"It's why he didn't send us back the way we came," Keith explained, sensing Heather's uncertainty. "He wanted us close to him, close enough so he couldn't miss."

"You don't know that," Heather said, her voice low. "Why would he-"

"We saw him," Keith said. "We saw his face. As soon as he said we weren't supposed to be there, I knew what he was going to do."

"Then why didn't he just do it?" Heather demanded, and Keith could hear her desperation, her need to believe the man would have let them pass unharmed.

"Because he's a coward," Keith said. "What other kind of person would hunt for an unarmed man with an automatic rifle?" He glanced around at the tunnel stretching away in both directions. Save for the shadowy areas of darkness between the pools of light, there was no place to hide. He reached back into the bag and continued removing its contents.

Night vision goggles-not the cheap Russian variety he had seen in hunting magazines, but a fancy-looking setup whose price he couldn't even guess at.

A two-way radio, smaller than any cell phone he'd ever seen.

A canteen of water and a packet of food-the kind hikers carried with them, weighing almost nothing but packing a lot of energy.

A neatly coiled length of rope.

A pint of scotch-Chivas-which Keith suspected wasn't part of the standard issue of whatever group the kit's owner was a part.

And at the bottom, a small leather-bound book, like a diary. Though its color was indistinguishable in the darkness of the tunnel, the softness of its grain told Keith it was of the same quality as the goggles and the scotch. It bore an elegant monogram stamped in gold:

M H C

Below the monogram, in the same lettering, but in a smaller size, appeared the words:

THE MANHATTAN HUNT CLUB

Keith flipped the book open. It wasn't a diary, but rather, a kind of logbook, and as he scanned the first page, his blood ran cold. When he was finished, he wordlessly handed it to Heather. As she silently began to read, he tried to grasp everything that first page implied:

Quarry; Leon Nelson

Crime: Rape amp; Murder

Date of Extraction: 6/16/94

Dates of Hunt: 6/18/94-6/22/94

Hunting Party: Hawk Falcon Rattler Mamba Adder

Bagged By: Rattler

Time: 1:17 A.M.

Place: Level Three, Sector Four

Notes: Subject made numerous attempts to escape, none either either unpredictable or imaginative. Herders reported finding him half drowned after attempting to hide in a storm drain during a downpour. Begging for mercy when Rattler shot him. Hoping for better game next time.

Heather read through the page twice, wishing she could find a reasonable explanation for what she was reading, but unable to ignore the cold, clinical directness of the log. Her heart racing, she flipped through the book until she came to the most recent entry.

The last of her doubt faded away as she read the words that had been so carefully written on the page.

In the space for identifying the "Quarry," Jeff's name was neatly inscribed.

The "Date of Extraction" was three days ago, the date that Jeff had supposedly died in the crash of the Correction Department transport van.

The "Dates of Hunt" entry was only partially filled in, with today's date as its opening.

The closing date was still blank.

The "Hunting Party" consisted of Adder, Mamba, Rattler, Viper, and Cobra.

"I wish you'd killed him," she said coldly. "But who are they? What kind of people would do such a thing? What kind of people could even think of such a thing?"

Keith held out the wallet he'd taken from the man's pants. "His name's Carey Atkinson," he said.

Heather's eyes widened with shock, and when she exchanged the logbook for the wallet, her hands were trembling. She stared at the driver's license for several long seconds, and when she spoke again, her voice was as unsteady as her hands.

"Keith, I know Carey Atkinson. He's a friend of my father's."

Keith frowned. "How good a friend?"

Heather took a deep breath, then she met Keith's gaze. "Very good," she whispered. "He's the Chief of Police."

Keith's lips compressed into a grim line. "I guess we know how they got Jeff out of the van."

As the truth of what Keith had just said sank in, Heather felt cold fury. "Could you have killed him?" she asked. "If you'd wanted to?"

Keith nodded. "If I'd known who he was and exactly what he was doing, I would have. I'd have broken his neck."

Heather took the gun out of her pocket and gazed at it. "Until just now I wasn't sure I'd actually be able to use this. But if we find the rest of those men…" Her voice trailed off.

"Let's just hope we find Jeff before they do," Keith said. He flipped through the book, then stopped. "Holy Jesus," he whispered.

"What?"

"Look." He held out the book. "Maps."

Heather took the book and studied the hand-drawn maps carefully. There were eight pages of them, meticulously detailed, and as she moved back and forth from one page to another, the maze of passages and tunnels began to make some sense. Her finger touched a spot on the first map, pointing to where the men must have entered the labyrinth that lay beneath the streets.

A suspicion began to grow inside her. He wouldn't do something like this. He couldn't.

But she couldn't dispel the suspicion that had taken root in her mind.

Jagger froze, turning his attention away from the pain of his burns, focusing on the footsteps. When he'd first heard them, echoing so quietly that he almost failed to catch the sound at all, he was so sure it was Jeff returning that he'd nearly whispered to him. But an instinct deep within him had issued an alarm, and he stayed silent.

The approaching footsteps slowed, became more cautious.

Now he knew it wasn't Jeff.

Then who?

A hunter?

Maybe just a drunk.

It didn't matter. The important thing-the only thing that mattered-was that it wasn't Jeff.

He inched back, shrinking his huge frame deeper into the alcove, pressing against the end wall so hard his spine started to go numb.

As the footsteps came closer, he almost stopped breathing, concentrating every nerve in his body on the dark space beyond the alcove.

Whoever was approaching seemed to sense his presence as well, for whoever was hidden in the gloom paused after each step, as if to listen, to take stock.

Then the footsteps stopped altogether, and Jagger held his breath, afraid that even the air moving through his lungs might give him away.

The tense moment stretched, and when it finally ended, it wasn't a sound that broke it at all.

Instead, it was a tiny spot of brilliant red that crept into the edge of Jagger's vision like a drop of glowing blood oozing slowly through the filth that covered the rough concrete floor of the tunnel.

Or some sort of predator stalking its next meal.

As Jagger's eyes followed it, the crimson spot veered toward the wall opposite his lair and began climbing, moving back and forth, patrolling the wall like a soldier tacking across a battlefield. When it came to the ceiling, the spot abruptly vanished, but Jagger neither released his breath nor let himself relax.

The spot reappeared, now on the wall of the alcove directly opposite his face, no more than six feet away.

It began creeping downward, once again moving back and forth, and when it paused, Jagger was certain it had found him. But a second or two later it continued its progress until it reached the floor of the alcove. Instead of moving closer to him, however, it went the other way, edging closer and closer to the lip of the alcove's floor, until it disappeared, almost as if it had fallen over the edge.