KILLED IN ACTION

Killed in Action

CHAPTER 1

The two gangbangers were throwing her between them like they were passing a football back and forth. They were Latino, but pale skinned, second- or third-generation American, probably only seen Mexico in TV ads for Puerto Vallarta. They were dressed in black baggy jeans, their asses hanging out the backs. He'd never seen the fashion statement in the youth of today wearing jeans that way. They had on dark boxers. They were both wearing crimson shirts, unbuttoned to their belts, one of them with enough gold necklaces to make the black dude on that old TV show—what was his name? Mr. T—jealous.

The young woman was in her early twenties, medium height, dark red hair to her shoulders. She was wearing a white silk shirt, virtually see-through. No bra. One of the gangbangers had ripped her shirt open, popping little turquoise buttons, exposing her large breasts, but really, he needn't have bothered, they were clearly visible through the sheer fabric. She wore a flared white short skirt, probably very chic, and high-heeled white pumps, which looked like you could only walk a few feet in them before blisters starting forming. That was another fashion trend he had never come to grips with. What was the point of young women wearing shoes with heels so high they'd give you a nosebleed? A Gucci Soho leather shoulder bag was at her feet, rose beige with fine gold hardware on it. Over fifteen hundred bucks if you got it at the Gucci store on Madison Avenue. Probably four hundred in Chinatown. The young woman kept trying to reach down to her bag, as if something were in there she desperately needed. But they weren't letting her get anywhere near it.

Gangbanger #1 slapped her face. It brought a trickle of blood from her nose. He tossed her back to his pal, who shoved her toward a brick wall. She'd come from the art gallery along Essex Street. He'd seen elegant folks through a big glass window, drinking champagne from fluted glasses, sampling hors d'oeuvres from passing silver trays, moving around amid a jumble of weird-looking sculptures and Art Deco pieces that probably cost more than the national debt. He hadn't noticed her in particular, but when she'd left, he'd noted that she'd hurried away down Essex Street to take a shortcut through this narrow alleyway.

Bad idea.

As she'd found out.

The young woman tried to pull her ripped shirt across her breasts, but the Latino boys had really done a number on it, and the fragments of her shirt were too shredded to properly close over them. The first gangbanger—he decided to think of him as Manuel—grabbed her faux Gucci bag and started to go through it. The second gangbanger—let's call him Lopez—held the young woman's shoulder tightly with one hand. He stayed back in the shadows, unseen by either the young woman or the gangbangers. He was glad when Manuel came up with her wallet, so he'd have a name for her.

Megan Forrester, Manuel said, showing her driver's license to Lopez. He looked at her. Pretty name.

He took a bunch of bills out of the wallet, dropped it back into the open Gucci bag, and kicked it toward her, as if contemptuously.

Take the money, she pleaded. Just let me go.

You think we want to hurt you? Lopez asked. We just want to get to know you, Megan. See what you look like under those clothes. Why don't you help us out? Lift up your skirt.

She shook her head violently, her eyes darting around the alleyway.

If she saw him, it didn't register on her face.

Lopez took a knife out of his jacket pocket and flicked up a wicked nine-inch blade. We haven't cut you yet. And we won't. Just show us what you got.

No need for you to get hurt, Manuel said reasonably.

Okay, okay, she gasped.

She reached down and pulled up her white skirt. It was so short she didn't have to pull it up high to reveal the white panties she was wearing.

Pull them down, Lopez said. We want you to do it for us.

She froze, her skirt hiked up, her hand trembling.

Don't make me do it, Manuel said. You show us what we want to see, we'll let you go. She didn't move. Okay, I can do it.

I'll do it! I'll do it! She pulled down her panties. She tried to hold on to them, but they fell around her ankles.

Natural redhead, Lopez said. Nice. Let's see your ass.

She started to turn around.

Keep your skirt hiked up, Manuel reminded her.

She nodded and turned fully around, facing the brick wall. Her bare behind was pale in the semidarkness.

The Equalizer decided this had gone far enough. Although, he had to admit, she had a dynamite ass. Megan turned back to face her attackers. Leaned one hand down, still holding up her skirt with the other, to grab her panties.

We'll tell you when you can pull them up, Manuel said.

