record and alternative clothing shops that Rufus knew firsthand welcomed customers of all ages and backgrounds, because any kind of attitude of seniority, in his opinion, went against the very fucking notion of punk. He’d been blacklisted from more than one store within the three-block radius after seeing staff treat young customers who didn’t look the part like wannabes. He’d regaled the employees with a dissertation on why they weren’t punk, told them where they could shove their elitist attitudes, and after being tossed out, had directed the group of kids to better, more accommodating shops.
Nestled between these establishments of youth and anarchy were those desperate to look as if they belonged. A chain burrito restaurant. A chain floral store. A nationwide bank. Bright, clean industrial lights blazed from inside their glass storefronts in stark contrast to the decades of history and grime around them. The irony of corporations bullying their way into prime real estate and trying to suck on the teat of the New York underground was not lost on the locals.
Rufus turned left at the end of the block, raced down First Avenue, and narrowly avoided plowing into a couple exiting an Indian restaurant. The woman tripped backward into her date, who shouted a string of obscenities in Rufus and Sam’s wake. But they were fine. They didn’t matter. And Sam’s hand was still in his, so Rufus kept running.
Rufus shifted his focus to a plane of existence where he thought prey running for their lives also went. One where he could no longer feel the frantic beats of his heart or the searing burning in his lungs. He couldn’t hear the racket of the sleepless city around him. He saw nothing but the overhead street signs counting down Seventh—Sixth—Fifth—God, they were almost there.
Almost safe.
Making another sudden right on Fourth Street, Rufus darted across evening traffic. If tires skidded, brakes squealed, and horns blared, he didn’t hear it. They ran over locked cellar doors that bounced ominously under their collective weight, past a row of trash and recycling bins, a bakery shuttered for the night, and then up half a dozen steps to a very unassuming apartment building. Rufus yanked a ring of keys free from his pocket and unlocked the front door. He barreled through the landing, tapped a mailbox mounted to the wall within the cramped vestibule, and led Sam up four flights of stairs without stopping until they reached 4D.
Rufus unlocked that door, put his weight against it, and forced it free from the swollen, crooked frame. Only after the door had been shoved closed, two deadbolts and a security chain engaged, did Rufus finally release the death grip he had on Sam. He took several unsteady breaths while staring through the peephole.
But Heckler never came up the stairs.
Never came creeping down the hall.
Never knocked on the door.
Rufus flipped a light switch on the wall and walked deeper into the studio. An unmade bed was shoved against the far wall underneath two windows that overlooked the street. To the right was what barely qualified as a kitchen: two overhead cupboards, an ancient and discolored fridge, half a countertop with a half-sized sink, and two stovetop burners. The other side of the studio was strewn with what amounted to stuff and things on the floor, since Rufus had little in the way of furniture. Two piles of clothes—one clean, the other dirty. Besides that, a few dozen books carefully organized into three separate piles, all marked on the spine with New York Public Library. The one door in the apartment was to the immediate right of the front entrance and down a short hall, housing a closet-sized bathroom.
Rufus dropped his jean jacket, beanie, and sunglasses on the floor before his shoulders sagged. Almost like it was too difficult to stand, he got down into a crouched position and hugged his knees. “What the fucking fuck is going on?” Rufus asked, voice barely more than a whisper.
Sam moved to the windows, parting the blinds with a finger, the plastic slats clicking against each other.
“She shot him,” Rufus said between breaths.
“Does she know your name? Heckler, is that what you said? Does she know where you live?”
Rufus slowly drew back up to his full height. “I was Jake’s CI, but she’d have access to my information, I guess.”
“What matters right now is how long it will take for her to find us. She killed Marcus and took the phone; that means she was involved at some level