"The markets are closed on Sundays. That's why when you order fish on a Sunday, you're getting food that's been on ice over the weekend."

"You're kidding."

"No, sir. I did a piece on the South Street Seaport a few months ago. Took seven showers to wash that smell off me. And one thing I learned is that there are no fish deliveries on Sundays in this city."

"So if that truck isn't delivering fish," Curt said, "then..."

"Then we follow the truck."

"The truck?"

"This place is a refilling station. My guess is they don't keep more than a few days' supply in here. Wherever the Darkness is coming from, it's not here. But I have a feeling Sam the fisherman might have an idea."

"Lead the way."

336.

But I couldn't lead the way. That was up to the employees of Sam's, or whatever front the Sam's truck was used for, and they took their sweet time. The men unloaded at least a dozen large boxes, which they carefully brought inside the Kitten Club. Curt and I sat there and watched in silence, trying to figure out just how much the merchandise inside those boxes was worth, where it came from, and where it was being manufactured.

Finally, at about eight-thirty, just as the New York streets were beginning to clog up, one of the men climbed into the driver's side and churned the ignition. He slowly pulled away from the club, turning south onto Ninth Avenue and then right on Fourteenth Street heading east.

Fourteenth was one of the major Manhattan arteries, so going crosstown took some time. The driver of the truck didn't seem in a particular hurry, never honking or making any maneuvers that would have gotten him noticed.

When we got to Third Avenue, the truck headed north, and then took a right at Thirty-sixth.

"Is he headed to the tunnel?" Curt said.

The truck seemed to answer that question for us as it merged left on Thirty-sixth into the Midtown Tunnel, heading out toward Queens.

"What the h.e.l.l is in Queens?" Curt asked again.

"I hope you're just thinking out loud and not expecting me to answer," I said, "because I'm as confused as you are."

Once through the tunnel, the truck stayed on 495-East, not going a single mile over the speed limit. After about seven miles, the truck merged onto the Grand Central Expressway, then took the Van Wyck south. I was now thoroughly confused, and I could tell from Curt's expression he was, too.

As we neared the Briarwood section of Queens, the 337.

truck abruptly turned off of the Van Wyck, still keeping legal speed, and continued south until it began to slow.

At this point I slowed the car as well; traffic was easing up, making us more noticeable. We were still two cars behind the truck, and I was hoping that driving a big rig made it a little harder for the driver to spot us.

Then, a mile down the road, the truck made another right and disappeared.

"This isn't good," I said, slowing down and pulling over to the side of the road.

Running at least half a mile was a fence made of chicken wire, the top lined with sharp barbs. We were a good few miles from any sort of body of water. "My guess is they don't ship fish here," I said. "What do we do now?"

Curt sat there, shaking his head. "We don't have PC," he said.

"Screw probable cause, Curt. We go in there, I'll bet my father's eyes we'll find it within thirty seconds."

"I don't know," he said. "We don't even know what we'd be walking into."

"You're a cop and I'm a reporter at one of the biggest papers in the city," I said. "They can't just kill us."

As I said that, suddenly we whipped around as something rapped at the pa.s.senger side door. There was a man standing there leaning over, gently knocking his knuckles against the window.

I felt a lump rise in my throat. What the h.e.l.l was he doing here?

Curt immediately lowered his window and said, "Detective Makhoulian, I... How did you get here?"

Detective Sevay Makhoulian, wearing a light brown jacket that fluttered in the wind, nodded, gesturing across the front seat toward my window.

338.

We turned around to find another man there. This one I'd never met before, but I knew him right away. He was in his early forties, with wavy blond hair and an ear that looked like a bad science experiment.

It was Rex Malloy, and he was smiling as he aimed a gun at my head.

47.

Rex Malloy opened up the backseat door and slid in, keeping his gun trained on the back of Curt's head. Detective Makhoulian was walking in front of us, leading us toward the path that the Sam's fish truck had pulled into. I now knew that Makhoulian had tipped them off about our meeting with Hollinsworth. Curt had trusted him. And so had I.

"Weapon, please," Malloy said to Curt.

"I'm not packing."

"And I'm Tiger Woods. Weapon. Please."

I closed my eyes as I felt the muzzle of the gun pressed against my head. Curt reached down and unstrapped a gun from his ankle, then handed it over.

"Thank you," Malloy said. "Was that so hard?"

I could see Malloy through the rearview mirror. His gun was held level, steady, and there was even the slightest hint of a grin on his face.

Curt looked straight ahead. He was quiet, but I could sense that he was seething inside. As a cop, I could imagine it was a ma.s.sive blow to your ego to be ambushed like this. But it wasn't Curt's fault. At least now we knew who the mole was inside the NYPD. And it was the very man who'd helped "investigate" my brother's murder.

340.

"How long has Makhoulian been working for you?" I asked. Up ahead we approached a gate, which opened for us.

Malloy tilted his head just slightly. "Now come on, Henry. There'll be plenty of time to ask questions. And please call him 'Detective.'"