What do you think? Lopez said. Should we let her go?

We'll fuck her first.

That was the last thing Manuel said.

The Equalizer sucker punched him in the side of the head, then sank a fist into his gut. He went down on his knees, vomiting onto the dirty concrete. The Equalizer kicked him in the face, sending him onto his side. Then he kicked him hard in the balls.

What happened next happened quickly.

Lopez whirled with the knife, still not quite seeing the figure in the deep shadows, and thrust forward blindly. The Equalizer grabbed his wrist, avoiding the blade, wrenched it up and down, and broke his wrist. Lopez howled. The Equalizer brought him down with three blows to his face, breaking his nose, shattering his left cheekbone, knocking out some teeth. The gangbanger sprawled onto the ground.

Megan pulled up her panties, dropped her skirt, knelt down, flailed a hand inside her Gucci bag, and came out with a Mace spray in a Bianchi Elite pouch.

Manuel had dragged himself up to his feet.

Megan sprayed the Mace right into his eyes.

He screamed and went back down on his knees.

Megan didn't wait to find out who her Good Samaritan was. She grabbed her Gucci bag, then kicked Manuel in the balls with the toe of her white pump. She pulled the shreds of her white shirt over her breasts and ran from the alleyway.

Neither of the Latinos were getting up. The Equalizer knelt down beside Lopez, whose wrist hung like a marionette's with a string cut, and took something out of the pocket of his overcoat.

It was a business card.

On it was the graphic of a figure standing in an alleyway in front of a black Jaguar car, gun in hand, the New York City skyline behind him. Above it were the words JUSTICE IS HERE. Beneath the silhouette of the figure were the words THE EQUALIZER.

He tucked the card into the breast pocket of Lopez's crimson shirt.

Then he straightened and looked over at Manuel. Lopez and Manuel, a matching set of degenerates. But they didn't quite match. He regretted he hadn't broken Manuel's arm. He'd been the one who'd ripped Megan's blouse open and fondled her breasts.

The Equalizer shrugged. What the hell.

He knelt down beside Manuel, gripped his arm, and broke it in two places.

He screamed, but didn't move.

The Equalizer straightened again, pocketed Lopez's switchblade, and looked down at the two thugs. They wouldn't be attacking another defenseless victim for quite a while. Well, he thought, not so defenseless. Megan had sprayed Mace into Manuel's eyes for five long seconds. Might have blinded him.

Justice done.

He heard the sound of police sirens getting closer. Megan must have called 911 on her smartphone. He didn't stay around to be thanked or congratulated. He melted back into the shadows, leaving Lopez and Manuel—or whatever their real names were—lying broken and bleeding on the alleyway concrete.

But it was not Robert McCall who walked out of that alleyway.

CHAPTER 2

Ten adversaries in the partially constructed office building.

His inward smile was fleeting.

He'd have to lower these odds.

The pounding rock music washed over Robert McCall in undulating waves. The sea of people on both sides was like an amorphous being, forming and re-forming, different faces and colors and movement. The overpowering aroma at the rave party was sweet and sickly. McCall pushed past a young man dancing by himself, dressed in lavender jeans, shirt to match, hair teased with violet curls, who was wearing enough Polo Red Intense to gag a lavatory attendant. But he was pretty damn good.

Huge potted plants with towering palm fronds were stationed every few feet across the ground floor. Standing beside one of them was Blake Cunningham. At least, McCall assumed that was who the young man in the elegant suit with the dirty-blond hair was. He held Emily Masden's shoulder tightly. A thin trickle of blood seeped from the young woman's mouth. Her low-cut black dress clung to her figure as if molded to it. She wore black stockings with their tops held up by silver suspenders that the skirt didn't come close to covering. She looked at Blake, startled by being backhanded. She looked around the open building space, with its many staircases up to other half-finished construction levels, as if she'd woken up from a nightmare. Laura, whom McCall had left with her back against one of the big steel supports holding up the second-floor partial ceiling, had said Emily was high. She was right. Emily's eyes were dilated and a bright sheen of perspiration glistened on her face and bare arms. She was having trouble catching her breath.

She was also disoriented and frightened.

