“For what?” she asked, annoyed that her recent partner in crime and soon-to-be fellow victim was fleeing the fight at a snail’s pace. “What the hell are you going to do?!”

  He looked toward the front of the car as they took another turn. His dropped handgun slid across the alley.

  “Right,” she said, and then dove to the side, as the Red Sox fan’s taser fired with a snap. She felt a pinch as one prong struck her side, but no mind-numbing jolt followed. She grasped the line and yanked, pulling the metal tip from her skin with a wince.

  “Just remember,” Henry said. “They’re underestimating you. They have no idea how strong you are.”

  “You just told them…” she said, under her breath.

  “Right, well, sis-boom-bah and all that.” He slid away, feet slipping in his blood trail. “You can do it.”

  Then she faced the two men. The Red Sox fan was aiming at her again, but having a hard time steadying his aim in the moving train. She bounced back and forth, making an even harder target. Beside him, the swordsman moved closer, but kept one hand on the rail over his head.

  The Red Sox fan was a local. Knew how to shift his weight with the train’s movement. But the swordsman… Local or not, he didn’t ride the subway. The expensive suit he wore—a Ralph Lauren, or Prada, or something—hinted that the man rarely, if ever, rode the subway. Though the ski-mask covering his face was a plain, knit cotton deal. The kind you’d find at Walmart. The kind you could buy in bulk without anyone thinking twice about it.

  The taser snapped again. This time both prongs missed their mark by a lot.

  “Shit,” the man said, dropping the weapon and raising the second.

  With every drawn out second, Sarah felt her fear wane and her irritation grow. She didn’t like waiting for a fight, and she never stayed on the defensive for long. But her normal tactic—get in close and deliver the pain—was meant for the wrestling ring, not a fight with a swordsman.

  “C’mon,” she barked, catching herself and the two men off guard.

  They glanced at each other. The Red Sox fan shrugged.

  The swordsman charged.

  He made it two steps. The subway turned left. The swordsman fell right.

  And Sarah charged up the middle like a running back who’d found a gap.

  A flash of surprise crossed the Red Sox fan’s face. Then he fired.

  Sarah lowered her head. Felt one of the prongs bite into her shoulder. The other struck her hair and became lodged in one of the pom poms she’d spent so long perfecting that morning.

  She collided with the man before he could fire again.

  Shoulder to his gut, she lifted him up and then jumped, arced forward, and drove him into the hard floor. He coughed on impact, the air driven from his lungs. In a normal fight—one-on-one—she’d have finished the man with any number of incapacitating moves.

  But this wasn’t a normal fight.

  “Behind you!” Henry shouted.

  The sword glinted as it swung toward her head.

  She dove to the side, knowing there was no way to dodge the blow. Instead, she let the subway do the fighting for her.

  Metal clanged against metal, sword against vertical rail.

  The man swung again from the opposite side and Sarah repeated the move while climbing to her feet.

  With a roar of frustration, the man swung the blade over his head, but only managed to strike the light, shorting the lighting in the entire car. Pale, yellow light strobed in the car. Everything seemed to move slow, and fast, at the same time.

  The swordsman switched strategies again, this time faster than Sarah could prepare for. Instead of swinging, he jabbed. The blade slid against the vertical rail, but pushed forward, slipping through Sarah’s shirt and grazing her arm.

  At first there was no pain.

  Then a biting sting.

  Followed by an intense, throbbing pain and the warm ooze of blood.

  Rage flowed through her.

  With a scream of anger and pain, she reached out, grasped the man’s expensive suit, and yanked him closer. Off balance and unprepared, the swordsman’s face collided with the rail. He flailed back onto the floor, knocked senseless for a moment, but not unconscious.

  She took a step closer to finish him when she heard the now familiar crack of a taser being fired. She felt a subtle sting in her back, and her butt, and then agony.

  Every muscle convulsed.

  She bit her tongue.

  Exquisite pain wracked every nerve, muscle, and sinew in her body.

  But she didn’t fall.

