Deadfall (8 page)

THE BLOOD RUNS
down Theo’s forearm, dripping onto the tile floor. He grabs one of the thick terry-cloth towels from beside the health club sink and applies pressure to the bite wound. He didn’t think she had it in her. Very few actually break the skin.

He looks at himself in the mirror. His jaw is swollen on the right side, but it’s nothing an hour or two of ice can’t fix. If he has to, he’ll tell Helene he got hit playing tennis. The scratches will be harder to account for. He’ll have to be conscious of wearing long sleeves until they heal.

It’s two in the morning, but he isn’t tired. He hasn’t come down from the high. It was his first hunt here, in the city—
his
city. This is his first kill in New York since the Migration began, and the thrill is everything he’d hoped it would be. He had waited outside the shelter on Lafayette Street every evening
for days, until he’d finally recognized one of the girls from the island. She was heavyset, with muscular shoulders and brown hair that was always back in a bun. He followed her for almost four hours before finding the spot by the seaport. She’d fought him as he’d dragged her behind the Dumpster.

At the last second he’d decided not to use the gun, and he was thankful for it now, the memory of it still fresh. Her face as he choked her . . . He wouldn’t forget her face. It would carry him for weeks.

“Theo! I didn’t know you came here after hours. I usually have the whole place to myself. Just me and Ursula at the front desk.” Kristof is standing at the entryway to the sauna. He’s still in his Speedo, his goggles pulled onto his forehead.

Theo turns to hide his injury from view. “Just catching a quick shower. I was working late, and I think I’m going back to the office. . . . We’re finalizing a merger this week.”

Kristof is staring at the blood on the floor. “Are you all right? What happened?”

“Oh, this?” Theo says. “Fell and cut myself. I’ll be fine.” Kristof reaches to help, but Theo waves him away. “Don’t. I’ll clean it up. Give me a few minutes.”

He says it with more force than necessary—a warning. He waits until Kristof disappears back into the locker room, then grabs his undershirt from off the counter. He pulls it on to cover the scratches.

We knew it was going to be harder here
, he thinks as he
wipes the blood off the floor with a hand towel. The kills were harder to conceal. That was the fun of it.

It took them sixteen years to do everything they could think of on the island. Bringing in exotic animals along with the prey, keeping them there for months at a time. In New York, it was supposed to be different, faster and more dangerous. And with Theo’s kill, at least, the timing had gone according to plan. The body was cleared within fifteen minutes.

But the kill in Morningside Park . . . The hunter had been too brazen, doing it in the middle of the day. He’d said he believed the Stager was close, but he’d miscalculated. Theo already had to pay off two officers who worked the scene. He knew there would be more.

He walks back into the locker room, purposefully avoiding the aisle to his right, where he can hear Kristof riffling through his gym bag. He twists the combination on his lock—Helene’s birthday. He’d left his suit inside before he went tracking the target.

When he reaches for his blazer, he can feel the phone buzz in his pocket. The alert was triggered hours before, the number blocked—it must’ve been shortly after he got off work.

9:15
P
.
M
.

There are a few pictures of the boy from his AAE file—two of him in profile, another straight on. Tall with messy brown hair.

Blackbird again,
Theo thinks.
Now she’s turned her Watcher. . . .
She wasn’t the first to go after her hunter, but she’d been the first to bring evidence to the police. He’s tried not to worry about it too much. Every hunter in the city is looking for her now. It’ll only be a day, maybe two, before she’s dead.

He pulls on his dress shirt and slacks. He scrolls through the other alerts and sees one from less than an hour before, saying there was a possible sighting heading east on Forty-Second Street. It’s only a ten-minute walk from his office. Had he not been downtown, had he not been after the other prey, he might’ve been able to kill her himself.

It’s only a matter of time,
he assures himself as he stares at the picture of the boy.
Soon both of them will be dead.

IT’S AFTER TWO
in the morning by the time you get to West Broadway and Franklin. There’s a subway station there. You go down the stairs, hop the turnstile. The platform is empty except for the occasional passing stranger. Ben’s pace is slower than before, but no matter how many times you tried to stop to rest, he refused. He made a bandage with some gauze he found in the hotel’s first-aid kit. Downed four Advil and two tiny bottles of Ketel One.

You take a left, toward a tunnel closed off with bright orange tape. You’ve searched the whole block. All of the storefronts were closed. The tunnel is the only other spot the code could’ve meant.

It takes a moment for you to notice the graffiti on the wall. It’s practically on the ceiling of the tunnel, so high someone must’ve climbed the pipes to reach it. Red spray paint, just
like the others.
UR + HRE
, circled with a heart. An arrow slices right through it. The tip points into the passageway.

“Look.” You show Ben.