McCall knew where the two men behind him had their guns tucked into the waistbands of their jeans. He'd noted that when they'd got up from the booth in the River Café at the Brooklyn docks half an hour ago. They'd nonchalantly buttoned their jackets, but he'd had the impression they'd wanted him to see the weapons. They were armed and dangerous.

And they were right behind him.

McCall stopped suddenly, as if to avoid stepping right into the path of Cologne Man, who probably wouldn't have noticed if he'd stomped on both his feet. McCall half turned, his hands darting out like a blur. When he turned back, both of the men's jackets were gaping open.

Both of their guns were gone.

McCall slid the two pistols, one a Smith & Wesson M&P 22 Compact, the other a Smith & Wesson Shield 9mm, into the side pockets of his jacket. The two young men stopped dead, confused. The three men coming down the steel staircase on McCall's right were too far away. They'd have to draw their weapons and shoot into the crowd, which would cause immediate pandemonium and bring the cops here.

McCall glanced up at the two men on the second level above him, leaning casually on the railing, their jackets open, revealing their Heckler & Koch 9mm pistols. Same problem. They'd have a better shot at him, but what would be their motivation? He was just threading his way through the dancing mayhem below. By the time he reached Emily and Blake Cunningham, McCall would be under the level of the balcony where the men were standing. To get a shot at him they'd have to lean way down and shoot virtually backward, which would be risky, and even a novice would know it was not a viable move. And McCall was certain none of these young thugs were professional gunmen honing their craft.

That left the two young men moving quickly through the partygoers on McCall's left. One of them wasn't carrying a weapon. But his partner had a subcompact Glock 26 already in his hand. McCall turned a half step to his left and grabbed the second man's hand.

One second the gun was in his hand.

Then it wasn't.

McCall dropped the Glock 26 into one of the big palm-frond tubs.

McCall moved up behind Emily and jerked her out of Blake Cunningham's grasp.

Then he slapped her hard across the face.

What the hell do you think you're doing? McCall demanded. He squeezed her face with his hand. Did you take something? He looked over at Blake Cunningham, who had taken a step back. Who is this?

"I'm her boyfriend. Who are you?"

"I'm her father. What is she on? Quaaludes, or mollys—whatever the hell they are—or cocaine?"

McCall grabbed Emily's right arm, twisting it around so he could see the veins. She had been so stunned by being slapped by a complete stranger that she hadn't moved. Now she tried to twist out of his grasp, but it was like a steel trap.

"I don't know what she's on, if she's on anything," Blake said evenly.

He glanced over McCall's shoulder and give the barest shake of his head. Telling the college thugs behind McCall to back off. Blake could handle this. He did the same subtle head flick to his right, moving back the two on that side. McCall didn't appear to notice it.

You said you're her boyfriend? McCall's tone was still loud and accusatory.

Blake Cunningham only raised his voice a little, so that it carried just above the cacophony of the party. McCall thought Cunningham probably kept his voice well modulated at all times. Part of the hip young stockbroker image. He was wearing a Giorgio Armani Soho black wool-and-silk pinstripe suit, a Versace black-and-gold silk shirt, and black loafers with no socks, and a pair of Fendi 411 Aviator sunglasses rested on the top button of his shirt.

I suppose saying Emily is my girlfriend could be debatable. We broke up and I haven't seen her in a week. I thought I might find her here, he added with an apologetic shrug. This is the kind of party she likes to go to. How long has it been since you've seen your daughter?

Two months, if it's any of your business.

Emily looked up at McCall as if trying to focus through the smoky haze, most of it inside her head. You're hurting my arm.

I'm taking you out of here, McCall said.

Again, Blake's soft, insinuating voice: What if she doesn't want to go with you?

I'm her father. She doesn't get a choice.

She's twenty-two years old. That gives her the choice. You can't make her do anything she doesn't want to do.

Emily was still staring at McCall. She said almost tentatively, You're not—

McCall swung round on her. Your mother's been sick with worry. How could you do this to her? Stop phoning, stop communicating? You know how much money it's cost me to fly out to New York to come and get you? I look at you, Emily, dressed like a slut, and I don't know you. You're not the daughter I raised. Who else are you sleeping with? Back to Blake: You don't think you're the only one, do you? Back to Emily: You want to stay here, take some more drugs, fry your brains, grope this degenerate, go ahead. I won't stop you.