  Above the quivering pain, she heard the scream of a little girl. Something about being murdered in front of a kid fueled her anger.

  The pain suddenly ceased.

  “What the hell?” the Red Sox fan said, looking down at his taser, as Sarah turned to face him. He’d gotten back to his feet, but he didn’t look like he had much fight in him. Unfortunately, he didn’t need to.

  The man pulled the trigger again, sending another wave of jolting pain through her body. Her muscles went rigid, quaking. A vibrato scream of pain tore from her.

  But she didn’t relent to it.

  Instead, she stepped into it, eyes blazing at the Red Sox fan as she stepped toward him. All he could do was hold down the trigger and back away.

  “What the hell!” he said again.

  And then the pain faded.

  The shaking subsided.

  The taser had run out of juice. And Sarah had been set free.

  She lunged forward, driven by stored rage. Punching was not part of her repertoire. Grappling. Various holds and throws. But she wasn’t being guided by the rules of wrestling, or past training. She was guided, instead, by fury.

  Her fist struck the man’s face once. She felt something give—his jaw and some teeth maybe. The man’s shout of pain was cut short when she struck him again, this time square in the nose. Twin geysers of blood shot from his nostrils. His head lolled back.

  He was done.

  “Behind you!” Henry shouted. “Get down!”

  She caught sight of the swordsman rushing her, sword extended to run her through. A gunshot reverberated through the train, followed by shouts of pain from everyone inside it.

  But Henry had missed.

  He sat up, looked over the sight, finger on the trigger.

  Sarah’s eyes widened. From her perspective, Henry’s gun was leveled at her face.

  “Wai—”

  The train lurched.

  The swordsman stumbled sideways.

  Henry fell back, and his gun hand struck a railing. The weapon fired.

  There was a drawn-out moment, with time slowed, when Sarah was sure she was about to die. The gun had been aimed at her, but then everything was muddled.

  Something red exploded from inside the swordsman’s mask.

  Hot liquid spritzed Sarah’s face.

  For a numb moment, she felt confused. The world was upside down. And then realization. The swordsman had been shot. In the head. And whatever had come out of him, had splashed on her. He was on her face. In her hair. In her mouth!

  Sarah gagged, but disgust gave way to sudden pain. It lanced from her thigh, radiating out through her body. Her hands snapped to the pain, grasping hold of the Red Sox fan. He’d buried a short knife in her leg.

  The rage returned.

  “You fucking asshole!” Sarah yelled, yanking the man up. “Just stay the fuck away from us!”

  She flung him with everything she had, spinning, pulling and then heaving. The man catapulted to the side, struck the window full on, shattered it, and in the blink of an eye he was outside the subway car, vanished into the dark far behind. Definitely dead…along with the swordsman.

  I just killed a man, she thought, and she vomited atop the swordsman.

  “You did what you had to,” Henry said. He’d climbed to his feet and was standing beside her, clinging to a rail. “He had it coming, but…we both know you didn’t mean to kill him. The window must have been faulty.”

  The subway squealed and stopped. Sarah grimaced. The knife still in her leg made every movement painful. But she knew better than to take it out. Not before she had a way to stop the bleeding.

  The doors opened.

  At the far end, their fellow passengers raced out. Those waiting to board the train took one step inside, saw the gore, and backed away.

  “Cops will be here soon,” Henry said.

  For a moment, she thought, Good, and then she remembered that at least some of the people chasing them were police. Henry wasn’t informing her, he was warning her.

  “We’re not going to get far looking like this,” she said. Both of them were covered in dark red. “Sorry about your shirt.”

  He limped toward the door and she hobbled after him. “I’m not,” he said. “That was awesome.”

  “We need to work on your view of what is good and what is bad,” she said, following the crowd. “And then we need to work on your aim.”

  When they reached the top of the Park Street terminal’s exit, the summer heat assaulted them. To the left was Boston Common, a large park with crisscrossing paths, fountains, a bandstand, and a frog pond. Full of people and trees, it would have been a good place to get lost in—if they weren’t blood soaked and drawing stares.

