Duncan flash analyzed the data, which had been reliably gathering only since the moment he’d given up on the idea of confronting her. That guy had been in his field of vision that entire time, and might have been there since they’d walked out of the building. Lying in wait.

Thirty-five downtown blocks. Too far to walk voluntarily, to not take a subway or a cab, to not have some other business or detour along the way. Nell crossed the street again as well, and headed over toward the Astor Place subway stop. Gray Sweatshirt strolled after her.

Nell disappeared into a big, brightly lit chain bookstore. The guy stopped, muttered into his collar, and followed her in.

Fuck. A thread of ice congealed down his middle. The guy was wired. Reporting to someone, in real time. This wasn’t some random sicko obsessed with Nell’s tits. This was a team of random sickos. A team meant organization, financing, a serious agenda. What the fuck?

He eased to the back of the line for the bank machine again and waited, as intent and single-minded as a cat watching a mouse hole. Crunching data, speculating, presenting and rejecting hypotheses.

Time warped. People swirled by, like speeded-up film. He stood motionless in the middle of it, a laser-focused eye of contemplation.

Customers began coming out in numbers. He glanced at his watch. The store was about to close. His adrenaline started to rev as Nell came out of the store, swinging a plastic shopping bag in her hand. She looked around herself, as if trying to get her bearings, and took off in the direction of Astor Place.

Three seconds later, Gray Sweatshirt came out and followed.

Duncan forced himself to move in a casual stride. No sprinting, no primordial roars of rage. His heart thudded. Blood roared in his head. He had to pinch like a vise on the overwhelming urge to leap on that piece-of-shit dickhead and take him apart.

Nell turned onto Lafayette. Gray Sweatshirt muttered into his collar once again. Urgency began to prick at Duncan. Something was going down, and he was the only one around to stop it. He was only one guy.

So far. He pulled out his cell, and speed dialed Gant.

“What is it?” Gant snarled, in his usual bad humor. “You again? Got any more unreasonable demands to make, Dunc?”

“Yeah. Remember the chick who I’m obsessed with?”

“Yeah, the daughter of Lucia D’Onofrio. What about her?”

“I’m tailing her right now,” he said. “Stalking her, you might say.”

Gant hissed something viciously obscene in Pushtu. “And you are burdening me with this embarrassing, unwelcome, extremely personal information about yourself exactly why?”

“Because I’m not the only one who’s doing it,” he said.

Gant was gratifyingly speechless for a moment. “Come again?”

“She’s under surveillance,” he said patiently. “At least a two-man team. I’m about half a block behind the guy who’s tailing her. We’re on Lafayette. Just past the Public Theater.”

“Holy fuck,” Gant muttered. “I’ll send someone.”

“Do it fast. They’re gearing up for something,” Duncan said.

“Dunc? Do not engage with them.” He paused. “Did you hear me?”

“I heard you,” Duncan said, noncommittal.

Gant snarled yet another curse in Pushtu. “Are you armed?”

“No, but I’ll be careful.”

Gant hung up with no farewell, and Duncan hurried to catch up, having hung back to call Gant. He did not like Lafayette. It was darker than Broadway, more deserted, fewer storefronts, everything closed. He wished she’d stayed on crowded Broadway, where he could afford to be closer to her. As it was, it was a miracle that Gray Sweatshirt hadn’t made him yet. The guy might be incompetent. That, however, did not make him any less dangerous to Nell.

The cobweb whisper of alarm tipped him off again. Gray Sweatshirt’s demeanor had changed. He looked more focused. Was walking faster, as if he’d been released from some imperative, or given a new one. Beyond Nell coming toward them in the opposite direction was another pedestrian figure. A tall, rangy black man with a shaved head. They had her in a pair of tweezers. Then the car pulled up, driving slowly. Too slowly. It passed Duncan.

Its brake lights flickered, on and off, for no good reason.

It sped up. Gray Sweatshirt did, too. So did the guy coming on.

Duncan didn’t remember starting to sprint. His legs pumped with frantic speed as he struggled to close the gap. The car door swung open. The guys grabbed Nell, started wrestling her into the car, headfirst. She struggled, screamed. Duncan flung himself at the closest of the two men, the tall black guy. The man hit the side of the car with a grunt of surprise. Gray Sweatshirt’s head whipped around. “What the fuck—”

Duncan rammed a fist into Gray Sweatshirt’s nose, knocking him against the car door. In that split-second opening, he grabbed Nell by the waist, yanked her out and away from the car, and flung her in the direction of the sidewalk. She hit the ground, rolled into the gutter.

He surged back as a boot whipped past the tip of his nose, blocked Gray Sweatshirt’s swing with his forearm, rammed an elbow into the black guy’s neck. He blocked a punch to the gut, spun to take Gray Sweatshirt’s knee-jab to the groin on his thigh instead. An uppercut to the black guy’s chin sent the man bouncing heavily against the car, and he whirled just in time to meet Gray Sweatshirt’s renewed attack.

People had noticed. Yelling. A woman screamed nearby. Not Nell. Block, duck, lunge, retreat. He caught Gray Sweatshirt’s fist, whipped it up, over, around, sent the guy flying over the hood of the car. The black guy came at him again with a length of pipe. It whipped down. Duncan lurched to the side. The pipe whooshed past him, displacing air, and shattered the passenger-side window. Pebbles of glass flew.

Duncan darted in, grabbed the end of the pipe before it could work up to another swing and twisted the thing up, torquing the guy’s arm and sending him bouncing over the hood of the car. The car surged forward, pitching the guy off and onto the street. He rolled, howling.

Tires shrieked as the car peeled around the corner and sped away. The black guy dragged himself up and fled, limping, the heavy, irregular slap of his rubber-soled shoes retreating into the distance.

Gray Sweatshirt came at him with a spinning back kick. In ducking back to avoid it, Duncan lost his center, stumbled back and went down onto his knees. Fuck. The guy leaped for him, eyes lit up.

Crack. Nell had swung her plastic shopping bag, and whatever was in it had connected with the guy’s face. He let out a hoarse shout and stumbled back, hand over his nose, which streamed blood.

Duncan rolled up onto his feet, lunged to grapple—

Gun. He stopped, reeling. Fighting for balance. Hands up, open.

Gray Sweatshirt held a pistol on them, in a shaking, sideways two-handed grip he’d learned from watching bullshit action films. But at point-blank range, even the guy’s compromised aim from the stupid grip wouldn’t save them. That Glock 9mm would leave a big hole.

Duncan scooped Nell back behind him with his arm. “Easy,” he soothed. “Easy.”

“Fuck you, you fuck.” The guy’s trembling voice was thin and high, bubbling and phlegmy with the blood running down his throat. “Back off, or I’ll shoot you like a fuckin’ dog. And then I’ll shoot the bitch.” He backed away from them, gun wavering. He swung it in a wild arc around himself that sent all the looky-loos who’d gathered around into a screaming, scattering panic. Like a bunch of startled pigeons.

“You don’t need to shoot,” Duncan said quietly. “Who hired you?”

“Some stupid fuck. Shut up. Don’t talk to me.” The guy backed away farther. “Back off. Everybody. Get the fuck back.” He turned, suddenly, and ran like a double-jointed cheetah, his legs a blur.