He let go of her arm.

Emily continued to stare at him, but now it was with some kind of bleary realization. She looked from him to Blake Cunningham.

I have to go with him, Blake. He's my dad.

Blake raised his hands as if in surrender. Sure, take her out of here. She'll come back and find me. She always does.

Blake smirked and nodded a little more openly at the young men behind McCall. McCall assumed they took the hint and were fading back into the party. He kept his eyes on Blake. He wanted to knock that smirk off his face, but would good old self-righteous Dad, the CPA from Stillwater, Minnesota, haul off and slug him?

Probably not.

McCall spun Emily around and marched her away. He could feel Blake's eyes boring into his back. The seven men who'd crowded McCall on both sides had disappeared. McCall had a firm grip on Emily's arm, but not as tight as before. She looked up at him. Her eyes were more focused now.

They'll just come for me again. They'll take me away from you.

No, they won't.

You don't know them.

McCall ignored that. What did you take?

One of the girls dragged me into the ladies' room. I snorted some stuff she put on her wrist. I felt icy. Warm, then cold.

Your pupils are large and you're sweating. You look like you could be running a fever. How fast is your heart beating?

Real fast, she whispered. What was it I took?

Cocaine. You know the girl who gave it to you?

Yeah. Her name's Lucy. A friend of Blake's. She told me I had to 'look right.' I changed into this dress. Put on suspenders and black stockings. Blake likes those. I made up my face. Black tears. The kind you cry inside.

Then her body convulsed as she began to sob. McCall held her tighter, gently pushing their way through to where he had left Laura.

You're going to be all right, Emily.

Who the hell are you?

Someone who's trying to help you.

Why the fuck should you care about me?

I don't. But your mother does.

You don't know my mother.

Not well.

What are you talking about?

Your mother's here.

Emily choked back the sobs, looking up at him. My mom? She would never follow me to New York!

She was frantic with worry about you. With good reason.

Where is she?

McCall guided her around a raucous group drinking at one of the larger tables. Laura Masden stood exactly where McCall had left her five minutes before, looking out anxiously through the crowd. She hadn't seen them yet.

McCall pointed Laura out. There's your mom.

Emily wrenched out of McCall's grasp so unexpectedly that he hadn't been ready for it.

"That's not my mother," Emily said in a fierce whisper.

McCall was stunned. Several moments of the past hour spun through his mind. Amid the crank calls he had received after putting his ad in the classified section of The New York Times and on the internet—Gotta Problem? Odds Against You? Call the Equalizer—there'd been a desperate voice-mail message from a woman saying her name was Laura Masden. When he'd called her back, she'd asked him if he was the Equalizer. Hearing the name spoken out loud by a real client had given him pause, but McCall had said, Yes. You have a problem?

He'd spotted her, elegant and frightened, sitting alone at a booth at the River Café in Brooklyn, overlooking the East River, nursing an apple martini. He'd slipped into the booth opposite her and said, Hello, Laura, my name is Robert McCall. What's your problem? She had seemed a little disconcerted by his less than effusive greeting, but her sincerity about finding her daughter had been compelling.

It's my daughter Emily. She's twenty-two. She's always been a difficult child, but she's not into drugs or alcohol. She's a dreamer. She wants to make a difference in the world.

Why did she come to New York?

She was accepted at the Art Institute of New York City. Media arts. After being at the college one month, she dropped out. And disappeared.

Laura had described Emily's boyfriend, Blake Cunningham. He had told Laura that he'd broken up with her daughter and had practically thrown Laura out. Before that happened, Laura had heard Blake mention this address. McCall remembered how Laura had fought off the tears brimming in her eyes when speaking of her daughter.

I'm going to find your daughter, he had told her. If she's in danger…

You'll equalize those odds? she had asked, smiling through her tears.

Yes. I will.

He thought of their arrival at the rave party and how Laura had spotted Emily dancing and how her voice had broken when she'd seen her.

She's changed her hair color. It doesn't even look like Emily, but that's her.

McCall had instructed Laura to put her back against the pillar and wait for him. That he would bring her daughter to her.

He pointed out Laura again, thinking perhaps Emily had looked at the wrong person.

