But she slipped her one accessory—a ring with a blue stone—from her finger, afraid it would catch her hand in the gears. Though his body was jamming one set of them, a second—operating the down escalator—churned away. Ignoring her claustrophobia, but barely, Sachs started into the narrow pit. There was a ladder for workers to use—but it consisted of narrow metal bars, which were slick with the man’s blood; apparently he’d been slashed when he first tumbled inside by the sharp edge of the access panel. She gripped the hand- and footholds of the ladder hard; if she’d fallen she’d land on top of the man and, directly beside him, the second set of grinding gears. Once, her feet went out from under her and her arm muscles cramped to keep her from falling. A booted foot brushed the working gears, which dug a trough in the heel and tugged at her jean cuff. She yanked her leg away.
Then down to the floor… Hold on, hold on. Saying, or thinking, this to both him and herself.
The poor man’s screams weren’t diminishing. His ashen face was a knot, skin shiny with sweat.
“Please, oh God, oh God… ”
She jockeyed carefully around the second set of gears, slipping twice on the blood. Once, his leg lashed out involuntarily, caught her solidly on the hip, and she fell forward toward the revolving teeth.
She managed to stop herself just before her face brushed the metal. Slipped again. Caught herself. “I’m a police officer,” she repeated. “Medics’ll be here any minute.”
“It’s bad, it’s bad. It hurts so much. Oh, so much.”
Lifting her head, she shouted, “Somebody from maintenance, somebody from management! Shut this damn thing off! Not the stairs, the motor! Cut the power!”
Where the hell’s the fire department? Sachs surveyed the injury. She had no idea what to do. She pulled her jacket off and pressed it against the shredded flesh of his belly and groin. It did little to stanch the blood.
“Ah, ah, ah,” he whimpered.
Looking for wires to cut—she carried her very illegal but very sharp switchblade knife in her back pocket—but there were no visible cables. How can you make a machine like this and not have an off switch? Jesus. Furious at the incompetence.
“My wife,” the man whispered.
“Shhh,” Sachs soothed. “It’ll be all right.” Though she knew it wouldn’t be all right. His body was a bloody mess. Even if he survived, he’d never be the same.
“My wife. She’s… Will you go see her? My son. Tell them I love them.”
“You’re going to tell ’em that yourself, Greg.” Reading the name badge.
“You’re a cop.” Gasping.
“That’s right. And there’ll be medics here—”
“Give me your gun.”
“Give you—”
More screaming. Tears down his face.
“Please, give me your gun! How do I shoot it? Tell me!”
“I can’t do that, Greg,” she whispered. She put her hand on his arm. With her other palm she wiped the pouring sweat from his face.
“It hurts so much… I can’t take it.” A scream louder than the others. “I want it to be over with!”
She had never seen such a hopeless look in anyone’s eyes.
“Please, for Chrissake, your gun!”
Amelia Sachs hesitated, then reached down and drew her Glock from her belt.
A cop.
Not good. Not good.
That tall woman. Black jeans. Pretty face. And, oh, the red hair…
A cop.
I’ve left her behind at the escalator and am moving through the crowds at the mall.
She didn’t know I’d seen her, I think, but I had. Oh, yeah. Seen her nice and clear. The scream of the man disappearing into the jaws of that machine had prodded everybody to look toward the sound. Not her, though. She was turning to look for me in the friendly Starbucks.
I saw the gun on her hip, the badge on her hip. Not private, not rental. A real cop. A Blue Bloods cop. She—
Well. What was that?
A gunshot. I’m not much on firearms but I’ve shot a pistol some. No doubt that was a handgun.
Puzzling. Yeah, yeah, something’s weird. Was the police girl—Red I’m calling her, after the hair—planning to arrest somebody else? Hard to say. She could be after me for lots of the mischief I’ve been up to. Possibly the bodies I left in that sludgy pond near Newark some time ago, weighted down with barbells like the sort pudgy people buy, use six and a half times and never again. No word in the press about that incident but, well, it was New Jersey. Body-land, that place is. Another corpse? Not worth reporting; the Mets won by seven! So. Or she might be hunting for me for the run-in not long after that on a dim street in Manhattan, swish goes the throat. Or maybe that construction site behind club 40°, where I left such a pretty package of, once again, snapped head bone.
Did somebody recognize me at one of those places, cutting or cracking?
Could be. I’m, well, distinctive looking, height and weight.