"He's no more a detective than you are a soldier," I spat.

Malloy squinted his eyes just slightly, and the hint of a grin became a full-blown smile.

"You know, I wasn't sure how much Bill Hollinsworth was able to get out before we quieted that rat,"

Malloy said.

"He told us everything," I said. "I know about Panama, about the Hard Chargers. I know that your brother was killed and you've decided to emulate him in some sick game, you whack job."

"Emulate?" Malloy said. "My friend, I am a living tribute to my brother."

"Shame you didn't both get plugged over there," Curt said. "Save us all a lot of time."

"Even if I did," Malloy said, "it wouldn't have changed anything except my post-military career. You two just happened to be caught up in the current, and lucky enough for you, you'll actually get to know the truth before you die. Well, at least all the truth that's fit to print."

"What the h.e.l.l's that supposed to mean?" I said.

"Just sit tight," Malloy said. "We're almost there."

I followed Makhoulian down a long dirt road, both sides bracketed by fencing topped with razor wire. The forest was thick behind the fence, blocking our path from view. The road snaked and twisted for over a mile, before it opened into a large open field, surrounded by more fencing and still closed off from the rest of the world.

341.

There was a large brown warehouse in the middle, some sort of facility. As we approached the facility, two men carrying machine guns came out to meet us. They stopped on either side of the car and waited.

"Get out," Malloy said.

"Or what?" Curt replied.

"Or I'll kill your friend Parker. And if Parker doesn't get out, I'll kill you. And if you both refuse to get out, I'll kill every member of your family."

Hatred burning through me, I opened the door and stepped out. Curt did the same.

As we stepped out, I was shoved up against the car and searched by the man with the machine gun. The man on the other side did the same to Curt.

From me they confiscated a Bic pen, and from Curt a Swiss army knife that was attached to his key chain. Then they took the whole key chain as well.

I was sweating terribly, my mind and heart racing. As I stood back up, I was finally able to get a full glimpse of our surroundings. Parked around the side of the warehouse was the fish truck, the rear backed in to what looked like a loading dock. And if there was a loading dock here, I had no doubt that this was where they shipped the Darkness.

"Come on," Malloy said, "she's waiting for you."

"Who the h.e.l.l is waiting for us?" Curt said. Then he turned to Detective Makhoulian. "And you, you f.u.c.king rat. If I don't leave here alive, I swear to G.o.d you're coming with me."

Makhoulian just stood there and said, "I'm sorry, Curtis. You're a good man, but you're out of your league."

"What the h.e.l.l does that mean? And who is this 'she'

you're talking about?"

"Eve Ramos," I said. "She was one of the survivors of 342.

the attack in Panama. She's the Fury." Curt looked at me, confused, then his eyes widened as the totality of our situation sank in. "She's the one who wanted my brother killed."

"Henry," he said.

"I know."

Malloy said, "Follow me."

As if we'd had second thoughts, the two gunmen proceeded to follow us as Malloy led us up to the warehouse. He entered a code on a side door, opened it and ushered us in.

We were in a long, narrow stairwell, painted a dull gray.

Cameras were positioned at several spots at every landing.

Malloy walked in front of us, taking us up two flights of stairs before we stopped in front of a door with another keypad. I counted three cameras, red lights glowing steadily.

"You come with me," Malloy said, looking at Curt.

"You're staying here."

"I'm not going anywhere," Curt said.

Malloy ripped the gun from his waistband and jammed it under Curt's jaw, hard enough to make the man wince.

"You're going to come with me, right now. right now. " "

Malloy signaled to the two gunmen, and they kept their muzzles trained on me as Malloy led Curt somewhere upstairs. When he was out of sight, one of the men turned to me and said, "You're going to wait in here."

He jabbed a code in with a calloused finger, and when the LED light turned green he pushed it open.

To my surprise, the door opened into a medium-sized conference room, complete with varnished wood table and comfortable leather chairs. There was even a speakerphone hooked up and sitting on the middle of the table, like a cadre of suits was about to walk through the door and talk shop while scarfing down bagels and coffee.

343.

"What the h.e.l.l..." I was able to say before I was pushed inside, the door slamming shut behind me.

The first thing I did when the door clicked shut was run to the table and turn on the speakerphone. I wasn't shocked to find that there was no dial tone.

"s.h.i.t!" I yelled at the top of my lungs. It wasn't quite a subst.i.tute for "Help" but n.o.body could hear me anyway.

I walked around the room, looking for anything I could use. There was nothing. I debated uns.c.r.e.w.i.n.g one of the wheels from the chairs to brandish as a weapon, but in a warehouse filled with people armed to the gills it was more apt to get me killed quicker.

They wanted me here for a reason, or they would have killed me already. Besides, this room was too pretty to commit murder in.

At least, that's what I thought until I saw the light red stain on the carpet by the door I'd come in through. It had clearly been scrubbed numerous times, but d.a.m.ned if blood wasn't just too difficult a liquid to get out.

"His name was Jeremy Robertson," a voice said. "And he didn't listen."