Right there, the woman in the gray suit with the black Dior coat, standing at that pillar.

"I know what my mother looks like. Duh. That is not my mom."

McCall suddenly wanted to get Emily out of there before Laura—or whoever she was—turned and looked in their direction.

This way, he said tersely.

He guided Emily back to one of the many side entrances to the abandoned building. Party wranglers wearing obscene burn masks, like bizarre Walmart greeters, were ushering more people in. McCall looked over to where Blake Cunningham had been standing.

He had gone.

So had his college chums on the ground floor. Behind him, the woman calling herself Laura Masden was becoming impatient. She starting pushing through the crowd toward where she'd seen McCall disappear.

McCall hustled Emily to a doorway half-hidden behind one of the steel staircases. One of the grotesque burn masks stepped forward to stop them.

No one goes out this way.

McCall shoved him to one side. Burn Mask looked like he was considering doing something about that, then thought better of it. McCall pushed Emily out through the door into the night. He noted that it had started to rain pretty heavily.

McCall looked behind him to make sure Blake Cunningham or any of his pals weren't following them. They weren't. When he turned back into the street, Emily had disappeared.

CHAPTER 3

The street was deserted, but McCall caught a flash of movement to his left. An old theater was nestled on the corner about ten yards up from the Whitehall subway station constructed of red brick. The theater was derelict, with scaffolding along the east side. The scaffolding looked like it had gone up just after World War II ended. Moonlight had picked up the bright suspenders flashing on Emily's legs as she ran through the theater's front door.

McCall ran across to the theater. Faded letters just under the second-floor windows read MERCURY THEATER. On what was left of a marquee that had been added to the façade at some point was, in slim unlit neon, CREST with the C missing. McCall hoped that wasn't an ironic message for him. Obviously the theater had been turned into a cinema at some point. Probably ran XXX-rated movies in the eighties, before it became as easy to find porn on the internet as your favorite lasagne recipe.

McCall jogged over to a big blue Dumpster, took the two Smith & Wesson pistols he'd appropriated, and tossed them inside. Then he moved back to the theater's front door. He noted a rusted padlock on it was broken. Probably a safe haven on cold nights for the homeless. The door groaned on blackened hinges as he pushed it open.

Inside, the lobby was the quiet of the dead. Dust particles hung in the air like a translucent fog. Rectangular glass frames were on one wall, most of them empty, but a couple of old theater posters were left. The city had turned the movie house back into a theater again for a while. The dates on the two theatrical posters were from the early 2000s. In one, the Mercury Theater was proud to present the US stage première of a thriller titled Underground, and depicted was a London Underground subway car trapped in a tunnel, with the words 12 Passengers on a Subway Journey into Hell. The name above the play title was Raymond Burr. If McCall was put under oath, he would have to confess he liked watching TV reruns of Perry Mason. Next to this poster was one of a rustic cabin in a misty forest clearing, a scantily clad young woman running from it, with the demonic face of a cat superimposed over the woods. Above that was the title: Catspaw—A new stage thriller by Robert L. McCullough. It starred Greg Evigan and a New York cast McCall had never heard of. He thought wryly that this theater was about as off-off-Broadway as you could get and still be in New York.

He stopped and listened. There were small scuttling sounds. Probably rats. Cockroaches made no sound. He heard nothing else. He moved over to a heavy door with small stained-glass panels depicting a knight in green armor slaying a dragon and pushed it open.

Inside the actual theater, the quiet continued. Rows of faded onetime plush red seats were along both sides of a center aisle. The seating capacity was about 350. The stage was empty. A work light stage-right provided a harsh illumination. A ripped red curtain was lying stage-left, never to rise on a performance again. Two ornate boxes were above the stage on either side. As McCall walked down the center aisle, he glanced up. A mezzanine with ten rows of seats was above him.

She came at him from out of the gloom.