Reaching into your pocket, you throw a penny against the third rail by the wall, to see if it sparks. Nothing. You climb down a rusted ladder, ducking under the tape. Ben follows behind you.

“Where’d you learn that?” he asks.

“No clue.” You imagine you learned it at the same time you learned how to pick a lock or how to disarm someone with a gun.

Within a few steps it’s harder to see. Every thirty feet there’s a single light bolted to the wall, exposing the pipes in the ceiling, the steel beams with thick, peeling paint. The tunnel bends. You stay to one side, stepping over some trash, old clothes, and newspapers.

Up ahead, the tunnel splits. Fifteen feet to the left there’s another light, this one with a red dot spray-painted beside it.

As you turn down the tunnel, you hear music ahead, the dull thumping bass of some wordless song. Cigarette smoke engulfs you. A few teens lean against the wall. You pull your hat down to hide your face as you walk by, and Ben steps between you and them. They’re dancing in place and laughing. A guy with greasy blond hair waves around a flashlight as if it’s a strobe. It seems like you’ve stumbled on an underground rave.

“Who are these people?” Ben moves to avoid two girls wearing glow bracelets around their wrists.

There are a few uneven flashes of lights ahead, along with the glare of cell-phone screens. There’s no obvious sign of the other targets. Could you have been wrong? Maybe the graffiti wasn’t a meeting place Connor arranged but directions to this underground party. Most of the teens are dancing in a frantic, dense cluster, twenty people deep. A DJ is spinning from a makeshift platform of old rail beams.

It’s dark enough to move through unnoticed. You scan the figures sitting by the wall, but you can’t distinguish any faces.

“This doesn’t seem right,” Ben says. He watches everyone, turning to study a couple making out against the brick wall. “Maybe it wasn’t a target who set this up. It could’ve been . . .”

He doesn’t finish, but you don’t need him to. It could’ve been the hunter who killed Connor, looking to draw out other targets. AAE could’ve known about the meeting spot for days.

“We’re easier to kill if we’re alone,” you say. “Let’s wait to leave with others.”

You reach into your backpack for a knit hat you found earlier on a subway bench. You hand it to Ben so he’s less recognizable. If the hunters are waiting for you, they’ll be at
the ends of the tunnels, or by the more desolate exits of the station. You might be able to avoid detection if you’re in a group.

It feels reckless to have come down here without having an exit plan. You walk along the outside edge of the larger group, staying close enough to feel hidden. It’s hard to know if the hunters are already watching. A few people squeeze their eyes shut as they dance; others linger at the edges of the group, taking swigs from liquor bottles. A girl is rocking back and forth, stumbling now and again, her lips mouthing soundless words. Sweat beads on her face, making her skin shine in the low light. She raises her arms in time to the beat. Five bangles slip down her wrist, settling at her elbow. Inside her right forearm, just below her palm, the tattoo is visible. A silhouette of a lion with numbers beneath it.

“THE GIRL RIGHT
there. She’s a target.” You pull Ben back so he can see her, but she’s already dropped her arms and moved deeper into the crowd.

“Which one?” His lips are right against your ear so you can hear him over the music.

You maneuver through the crush of warm bodies. An elbow jams into your side, an arm swinging down in front of your face. You push forward, trying not to lose sight of her.

Finally there’s a break in the crowd and you reach for her shoulder. Her thick black hair is stringy and wet. A strand of it sticks to the back of your hand. “Hey! I need to talk to you.”

She turns, squinting at you. She can’t hear you above the music. You can tell she’s wasted. Then someone grabs you from behind. You spin back, ready to fight.

It’s Rafe. He pulls you to him, kissing your forehead, your cheeks. His lips move with a silent
LenaLenaLenaLenaLenaLena
. In the dim light you can see the emotion in his eyes.

“You found it. You realized,” he says, his lips pressed to your ear.

“I found it,” you say.

“I was so scared.”

You stumble out of the crowd. You are smiling so much it hurts. “I’m okay. They came after me but I outran them.”

He wraps his arm around your shoulder, keeping you close to him. “Why did they follow you? Both of them went after you—I couldn’t draw her away.”

“They’re all looking for me now.”

You’re about to go on and tell him about everything you’ve been through since you were separated: your hours on the roof; the hunters swarming the sidewalk below; the message you put out for him; the hunter in the library. You want to tell him about the plan to find Reynolds.

But then you sense Ben there, just a few feet away. He steps out of the crowd. Hovers, waiting, looking from you to Rafe.

“What is it?” Rafe must see it in your face. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m not here alone.”

“What do you mean?”

Then Rafe sees Ben standing there. The cap pulled down over his forehead, the jeans that sit low on his hips. He’s wearing your sweatshirt.

“Rafe . . .” you say. “This is Ben.”

