Nocturnal (38 page)

The shambling mound of a person moved faster. The blanket flapped away for a moment, and in that moment Bryan saw a glint of metal.

He drew his gun and sprinted faster.

Pookie scrambled up the cold, wet metal as fast as he dared. He looked up, blinking against the rain hitting his face, and was surprised to see a figure crawl out of a sixth-floor window and jump onto the fire escape. The person was little more than a shapeless shadow thanks to the heavy blanket that covered him. High above, at the eighth floor, Pookie saw a smaller figure — Issac.

Pookie’s feet hit hard on the fire escape steps. He had to get to Issac before that blanketed man did.

Bryan saw Alex running as fast as he could, big body lumbering, big arms swinging. The man chasing him moved much faster; he closed in on Alex, the gray blanket trailing behind like a heavy cape.

Goddamn he’s fast!

Still sprinting hard, Bryan raised his gun.

“Police! Get down!”

The man either ignored him or couldn’t hear over the rain.

Bryan thought of stopping, chancing a shot, but if he missed, he might hit Alex.

Pookie had made it to the seventh-story landing when the man chasing Issac vanished from sight onto the roof. The nearly vertical climb already had Pookie’s legs and lungs burning in complaint.

From up on the roof, he heard gunshots.

His foot slipped on a step and his knee banged hard into metal. He climbed on despite the pain.

Cold wind blowing, jacket and hair already soaked with driving rain, Pookie reached the ninth-floor landing — just one more short flight to reach the roof. He drew his Sig Sauer and started to climb.

Marco heard a man yelling somewhere behind him. Police.
Again
. Sly was going to be so pissed, and if Firstborn found out, Marco would get such a beating. There were no tunnels around here. The nearest hidey-hole was the old Russian Hill reservoir, but that was five blocks away. Besides, Marco couldn’t just run — the king had given an order.

Marco knew that if he could grab the boy, he could then scramble up a wall to the roof and the cop wouldn’t be able to follow. The king had commanded the boy not be killed, but that didn’t mean Marco couldn’t wound him.

Still running, Marco raised his weapon.

Bryan saw streetlights reflect off the wet blade.

A hatchet.

Bobby Pigeon’s killer
.

Bryan stopped running, aimed, then fired twice. The man stumbled forward and landed on Alex, sending both of them face-first into the sidewalk.

Pookie heard two noises — a double tap from back down on the street, and a deep, bass
thong
from up on the roof. He swung his pistol over the roof’s brick retaining wall, letting the gunsight lead his vision through the pouring rain. The bottom of his forearms rested on the narrow wall’s flat top, leaving only his hands and head exposed to danger.

What the fuck?

A snap-sequence of visuals — a man wearing a mask with a long, curved beak, an arrow sticking out of his shoulder, rolling weakly in a puddle on the black-tar rooftop. And a second body, this one wearing a black sweatshirt, lying facedown and motionless: Issac Moses. Past them both, barely visible on the dark roof, a man standing, holding a bow, wearing some kind of … hooded cloak?

The standing man turned toward Pookie. The deep hood hid his face in shadow. He let go of the bow and reached into his dark green cloak, reached in
so fast
.

The bow hadn’t even hit the roof before the man drew two pistols and fired. Pookie pulled his trigger twice even as he dropped behind the wall, bits of masonry spinning all around him.

Bryan sprinted in, gun raised before him. The blanketed man rolled off Alex. Bryan saw blood staining the back of the man’s white tank top — he had taken at least one round.

Bryan rushed in to see if he could stop the bleeding. As Bryan reached for him, he felt a strange warmth in his chest.

What the hell
 …

He didn’t see the big boot kicking out until it was too late. The sole drove into his stomach and sent him flying backward.
So strong!
Bryan knew he’d lost his wind before he even landed. The Sig Sauer was still in his hand. His ass hit hard on the concrete. He let the momentum carry him in a backward roll. At the apex, Bryan pushed hard with his head and shoulders, bouncing himself into the air and letting him land on his feet.

He brought up the gun.

The bearded, bleeding man reached for the wet hatchet lying on the sidewalk.

“Don’t do it, asshole! Don’t even move!”

The man stopped and looked up at Bryan. Then his eyes widened and his mouth opened in an expression of pure shock.

Pookie’s heart kicked inside his chest. He’d been
shot at
. He couldn’t just sit here, he had to move, he had to
act
and do it
now
. He licked the rain off his lips, sucked in a fast breath, then stood just enough to swing his gun over the wall.

The cloaked man was only a few feet away, rushing forward, bow in his hand. Pookie again ducked behind the wall as the cloaked man sailed overhead, out into the night.

Pookie clung to the fire escape as he turned to watch the man plummet to his death, but the man
didn’t
plummet — cloak flapping behind him, the man sailed through the air, legs and arms kicking and pumping like an Olympic long jumper. It was like watching a special effect, a high-wire movie of someone arcing down through the rainy night.

The man soared clear across the street. He hit the flat, black roof of a four-story building and rolled once, twice, three times. Pookie watched in disbelief as the man stood and walked back to the building’s edge.

Fifty feet away and six stories down, the bowman was little more than a mound of dark green fabric that blended into the black roof. And yet, Pookie could see the man was staring at the street. Pookie snapped a glance in that direction; on the sidewalk ten stories below, Bryan Clauser had his gun pointed at a man lying on the ground.

Then, Bryan slowly lowered his gun.

Pookie looked back to the man on the roof — he felt a dagger of horror when he saw the man holding the bow, drawstring pulled all the way back to his now-exposed cheek. Before Pookie could say a word, the man released.

The arrow ripped through the air.