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The freezing river breeze blew her hair, raising goose bumps up and down her arms and legs. Without another moment’s hesitation, she went down the five steps to the street, jogged south, then took the first street that allowed her to go east, away from the river. She’d hit civilization soon enough.

Thirty-Six

New York, New York

Monday, December 22

3:00 p.m.

He’d been picked up in the alley behind the restaurant by the giant goon known as Atlas, blindfolded and driven around for what felt like hours before L’Uomo met him at the door to the riverfront warehouse. L’Uomo dismissed his driver, and held the dirty steel door for the visitor. L’Uomo was polite on the surface, if nothing else. They made their way through a brief warren that ended in a door. To the right was a second door, and L’Uomo went to it, turned the knob and gestured to his guest.

“Please.”

This had better be worth it, the younger man thought. He walked through the door and down a long hallway toward a steel door with an inset window. He got closer. L’Uomo was behind him, gestured for him to look. As much as he didn’t like turning his back in the man’s presence, he didn’t have much of a choice. Magnifying glass, his mind registered. 294

J.T. Ellison

It took his eyes a moment to adjust. On the floor was a body. A man’s body. What the hell?

He turned to L’Uomo.

“You brought me all the way back from the dead to show me a body? What kind of sick joke are you playing now? Is this just another threat? Because I don’t care anymore.”

L’Uomo looked confused for a moment, then rushed to the glass.

“Goddamn it! Where is she?”

He rushed out of the observation space and into the room. The man called Dusty was crumpled in a heap on the floor, his back to the ceiling. His head was turned three

quarters of the way around, obviously not in its proper place.

L’Uomo screamed in frustration. He wasn’t a man prone to losing control, but this obvious alteration of his Machiavellian plans was the last straw. “She broke his neck. I can’t believe it. And managed to get out of here. This is not good. This is not good at all.”

The man’s eyes were full of fury, and he turned on his guest.

“Son of a bitch, Win. Your fucking daughter killed my man. This will not go unpunished.” He swept out of the room, leaving Win Jackson to stare into the milky-white eyes of the dead stranger.

Taylor? Taylor was here? Taylor had done this? Jesus, she must have been pissed off. A state she was perpetu

ally in when it came to Win, anyway.

Son of a bitch was right. If Anthony Malik had decided to bring Taylor into the scheme, he was going to have bigger problems than he knew.

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L’Uomo returned, calmer, his blue eyes troubled. “Your precious little girl made it to the 108th. We need to clear out of here immediately. Do you still have the boat I arranged for you? Yes? Let’s go.”

He clicked open a cell phone, hit a single digit, spoke tersely to whoever answered. “I need a cleaner at the ware

house. Now.”

Thirty-Seven

Long Island City, New York

Monday, December 22

8:00 p.m.

Detective 3rd Grade Emily Callahan handed Taylor a pair of gray sweatpants and a blue NYPD sweatshirt.

“Here, these should fit. The pants won’t be long enough, though. What are you, six foot?”

Taylor huffed a smile. “Five-eleven and three-quarters.”

She slipped the rough white towel off her shoulders and stood, pulling the sweats on. Callahan was right—they were too short by about three inches, but they were warm and better than nothing. She pulled the sweatshirt over her head, stole a rubber band from Callahan’s desk, tied her wet hair up in a knot, then sat back down. Just showering had left her exhausted.

Taylor had found the 108th Precinct quickly. Long Island City. The bastards had transported her to New York, of all places. Once out the warehouse door, she’d recog

nized the signature Manhattan skyline immediately. As 14

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she moved away from the river, she’d actually been on Fiftieth, and the precinct was on her right after a block. Fortuitous. Though jogging up to the doors of a police station in her skivvies was relatively embarrassing, getting safe was much more important than her modesty. The watch captain had laughed when she ran in, tried to shoo her away, thinking she was some kind of freak. She stood her ground, a

The watch captain realized she was the real deal and grabbed her a blanket. Calls were made, concerned glances given. It was Emily Callahan who had come to her rescue, pulling Taylor into her office, giving her food, then arranging a shower and getting her some warm clothes.

Callahan handed over socks, then a steaming cup of coffee. “Vanilla. The boys here are gourmets.” She rolled her eyes and Taylor laughed.

“I have a few of those myself. Starbucks has ruined us all.”

“You ready to talk to the LT? He’s waiting for you. Whenever you’re ready, no rush.”

Taylor gulped some of the coffee, happy just to have the warmth. It was sweet, almost too sweet, but she rec

ognized that the sugar would be good for her. Callahan had been incredibly kind, fixed her up with some chicken soup, gave her a place to shower, gave her some space to sort through the jumbled-up emotions of the afternoon. The image of that man’s head in her hands flooded in, the sound…she shook it off. Flashbacks weren’t going to help things now.

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J.T. Ellison

Taylor’s stomach rumbled, not happy with her choice of beverage. Stress, she thought. She tried to distract herself.

“You been here long?” she asked.

Callahan looked happy that Taylor had chosen to talk.

“The 108th? Long enough. I’ve been in the detective bureau for a year now. I’m hoping to move up a grade soon, but you know how it is.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“How’d you make LT so young? If you don’t mind me asking, that is.”

“Worked my ass off, just like you’re doing. What are you, twenty-seven, twenty-eight?”

Callahan blushed. “Thirty-three. Thanks for the com

pliment.”

“I never was any good with ages. Just keep busting ass. It’ll come. We’re a smaller department, and we have lots of turnover in the higher ranks. The opportunities come around more often.” She sipped her coffee again, gained as much courage from the sugary bitterness as she would ever get.

“Let’s go do this.”

“Follow me. We’re going to be in the conference room, and it’s already pretty crowded.”

Callahan led Taylor down a hallway covered in flyerfilled corkboards. There was a sameness here that made Taylor comfortable. Cop shops were alike, no matter the locale.

She opened the door to a long room with a conference table. The room was packed.

Callahan made the introductions, going counterclock

wise around the table.

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“Lieutenant Tony Eldridge, Sergeant Robert Johnson, Davis Welton, D-1, Zach Brooks, D-2. This is Lieutenant Taylor Jackson, Metro Nashville Homicide.”

Lieutenant Eldridge unfolded like a brunette crane, all long legs and ski

“No, thanks. I’d rather get this over with first. Have you been to the warehouse?”

Eldridge was looking at her with a sense of incredulity.

“We went there. It was empty.”

“Fast,” Taylor murmured.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean these were professionals. I killed one of their men and they got the scene cleared away that quickly?