  Word was spreading about the violence on the train. People were fleeing in all directions, leaving Sarah and Henry exposed.

  We need to find someplace to hide.

  There was a Burger King across the street, but as soon as they walked inside, the patrons would spill out. To the left, on the far side of the Commons, stood the golden dome of the Massachusetts State House. No freakin’ way they could go there. To the north and east, the city’s tall buildings stood like a wall, designed to keep White Walkers out, but they’d just left that part of town. Going back would be a mistake…especially when they both resembled Stephen King’s Carrie—after her blood-soaked prom. Where could they go, be safe, and welcome?

  “There,” Henry said, tugging her toward Park Street Church.

  “Don’t tell me you’re a believer,” she said while following.

  “Church is for suckers,” Henry said. “But suckers also help people.”

  She was about to agree when a blue uniformed officer, moving against the fleeing crowd’s flow, barreled straight toward them.

  12

  Sarah tensed. About to strike the onrushing officer.

  “Wait,” he said. “Look at his eyes. He’s not one of them. Quick, fake an injury.”

  “We are both injured,” she hissed.

  “But you look like the frikken’ Juggernaut after getting kicked in the nards.” He hunched forward, clutching a hand to his ear. It wasn’t hard to look in pain—lightning bolts arced from the wound in his backside—but he wasn’t normally a crier. Until now.

  Henry poured on the wet works, hiccupping sobs as he pointed back to the Park Street subway stairwell. “Back there! They both have guns!”

  Sarah stood still, a kind of glazed look in her eyes. He’d gone for hysteria. She’d gone for shock. It worked.

  The officer drew his gun. Held it away and toward the sidewalk as he hurried toward them, slowing.

  Maybe I was wrong, Henry considered, moving his hand back to the handgun once again tucked into the back of his pants. Most people wouldn’t have kept the gun there after shooting themselves, but Henry didn’t think he’d repeat the mistake. He’d put his finger around the trigger before pulling the weapon out. This time he wouldn’t. Lack of fear played a part. He could shoot himself in the butt, loathe the pain, and then do it again without any apprehension, but he wasn’t incapable of learning from his mistakes. Shooting himself wouldn’t get him any closer to his goals, and that was unacceptable.

  So he learned.

  The officer slowed as he approached, but his angle was off. He wasn’t coming for them.

  “Are you two okay?” The man sounded genuinely concerned. One of the good guys.

  Henry let go of the gun. “L-looks worse than it is.”

  The officer glanced at Sarah. “Is she okay?”

  If the officer looked at Sarah’s leg and saw the small knife sticking out of it, things might not work out the way he planned.

  “It’s not her blood,” Henry said.

  The officer paled. “People are…dead?”

  “At least two,” Henry said.

  “Ambulances are on the way.” He glanced into the park. Policemen were sprinting toward them from the State House. Still a good minute out, but approaching fast. “Backup, too.”

  Sirens wailed across the city.

  “Try to find someplace off the street,” the officer said. “The whole city is going to hell.”

  “That’s the plan,” Henry said, and he started walking, freeing the officer from his obligation. The man charged down the subway stairs.

  “We should probably go now,” Henry said, casual once more.

  But Sarah didn’t respond. She just stared. Dumb and mute.

  “Ohh.” Henry took her hand. “You’re in actual shock. Sorry, I forget that happens to people.”

  He pulled her along like a two-legged puppy, guiding her across the sidewalk—a patterned mix of brick and concrete—heading for the Park Street church. The building was tall; the white steeple rising up from the brick walls looked almost noble. A relic of the past, defying the modern construction around it. The black clock on the side of the spire caught his attention. The minute hand snapped vertical.

  The church’s bells rang out the Westminster Chimes, as though beckoning them. The sound blocked out the city’s hum, the siren’s wail, and the shouting of people as panic spread. Had Henry felt tense, they would have relaxed him. They had no effect on Sarah.