I just assume it’s me she wants. Better safe… I need to get away and that means keeping my head down, that means slouching. It’s easier to shrink three inches than grow.
But the shot? What was that about? Was she after someone even more dangerous than me? I’ll check the news later.
People are everywhere now, moving fast. Most are not looking at tall me, skinny me, me of the long feet and fingers. They just want out, fleeing the screams and gunshot. Stores are emptying, food court emptying. Afraid of terrorists, afraid of crazy men dressed in camo, stabbing, slashing, shooting up the world in anger or thanks to loose-wired brains. ISIS. Al-Qaeda. Militias. Everyone’s on edge.
I’m turning here, slipping through socks and underwear, men’s.
Henry Street, Exit Four, is right ahead of me. Should I get out that way?
Better pause. I take in a deep breath. Let’s not go too fast here. First, I should lose the green jacket and cap. Buy something new. I duck into a cheap store to pay cash for some China-made Italian blue blazer. Thirty-five long, which is lucky. That size is hard to find. Hipster fedora hat. A Middle Eastern kid rings the sale up while texting. Rude. My desire is to crack a bone in his head. At least he’s not looking at me. That’s good. Put the old jacket in my backpack. The green plaid one. The jacket is from my brother, so I’m not throwing it out. The sports cap goes inside too.
The Chinese Italian hipster leaves the store and goes back into the mall. So, which way to escape? Henry Street?
No. Not smart. There’ll be plenty of cops outside.
I’m looking around. Everywhere, everywhere. Ah, a service door. There’ll be a loading dock, I’m sure.
I push through the doorway like I belong here, knuckles not palm (prints, of course), past a sign saying Employees Only. Except not now.
Thinking: What lucky timing, the escalator, Red next to it when the screams began. Lucky me.
Head down, I keep walking steadily. Nobody stops me in the corridor.
Ah, here’s a cotton jacket on a peg. I unpin the employee name badge and repin the shiny rectangle on my chest. I’m now Courteous Team Member Mario. I don’t look much like a Mario but it’ll have to do.
Just now two workers, young men, one brown, one white, come through a door ahead of me. I nod at them. They nod back.
Hope one isn’t Mario. Or his best friend. If so, I’ll have to reach into my backpack and we know what that means: cracking bones from on high. I pass them.
Good.
Or not good: A voice shoots my way: “Yo?”
“Yeah?” I ask, hand near the hammer.
“What’s going on out there?”
“Robbery, I think. That jewelry store. Maybe.”
“Fuckers never had security there. I coulda told ’em.”
His co-worker: “Only had cheap crap. Zircons, shit like that. Who’d get his ass shot for a zircon?”
I see a sign for Deliveries and dutifully follow the arrow.
I hear voices ahead, stop and look around the corner. One little black guard, skinny as me, a twig, is all. On his radio. I could break him easily with the hammer. Make his face crack into ten pieces. And then—
Oh, no. Why is life such a chore?
Two others show up. One white, one black. Both twice my weight.
I duck back. And then things get worse yet. Behind me, other end of the corridor I’ve just come down. I hear more voices. Maybe it’s Red and some others, making a sweep this way.
And the only exit, ahead of me, has three rental cops, who live for the day they too have a chance to break bones… or Tase or spray.
Me, in the middle and nowhere to go.
Where?”
“Still searching, Amelia,” Buddy Everett, the patrolman from the 84, told her. “Six teams. Exits’re all covered, us or private security. He’s got to be here somewhere.”
Wiping away the blood on her boot with a Starbucks napkin. Or trying to, futilely. Her jacket, in a trash bag she’d gotten from the coffee shop too, might not be irreparably ruined but she wasn’t inclined to wear a garment that had been saturated with blood. The young patrolman noted the stains on her hands, his eyes troubled. Cops are, of course, human too. Immunity comes eventually but later to some than others, and Buddy Everett was young still.
Through red-framed glasses, he looked at the open access panel. “And he… ?”
“He didn’t make it.”
A nod. Eyes now on the floor, Sachs’s bloody boot prints leading away from the escalator.
“No idea which direction he went?” he asked.
“None.” She sighed. Only a few minutes had elapsed between the time that Unsub 40 might have seen her and fled, and the deployment of the backup officers. But that seemed to be enough to turn him invisible. “All right. I’ll be searching with you.”
“They’ll nee
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