BACKTRACKER by Milo Fowler (books to read in your 30s TXT) 📗

After all these years of murders and mayhem, the missusand me, we'll be goin' on our first real vacation. Two years until retirement.That's all I've got left." His voice broke.

"I'm sorry." She looked down at his hand on her.

"Please, Irena. Trust me."

Maybe she could have if the situation were different, if theBlackshirts weren't the ones calling the shots here. Despite whateverprotection Armstrong offered her, she knew full well there was very little hecould do for her once she was in their custody. They were above the rule oflaw, and by all accounts, they weren't known to respect the wishes of local lawenforcement.

"They'll know I let you go," he whispered, relaxing hishold on her.

She couldn't bring herself to look into his eyes, even though sheknew this might be the last time she saw him alive.

"Thank you," she said, slipping away.

He watched her run from the squad car and into the first shadowsthat presented themselves, enveloping her, hiding her from the city's luridlights. Where would she go? Was there any place safe for her? How could she thinkshe'd be able to hide from them?

Not his concern. Not anymore. They would be coming for him now.

He drew the large-caliber revolver from his holster and checkedthe rounds. Lethal, all six of them. Fight? Go out in a blaze of glory? Leavehis precious wife with what? He'd be atraitor, and there wouldn't be anything for her. No pension. No credit. He'dleave her with nothing.

He squeezed the gun's grip and idly let the muzzle drift upward,staring him in the eye, the black void inside the barrel silent andinviting. The Grim Reaper in his own hand.

No.

He dropped the weapon into his lap. He wouldn't take the easy wayout. Not Daniel Armstrong of the NewCity Municipal Police Department. Hecouldn't do that to his better half. She deserved the best, all that he could give andmore—all they'd dreamed of and planned for the past thirty years.

This wasn't being selfish. No, this was for her, for his dearbride. All other friendships be damned.

He hauled himself up out of his seat with a grunt. Gripping his revolver,he took a deep breath and stared past the lights on thestorefront before him, closed for the night. A tailor shop, by the looks of it.He squinted into the shadows where Irena Muldoon had vanished from sight. She wouldn't get far.

"In pursuit," he muttered.

But he was the one who didn't get very far.

"Let me help you." The holy man stood in his path, thesame white-robed fellow from the Muldoons' apartment. Now he held a gleamingshort sword out in the open.

"Huh—?" Armstrong halted himself to avoid accidentallyskewering his gut on the end of the weapon. "Help me how?"

"Yes." The hairless albino plunged the blade into thesergeant's midsection and watched impassively as Armstrong cried out insurprise, in horror, in agony. The revolver fell free and clattered across theasphalt.

"You son-of-a-bitch..." Armstrong crumpled to his knees, grasping athimself, careful not to touch the sharp edges of the blade.

"Now they will never know." Cade pulled the sword freeand wiped it on the hem of his spattered robe.

"Who?" Blood poured out of the fresh wound. The sergeantpressed with both hands to staunch the flow, even as he swayed fromthe wound's dizzying effects.

Cade watched him. "The Blackshirts. Irena. Bothwill believe you remained loyal to them, to the very end."

Armstrong stared up at him, this strange apparition with dark,all-knowing eyes. The killer monk tucked the blade into his sleeve and bowedonce, then turned on his bare heel and raced into the same shadows that hadswallowed his female companion moments before.

"Son-of-a..." Armstrong fell forward and rolled against the curbbehind his squad car.

The Blackshirts—the only two from the apartment who remained aliveand intact—would find him dead, lying in the gutter. They would curse and fume,knowing they had been bested by this Muldoon woman and her strange protector.But they had also been bested by the dead sergeant at their feet.

He would be buried in the precinct cemetery with all the pomp andsplendor afforded to public servants who died in the course of protecting therule of law. His full retirement benefits would be awarded to Mrs. Armstrongnearly two years early. He would be a hero, despite what the Blackshirts wouldhave made him become.

Yet Daniel Armstrong knew none of this as he lay there dying. Allhe knew was the bastard who'd cut him through with some kind of sword—crazy asthat—was running off, bare feet smacking against the pavement, fading away tonothing.

Running across grey brick and concrete, leaping over debris, followingthe tracks left by a woman who ran for her life, Cade swept ghost-like throughthe dark. His limbs moved effortlessly, and with his robe billowing against thenight air, it would have looked like he was flying low to the ground. But noone saw him. He would not allow that.

Perfect clarityfilled his mind. He knew what had to be done. He hadseen Irena Muldoon race away from the squadcar, and he knew there was only one place left for her to go: Underground. The Blackshirts would be close behind, the twowho had survived his blade at the apartment, and they would seek revenge. Butdespite their arrogance, and despite the fact they would never admit it, theyknew their limits. They knew how far their jurisdiction extended.

Not far Underground.

Down this alley, behind this building, dark and vacant, acrossthis empty street eerie with the absence of rushing traffic late at night, inthe grip of the Federal curfew. There. The stairs descending from the middle ofthe sidewalk, the portal to the abandoned subway tunnels two flights below. Shewould go there.

But even there it would not be safe for her. Not alone.

He hesitated at the top of the stairs. He peered down, but hecould not see past the first flight. After that, impenetrable black hissed ofdeath and reeked of untreated sewage. Frayed and twisted caution tape clung tothe walls flanking the stairs, remnants from police efforts to curtail publicuse of the tunnels. Futile efforts from years ago, before the Underground hadbecome its own municipality of sorts. Its own world.

Cade descended a step, then two. In