Niko's face was completely blank and devoid of anything…killing machines don't need emotions to get the job done. "Left," he said with a voice as empty as he turned and moved in that direction.

"Right." My face wasn't empty. It was full of bad things, hidden things that I hadn't let myself feel since George was taken, Niko almost sacrificed. They'd been shoved down, smothered, dismissed, but they were still there. They'd been waiting for their chance, and here it was.

With speaking came oxygen and with that came the ability to drive my body to the right through the mass of people. Some had picked up on the faint sound of the shot and run, but most hadn't caught it and were hovering around Robin. Maybe it was his heart, maybe drugs, maybe goddamn mutated pigeon flu … the muttering and whispering swelled. I drove through the vultures with lowered shoulders and vicious elbows as I went right.

Niko had already gone in the opposite direction. I thought I heard Promise call from behind me as she bent protectively over Robin's body, but it was lost in the sound of the crowd, the rush of the train, and the blood raging in my ears. I ran on. He wasn't getting away, the murderer who had done this. Sawney had,  but he wouldn't. It didn't matter that I hadn't seen who had pulled the trigger; I would recognize him when I saw him. I would know him.

I tackled a cop moving toward me with wary eyes and steely intent, rode him to the ground, choked him out, and kept going. That the bastard assassin was human wouldn't save him.

And he was human.

I saw him—walking a little faster than those around him. As I got closer I could see and smell the human in the tiny beads of sweat winding down the back of his neck from his hairline. He didn't hear me behind him. It's almost impossible to run silently across concrete and tile, sneakers or not, but with people milling and stomping about like cattle, I had the perfect auditory camouflage. Perfect, yet it failed me. Although the killer didn't hear me behind him, he looked over his shoulder anyway. Professionals don't look and they don't sweat. Amateurs hold the patent on that. They also run instead of taking the offensive, as my amateur did. He bolted the moment his eyes caught mine. Not used to killing. Too bad for him I was.

Let the bastard run. Let him run all goddamn night. At the end of it, he would still be dead. A sirrush, Hameh birds, this son of a bitch—they were all the same. Monsters. I couldn't get rid of my gene, but that didn't mean I gave a shit if his were one hundred percent normal. For what he'd done…

He was dead.

I almost pulled out the Eagle, but that was bound to attract its fair share of attention from at least some of the commuters. As it was now, they were only clearing a path for us as we ran. The dead man, so goddamn dead, snatched another look over his shoulder, shoved a woman who hadn't meandered out of his way quickly enough, and then vaulted her when she fell to her hands and knees. He hadn't taken out his gun either, which led me to believe he'd already dumped it. He didn't want to be caught by the cops with a weapon, now, did he?

He should be that lucky.

The next time he looked for me I was nearly on top of him. Barely three feet away I could smell the fear coming off of him. I could also smell determination and resolve or maybe I was seeing it in his dark eyes. I was so focused on him, so ferociously aware, that I couldn't tell where one of my senses began and the other ended. The same went for my sanity and something a little less than. He'd taken my friend. He had taken the first person I'd learned to trust aside from my brother.

Months ago I'd been on the edge of losing it utterly when I'd thought George and Niko were gone for good. Robin had told me then that the frozen control I'd used simply to be able to function would come back to bite me in the ass. Told me that when you bury emotions like that, you're only pissing them off … making them stronger, because you're burying them alive. They don't like that, and one day they'll make sure that you don't like it either. He'd been right. But against the odds and my own screwed-up psyche, I had found George and Niko.

I'd never find Robin again.

But I'd found his killer. Right here. Right now. And restraint and composure, they were just words to me. Meaningless sounds, worthless concepts.

I've felt savage rage. What I felt now was beyond that. When he jumped down to the tracks and took off down the tunnel, I was with him. On him. I saw only him, felt only him when I tackled him. I didn't feel the thud of the ground rising to meet us, him twisting beneath me or the fists that hammered my ribs. I didn't feel the gun that I had in my hand either, but I know he did. The matte black steel dug into the flesh under his chin until a small rivulet of blood welled around the gunsight and wound down to pool in the hollow of his throat. And because I could see only him, I could see the rapid pulse beating beneath the red with startling clarity. There was the blood rich with copper, sweat sour with dread, and breath heated and harsh.

"What you do to me doesn't matter. My task is done," he panted. Somehow, outside of his fear, the bastard had found satisfaction. "The betrayer is dead."

I should've pulled the trigger. The clean jerk of it, the kick of the recoil, I wanted that. But I also wanted something else. "Are you the only one I get to kill?" I asked, the question leaden and guttural in my throat. I jammed the gun barrel harder into his neck until he gagged against the pressure. "Are you? Or is there someone else? Die hard and alone or easy and with company. Which is it going to be, you son of a bitch?"

He spat in my face, contorted his body, and shoved me off in a move that I'd not seen before, not even from Niko. I staggered as he lunged upward, but I managed to stay on my feet as I aimed the Eagle at his chest from six feet away. "No, not yet," I said more to myself than to him. "Not that easy for you." I lowered the muzzle to point at his knee. If I fired, he'd be an instant amputee, but he'd tell me whether he was in this alone. That was worth a leg to find out. He was dead anyway. He could bunny-hop his way through the Gates of Hell, for all I cared, and think of me while he did it.

"You can't make me tell you anything." He was a study in contradiction. Afraid, but proud. A murderer, but so fucking naïve.

"Think again, asshole." I gave a feral grin. "I can make you do anything. Anything. All I need is time." I pulled the trigger, and it felt as good as I knew it would. "You don't have anywhere you need to be, right?" I finished as the echoing boom of the round faded away.

His scream was slower to wane. He should've been grateful. He still had his leg. I'd used my left hand to throw my combat knife. I wasn't as good with my left as my right, but I was good enough and good enough was all it took. Half the blade buried itself in his thigh. The gunshot and crater in the far wall a few inches over had been for emphasis; there's nothing quite like an explosive round for highlighting the six inches of steel in your body. There's nothing quite like it for emphasizing any damn thing you can think of.

The cops would be coming but good luck getting through the panicked crowd that that explosion would have milling like wild animals. It would take a while and a while was longer than I needed. We were far down the tunnel and I was motivated. Very motivated.

I watched as he fell to his knees, his hands finding and locking on to the rubber handle. Looking up at me, he swallowed the last of his harsh cry and his mouth worked soundlessly before he mumbled something too slurred to understand.

"Ican't make you tell me anything, is that what you said?" I stepped forward, put my hand over his tightly clenched ones. "It's serrated, so very sorry about that. But don't worry. It'll be just like pulling off a Band-Aid." I leaned in and offered a mockery of sympathy. "I'm happy to do it for you. But if I were you, I'd try not to look at what comes out with it."