The guy started to rise but Jack pulled him back and grabbed for the bundle. He pulled it from his grasp, found the edge of the cloth, and shook it out like a sandy towel.

    A scabbarded katana fell free. The tip pointed Jack's way so he grabbed it and pulled, baring the blade.

    A smooth, unblemished blade.

    Jack tossed the scabbard at the guy and jumped to his feet. He clutched his black plastic bag against his chest, stamped his feet, and pointed with his free hand.

    "The Sword of Damocles! You're an archangel! I knew it! It's the end times! The End Times! I must prepare myself for sacrifice!"

    Now there's a mixed bag of references, he thought as he turned and ran screaming from the park.

    Dawn had no idea how long she'd been in the basement. Not like it was a dungeon or anything. It was warm and well lit; she had a folding chair to sit on. The rest of the furniture consisted of a few long folding tables supporting a bunch of phones, none of which worked—she knew; she'd tried every one of them. But the place had no windows and no clock on the wall, so even though it seemed like days, she knew it had been only hours. How many hours was the question.

    No, not the question, one of the questions.

    The big question was who were these people? She'd been hustled out of the truck and into the rear entrance of this ornate old building way downtown. She hadn't seen any women, only men, and not many of those. The place seemed almost totally deserted.

    They'd fed her—brought her a Big Mac and fries and a bottle of Aquafina—but they hadn't left her alone. Not for a second. Someone sat by the only exit door at all times. The first had been the guy who'd had the sign outside the clinic. On the heavy side, with short dark hair and a retreating hairline, he'd been called Menck by one of the guys in the truck. He'd tried to make small talk at first but she wasn't interested, and he'd clammed up rather than answer the questions she peppered him with.

    She totally recognized the scruffy guy who relieved him: the same guy she'd run into outside Blume's and in SoHo. She'd know that squint anywhere. They called him Darryl and he must have recognized her downtown and followed her to the Milford.

    She wanted to scream. She'd thought she was breaking free but all she'd accomplished was trading Mr. Osala's prison for the Milford prison and now this one, wherever it was.

    Was there anyone left in the world who totally didn't want to lock her up?

    "How long are you going to keep me here?" she said.

    Darryl scratched a bristly cheek. "That's up to the main man."

    "You mean Jerry?"

    The thought made her heart pound. He'd be royally pissed at her for trying to get an abortion, but he wouldn't hurt her. Not while she still carried his precious baby. As Mr. Osala had said—why on God's earth hadn't she stayed with him?—the baby was her insurance policy.

    Darryl frowned. "Jerry? Don't know of any Jerry."

    He seemed to be telling the truth, but she couldn't think of anyone else who could be behind this.

    "Then who's this main man?"

    "He's—" He caught himself. "Probably best if I let him tell you that."

    "Well, where is he?"

    "You'll see him soon."

    Just then the door opened and Menck stuck his head through.

    "Bring her upstairs."

    Dawn tried to jump to her feet and run—but where? And besides, her knees were too wobbly. So she just sat there while Menck held the door and Darryl came over and gripped her upper arm.

    "C'mon, gal. Time to see the main man."

    Jerry… had to be.

    She allowed herself to be helped to her feet, then she preceded Darryl to the door where Menck took her arm and led her up a narrow stairway.

    As soon as she hit the first floor she began screaming for help. Her voice echoed off the stone walls. Darryl and Menck stood by and watched her with amused expressions. Two other men appeared. She recognized them from the truck.

    "What's her problem?" one of them said.

    Darryl grinned. "She thinks there's someone around to hear her."

    "There is," said the guy. "Us."

    "Someone who cares," Darryl added. He poked her shoulder. "There ain't."

    She stopped. She totally wanted to cry but she'd be damned if she'd break down in front of these jerks.

    Menck said, "We called ahead and had the building cleared before you arrived." He tilted his head toward the waiting stairs. "Let's go. Someone on the second floor is waiting to meet you."

    She so didn't want to go but they were behind her, pushing. When she reached the top she was out of breath, not from exertion, but fear. They led her down a hall to a half-open door. They guided her through and she stopped cold at the sight of a man she had totally never seen before.

    He stood in the middle of the room swinging a sword.

    She screamed.

    As Jack approached the Kicker HQ, he was surprised to see a bunch of them hanging out on the front steps and the sidewalk.

    Earlier he'd ditched the rubber gloves and sunglasses, upgrading his look from wino casual to just plain scruffy. He'd traded his torn jeans for ones that were simply well worn. Then he'd stopped over at Gia's where she'd used a Sharpie to draw a faux Kicker Man tattoo in his right thumb web. She'd wanted to know what he was up to but he put her off with a promise of a full explanation later.

    He did a quick check on the tat as he approached the throng. Might not pass muster in the light of day, but here in the dark, with only streetlights for illumination, it was perfect.

    He stopped by a knot of a half dozen guys and pulled out a pack of Marlboros. Making sure his tat was toward the group, he shook one out and lit up. As anticipated, someone needed a smoke.

    "Hey, bro," said a blond guy in a work shirt. "Spare one of those?"

    "Sure." Jack extended the box. After the guy had taken his, Jack offered it around. "Anyone else?"

    One other guy took him up on it. Jack lent them his lighter to fire up. After a few drags—fake inhaled for fear of coughing—he looked around.

    "What's going on? What's everybody doing outside? This a fire drill or something?"

    The blond guy grinned. "Damn near. Like three o'clock this afternoon we get the word: Everybody outta the building. Move-move-move. We been out here ever since. I went and grabbed a burger and come back figuring everything'd be back to normal. But no. Still locked out, and no reason why."

    A tall, sullen type was eyeing Jack. "Ain't seen you around before."

    Jack eyed him right back. "I'm kinda new. Been out all day ripping down those sword flyers. You know they got them posted as far out as Jackson Heights? I mean, what gives with that?"

    The blond guy said, "Word is that someone heard just as we were being moved out that the next job would be taking down the girl posters."

    Jack stiffened. "You mean those missing Dawn Pickering things we've been plastering all over town? They want them down?"

    "That's the word." He shrugged. "Don't mean it's true."

    "Did they find her?"

    The tall guy shrugged. "Don't think so. I been workin the phones these past four weeks and I ain't heard nothin but bullshit comin in. One lie after another, just trying to get a piece of that reward. Sometimes people make me sick, y'know? I think Hank just figured if we ain't found her by now, we ain't gonna find her at all, and he decided to pull the plug."