  At least she’s following me.

  Twelve steady bongs rang out as they followed the red line known as the Freedom Trail. In this part of town, it was a brick path, just two across, that led the curious to sixteen different sites that somehow impacted early American history. That included Park Street Church, whose history of abolitionism earned it a stop on the two-and-a-half-mile long trail.

  Henry paused at the bottom step. Just twenty feet away was a homeless woman, curled up in a ball next to the granite and wrought iron wall surrounding the church’s old cemetery. Her shoes were off. A windbreaker covered her body and head. Could be dead. No one gave her a second look.

  But Henry did.

  The church was supposed to help people like her. But there she was, a stone’s throw from Boston’s most iconic church, with a congregation in the thousands and money to burn, unconscious and uncared for. Buried in the cemetery were men like Paul Revere, Samuel Adams, and John Hancock. People who had fought and bled for a fledgling country. What would they think of the woman lying near their graves?

  They probably wouldn’t care, either, Henry decided and started up the steps, leading Sarah along.

  The bells finished chiming when they reached the front door. A grid of windows in the entryway revealed the foyer and sanctuary beyond. How many great speeches were delivered here? Henry wondered, and then he took hold of the door’s handle.

  Locked.

  His knuckles rapped on the wooden door. The sound was impossible to miss in the empty chambers. And soon enough, a man appeared. Could have been the pastor, or a deacon, or whatever kind of church person sticks around during the day. At first, the man seemed eager to reach the door. Then he got close enough for their back-lit silhouettes to resolve.

  His eyes widened.

  He looked a bit like Darth Vader after his face was revealed, only somewhat less sickly and donning a pair of wire rimmed glasses that looked like something Benjamin Franklin would wear. The man twiddled his fingers atop his maroon, wool sweater-vest. And then he slowly shook his head.

  “We’re hurt,” Henry said, motioning to the knife in Sarah’s leg. “She needs help.”

  “Wait for the police,” was the man’s muffled reply.

  Henry reached for the gun.

  “Good Lord, look at you two,” said a heavyset woman from the bottom of the steps. She was pushing sixty, had skin darker than Sarah’s, and wore a bright yellow T-shirt and ball cap, both emblazoned with a bold Daisy Duck Tours logo. Like other cities, Boston had its share of tour buses for those too lazy or out of shape to walk the Freedom Trail. What made the Duck tours different is that the six-wheeled ‘buses’ were amphibious and shaped like what you’d get if a HUMVEE knocked up a boat. They could slip in and out of the water with ease.

  Henry nearly dismissed the woman, but he realized she might be able to help them when the church was unwilling. “We were in the subway. I’ve been shot. Twice.” He turned his ear toward her. “And in the ass. And…” He motioned to Sarah’s leg. “She was stabbed.”

  The woman looked ready to pass out on the spot. Then she straightened, cleared her throat, and asked, “They won’t let you in?”

  Henry shook his head.

  “Probably more worried about their rugs than helping a couple of kids in need.” She waved them on. “C’mon. I’ll take care of you, until the ambulances get here.”

  Henry turned to the man inside the church, flipped him the bird, mouthed, “Fuck you,” and then started down the steps with Sarah.

  The woman got on Sarah’s left side, slid under her arm, and helped her walk around the church’s Park Street side, leading them past the building. “Name’s Linda.”

  “I’m Henry. This is Sarah.”

  “She always this quiet?” Linda asked.

  “In shock, I think.”

  Linda leaned forward a bit, looking Sarah over. “What happened?”

  “Someone was shot,” Henry said. “Besides me. But he was shot in the head…and it went all over her.”

  Linda’s cheeks puffed. She looked ready to vomit, as she identified the small jiggly bits of red clinging to Sarah’s body, hair, and face. But she held it together and kept moving—now at a faster pace. “Didn’t know people had been killed.”

  “A bunch,” Henry said, trying to mentally count the number of bodies he’d seen. Some were dead as dead gets, but others might have just been unconscious. “That I saw.”