She'd picked up a sixteen-inch nail from some construction debris and stabbed it at his face. He grabbed her wrist and twisted it, just enough for her to yelp and drop the nail. He threw her over his shoulder, her black dress riding up over her hips above the stocking tops and silver suspenders. She beat her fists on his back. He didn't react. He reached row G, near the stage, and dumped her down into the first seat. She stared up defiantly, then dropped her eyes, as if just now realizing her dress was up to the level of her black panties. She pulled the dress down, but it didn't cover the stocking tops and suspenders. It wasn't supposed to. Her breath came out in ragged gasps. Her chest was heaving. McCall stood above her, allowing her to calm down, to get oxygen back into her lungs.

She finally said, "You pretended to be me my dad. You dragged me over to some woman who is not my mom. You're one of Blake's asshole cronies."

If that were true, I wouldn't have taken you out of there.

You were taking me to them.

They didn't expect you to come out of that side entrance. Take a couple of deep breaths. I'm not going to hurt you, Emily.

She nodded. Her breathing was less labored. She was coming down from her high. How bad is the withdrawal going to be?

Depends on how much you took. You mind if I sit down?

She moved over into the next seat.

McCall sat down beside her. We can't stay in here.

She looked at the empty stage. I don't think the curtain's going up anytime soon.

They may search for you. This is an obvious place to hide.

I wasn't thinking. I just wanted to get away.

This will be fine for a few minutes.

I don't have to talk to you.

I can take you back to the party. Lots of people to talk to there.

She shook her head violently, then suddenly reached down and undid the suspenders on both stockings. She rolled them down her legs and pulled them off. Screwed them up into balls and threw them into the row in front. She lifted up her black dress, undid the suspender belt, and tossed it after the stockings. Then she demurely pulled the dress down as far on her calves as it would go. Her breathing had regulated. She looked back at him.

What do you want to know?

Your mother—the woman impersonating your mother—said you'd come to Manhattan because you'd been accepted by the New York City Art Institute. Is that true?

Yeah. When I was six, I drew fairies and goblins and dragons for a 'Sticker Fairy Calendar' my mom was going to get published. It never happened. Emily shrugged again. She did that a lot. But the pictures were pretty good for a six-year-old.

Why did you drop out of your art course?

I got bored. I just wanted an excuse…

To leave home?

"Yeah. You don't know my real mom."

Describe her to me.

Thin, very pale, blond hair, but stringy, you know, like she never washes it? Her face is kinda pinched all the time, like she's smelling something bad. Her eyes were always kind, but they had this haunted look in them. She does the best she can, Emily added, as if defensively. She's bipolar, you know? Gigantic mood swings. One day she's chipper about school stuff and my dad being gone all the time, two days later she's a raving lunatic.

Tell me about your dad.

Emily smiled. You couldn't have got him more wrong. He's an archaeologist. Always off on some dig somewhere in Central America or Africa or some Arab caves. Looking for old bones and fossils or whatever the fuck it is they look for to try and discover secrets about people who've been dead for centuries. In 2014 he went to Huamparán, somewhere in Peru, on a dig for the University of Paris. Excavating that site and the areas around Huari and Royal Inca Road. I guess there was more cool stuff to find, because they asked him to go back again. He's been there almost six months. Discovering little pieces of broken pottery, that's what gets his dick hard.

She frowned and shook her head, as if the thought of her dad's penis was pretty inappropriate. She looked again at McCall. "My dad would never be aggressive like you were with Blake. He'd be reasonable and soft-spoken, but he would have dragged me out of there, too."

He loves his daughter.

Yeah, sure.

And I'm sure your mother also loves you.

"She didn't leave small-town Americana to come and look for her daughter who'd been missing for three weeks."

Maybe she sent someone else in her place.

A shrug. Yeah, maybe. A beat, then: I'm sorry I attacked you.

I'll get over it. How did you hook up with Blake Cunningham?

At a cocktail bash at one of the artist's galleries whose work was on display at the Art Institute. Blake was mesmerizing, those blue eyes. I've never seen eyes so cornflower blue on a guy before. Have you?

McCall thought of his friend Granny, with his piercing ice-cold blue eyes. He wondered how Granny was faring on the North Korean covert operation that he'd organized with Mickey Kostmayer. It was a dangerous mission.

Just one guy, McCall said.