RAFE WRAPS ONE
arm around your shoulder and slips his hand down until it’s resting in yours. He presses his lips against your ear. “Who?”

“
Ben
. He’s with us now.” You pull him away from the speaker and twist your hand out of his grasp. “He followed me to New York.”

“Wait, your
Watcher
? Lena, what the hell is wrong with you?” Rafe turns back to Ben, taking a step toward him.

“I’m not reporting to anyone.” Ben doesn’t move. They’re around the same height, but next to Rafe, Ben seems smaller, thinner, his mouth pressed into an uncertain line. He doesn’t look away.

The girl appears next to you, along with two boys you don’t recognize. They both have thick watches on their right wrists. One of them is shorter, with a shaved head and a
tattoo on the side of his neck, a name in script. The other one is tall and thin with the beginnings of an Afro. His hood is pulled up.

You look around to make sure no one is watching. Most people are still dancing, entranced by the music. “He has information that we need,” you say. “He wants to help.”

“Why are you defending him? Isn’t he the one who almost got you killed?” Rafe practically shouts.

“Rafe, he saved me.”

“What are you even talking about?” Rafe’s face is all hard angles and shadow.

The shorter boy steps forward, glaring up at Ben. “How long have you been working for them?”

“You know what they’ve been doing, right?” the girl asks.

In two steps, Rafe is just a few inches from Ben’s face. “You lied to her. She trusted you, lived with you, and the whole time you were leading them straight to her. You were helping the people who were trying to
kill
her.”

Rafe pushes Ben into a wall and you hear a crack where his head hits the brick. Ben turns to protect his side. He brings his arm up to shield his face. He doesn’t even try to fight.

“Rafe, stop it,” you say, pressing between them. You grab the end of Ben’s shirt and lift it up. “He’s hurt—one of the hunters shot him. He saved me.” Rafe looks down at the bandage, the blood seeping through the gauze.

“When?”

“Earlier tonight. Just trust me—he’s with us. They know he’s on our side. He’s in as much danger as we are.”

The boy with the hoodie shakes his head. “Then why do we want him here? We’ve got enough people looking for just us. We don’t need some ex-AAE kid tagging along.”

You narrow your eyes. “I’m sorry . . . who are you?”

Rafe slaps the boy’s shoulder. “This is Devon. He was on the island, too. He’s one of us.”

“Did he take a bullet for me?” you ask.

The girl just laughs. “We don’t need his help.” She points to Ben.

“You do, you just don’t know it yet,” you say.

Rafe shakes his head. “Lena . . . this is a bad idea. He’s injured.”

You look between Rafe and Ben. Rafe, who you have known for so long but hardly know at all. And Ben, who you thought betrayed you but who says he loves you. You believe him.

“He stays.”

The girl starts off down the tunnel toward the exit, swaying a bit. She doesn’t look back as she says, “Whatever. Fine. But he better be useful.”

Devon follows, brushing past Ben. Rafe sighs and runs a hand over his head. “You’re responsible for him.”

“I can be responsible for myself,” Ben says. “I’m not a dumbass.”

“How’d you become a Watcher, then?” Rafe asks.

“Funny,” Ben mutters.

“He didn’t know,” you say. “They blackmailed him after his father died.”

The boy with the shaved head hasn’t looked away from Ben. “Your father was a hunter?”

“No,” Ben says. “Definitely not.”

The girl and Devon have disappeared beyond the bend. The crowd is still clustered together several feet deep. The song has stopped and some guy is leaning over one of the speakers, trying to get it to work.

“Where are they going?” you ask.

“Back to the base,” Rafe says. Then he points to the boy with the shaved head. “This is Aguilar. The girl is Salto; she was Connor’s girlfriend.”

“Aggy,” the boy introduces himself.

“You found them the way I did?” you ask Rafe. “The graffiti?”

“Yeah,” Rafe says. “We already cleaned some of it off the wall by the courts. Connor had put it there.”

Aggy’s expression changes at the mention of Connor’s name. “He found us a week ago. He’d found Salto first. Devon and I were together—I’d remembered him from the island. We were both camping out under the Manhattan Bridge, and Connor came looking for targets there.”

“I’m sorry,” you say.

“’Bout what? You didn’t do anything.” He eyes Ben.

“The base?” Ben asks. “It’s safe?”

“Hidden,” Rafe says. “We go two at a time so it’s not obvious. That’s why they left first.”

A few guys spill out of the crowd. One stumbles and can barely stand. With the party winding down, now is the best time to leave. You look at Aggy, unsure if it’s better to pair Ben with a stranger or Rafe. There are risks to both.

“You’ll show me the base, Aggy?” you ask.

Ben leans against the tunnel wall, taking shallow breaths to ease the pain in his side. He doesn’t say anything and neither does Rafe. Then Aggy waves you forward and into the dark.