Blake stunned me with his personality at first. Like, wow, being kicked right in the gut. He introduced me to his college friends. Most of them are in their last year at Columbia, but a few of them have graduated and are already on Wall Street making a gazillion bucks. I got caught up in a very intoxicating lifestyle. But I knew there was something wrong. Blake wanted to fuck me, and I wanted him to, but he kept his distance. He and his friends are into something—something dangerous and disgusting, but it's making them very rich.

What is it?

I don't know. They were all very careful not to say anything when I was around.

Something illegal?

More than that. It's dark. It scared me.

How's your memory?

Pretty good.

McCall told her his cell phone number, the one on his second Equalizer iPhone. She repeated it and nodded.

You won't forget it?

No, but why would I call you?

Just a precaution.

She nodded again, then touched his arm. Thank you for saving me, she whispered.

Now the tears welled up in her eyes. She looked away to the stage, as if she were seeing some performance in her mind.

"I went to seven musicals in the first month I was here in Manhattan. Wicked—that was the best. Really funny and made your spirits soar. You like musicals? You look more like a Death of a Salesman kind of a guy."

I like musicals.

What's your favorite?

Les Misérables.

I don't even know your name.

McCall didn't answer. He wasn't listening to her any longer. He had heard a sound, one Emily certainly hadn't heard. He squeezed her shoulder.

What is it?

Someone came in here, he said softly. Could be a homeless person. I'd say there are a lot of them who use this place. Especially when it's raining.

She turned around and looked back into the gloom.

I don't see anyone.

Don't move from this seat. Hunker down a little, so you can't be seen from the back of the theater.

She did as she was told. McCall stood and moved up the center aisle. He looked back and couldn't see Emily's figure in the seat, even though he knew she was still there.

No one was in any of the seats. McCall reached the end of the last row, row W, and took a step out into the darkness of the narrow corridor at the back. Reflected in the stained-glass panels he saw a shadow flicker in the illumination of the work light from the stage.

He whirled to his left.

It was one of the two young men from the River Café. His fist was aimed at McCall's throat, looking to sucker punch him as he stepped out into the corridor. McCall ducked under the punch and brought the assailant to his knees with a shot to his solar plexus. He grabbed the young man's wavy black hair and slammed his face down against his knee. He heard the sickening crack as his jawbone fractured.

He didn't sense the other River Café man until it was too late.

He got an arm around McCall's throat and hauled him back.

The thought flashed through McCall's mind that it was a good thing he'd relieved these guys of their Smith & Wesson guns at the rave party. He'd be very dead if they'd still had them handy.

McCall fell to one knee. He had the lapels of the second thug's coat in both hands and pulled him forward. He hit the floor hard.

Just as the first young man was coming up for air.

McCall kicked him in his broken jaw. He toppled to one side, moaning. McCall grabbed the second young man around the throat, thought briefly about snapping his neck, but they hadn't actually attempted to kill him. They were pissed that McCall had taken their guns away from them. McCall could understand that. It was embarrassing.

McCall slammed his knee into the young thug's back. He writhed and tried to reach back for McCall's face. McCall exerted more pressure around the thug's throat and he slumped forward. McCall set him down gently onto the threadbare carpet.

The first River Café thug had long ago lost interest in the fight. He was holding his jaw with both hands as if afraid it was going to come apart. McCall didn't need to do anything more to him or his partner. They weren't going anywhere.

But it was time to get Emily out of there.

McCall ran back down the center aisle to row G, knowing he would not see Emily's figure until he reached it.

She was gone.

A scuffling sound snapped McCall's head up. He caught a glimpse of two shadowy figures in the mezzanine, the work light barely reaching them. Emily was struggling in the grasp of one of Blake's college pals. McCall edged down the row of seats, ran through the aisle doorway, and took the stairs two at a time. The stairs led right out onto the mezzanine. McCall ran up the right-hand aisle. Both figures were gone. A gunshot echoed and a bullet splintered the wall an inch from McCall's face. He ducked down as two more bullets struck a seat in front of him with resounding thuds. McCall waited. A third bullet would have come right away. It didn't. The assailant was trying to get away.

And maybe Emily was not being a model prisoner.

In his mind's eye McCall could see her struggling in the assailant's grasp, kicking him, trying to rip at his face with her long black-tipped fingernails.

McCall moved down a row of seats to the mezzanine center aisle, crouching down fast. There was no movement ahead of him, but there was

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