Caplan didn’t match any of the popular stereotypes for handsome men. He wasn’t, for instance, blonde with blue eyes. Instead, his hair was jet black and curly to the point of untamable. As for his eyes, they were as green as freshly watered grass.
On the other hand, he wasn’t tall, dark, and handsome. He stood an inch shy of six feet. His skin, although darkened from years of sun exposure, wasn’t too many shades removed from that of an albino. And his face, rugged and weathered from the elements, was a far cry from the youthful pretty-boy look so prevalent in modern media.
Halfway down the block, he heard light scuffling and heavy grunts. Turning right, Caplan raced into a dark alley. He ran in near-silence. His breathing was barely audible. His waterproof trail-runners slapped the concrete with the lightest of touches.
Fifty feet away, he saw two shadowy figures struggling behind a couple of metal garbage cans. Light glinted wildly as they fought for control of a large handgun. The predator, outfitted in a black hoodie and dark jeans, was gigantic. Easily six foot four and possessing the powerful neck and shoulders of a linebacker. The other man — the prey — was frail and old. Outfitted in bright-checkered pants and a sleek green polo shirt, he looked like a wealthy golfer far removed from his natural habitat.
Caplan’s senses kicked into overdrive, focusing on the alley as a whole. Spilt trash — pizza boxes, opened envelopes, wadded-up diapers — littered the ground, indicating the trashcans had been recently moved. The air smelled of body odor, but it didn’t seem to come from the struggling combatants. Rather, a curious mixture of expensive colognes surrounded predator and prey. Metal groaned as the western fire escape, one of two abutting either side of the alley, shifted back and forth.
Caplan knew what it meant. And his primal instincts told him to break off, to rethink his strategy. But he was no longer listening to them. He was listening to new instincts, ones that had formed five months earlier. Ones that told him to dish out as much pain and anguish as humanly possible.
Lowering his shoulder, Caplan crashed into the predator. Jets of fire shot down his arm, across his chest. Ignoring the searing pain, he kept at it, pushing forward with all of his strength.
The predator didn’t yelp or moan. Rather, a surprised grunt escaped his lips. Releasing the gun, he toppled to the ground with all the force of a full-grown tree trunk.
The prey stumbled backward, trying to maintain control of the gun. But he jolted as his rear struck the concrete and the weapon, a 9mm pistol with fully supported ramped hammer-forged barrel, hit the ground and skidded into the darkness.
Caplan rolled to his feet. The predator jumped up to face him. Lips twisting into a sick grin, the predator stepped forward. Forming a fist out of his right hand, he reared back like a baseball pitcher.
The heavy fist slammed into Caplan’s jaw with bone-breaking force. Caplan whirled in a circle and dropped to the ground. Stars exploded in his head and a dizzy spell nearly sent him into the land of darkness.
The predator appeared, hovering over him like a wraith. Caplan picked himself off the ground. Rose unsteadily to his feet. He had no strategy, no plan of attack or retreat. All he had was an overwhelming desire to release months of pent-up aggression.
Before the predator could launch another attack, Caplan ran forward, throwing fists with reckless abandon. A right one slammed into the predator’s stomach. A left one struck the man’s right cheek.
Absorbing the blows, the predator backed up a few feet. His eyes tightened into tiny orbs.
Rage took over Caplan as he threw more punches. A right cross to the belly. A left uppercut to the chest. The predator hunkered down, trying to ward off the barrage. But a fist to the mouth stunned him and another one to the solar plexus sent him reeling toward the old trashcans. Metal clattered as he smashed into them and fell to the ground.
Shifting his gaze, Caplan saw the prey crawling into the darkness. Hurrying forward, he grabbed the old man. Pulled him to his feet and stared into his eyes.
“What are you doing?” the prey said. “The gun—”
“Who are you?”
The prey opened his mouth to respond. But rattling metal bars stopped him short.
Caplan didn’t need to look to know what was above him. He’d noticed the signs. The shifted trashcans, the misplaced odors, the groaning metal. But he had no desire to flee. Just to fight to the bitter end.
Twisting around, he ran toward the west wall at full speed. At the last second, he kicked his feet against the brick and shot upward. His fingers closed around a rusty metal bar.
Fire escapes were an increasingly rare feature in New York City. Aesthetically unpleasing and considered highly unsafe, many architects had replaced them over the years with fireproof interior stairwells. The ones that remained, the dinosaurs, had been reworked to allow easier ladder deployment.
Caplan pulled himself onto the fire escape. Two men, wide-eyed as all hell, stood before him. One was short with curly black hair poking out from under his hoodie. The other was basketball-tall with long legs.
Caplan jumped. His hands closed around an overhead bar. With a sudden lurch, he launched himself forward. Feet extended, his body soared like a missile into the curly-haired man.
Screaming like a banshee, the man stumbled backward. He lost his balance and seconds later, his head slammed into the metal bars. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and he fell still.
Caplan landed in a crouching position. He started to get up but a sharp kick struck his side. His pain sensors erupted and he stumbled to a knee. A second kick, a brutal one, caught the top of his skull and he crumpled to a heap on top of the metal bars.
A hint of copper snaked into his nostrils. He touched the side of his head. It felt tacky, sticky.
The fire escape rattled and trembled. Caplan felt a breeze and rolled to the side. The baller’s sneaker slammed into the bars, narrowly missing his head.
Caplan lashed out with a kick. It missed its mark, but managed to drive his attacker back a few feet.
Fighting off dizziness, Caplan lifted his back off the bars.
The baller backed up another foot. His eyes glittered like gold.
Caplan shot a quick glance at the ground. The predator remained still among the fallen trashcans and mounds of garbage. The prey remained glued to the concrete, seemingly frozen with fear.
A surge of anger appeared in the pit of Caplan’s stomach. It swirled upward, outward, spreading to all corners of his body.
Rushing forward, the baller unleashed yet another vicious kick. Caplan could’ve blocked it. But he was too angry, too enraged to think straight. Wading forward, he ignored the sneaker, letting it crunch against his left thigh. And then he was on top of the man, overwhelming him with his weight. The baller lost his balance and toppled over the safety rail.
Caplan fell with him.
Air rushed in Caplan’s ears as they hurtled to the ground. Less than a second later, the baller’s side smacked sickeningly into one of the trashcans. The impact sent Caplan flopping onto the concrete and he slid forward, knocking aside rotten vegetables, beer bottles, and slimy tissues before coming to a halt.
For three full seconds, he lay on the concrete, dazed and bloodied. His pulse raced non-stop. His pores, opened wide during the fight, caused sweat to streak down his grime-covered face.
The baller stirred. Kicked his legs slightly. Jerked his arms as if he were a newborn.
Caplan crawled to the man. Saw blood oozing from the guy’s forehead. Felt it splatter against his palms and slip between his fingers. His breathing sped up. He felt an uncontrollable lust in his heart.
A lust for blood.
Caplan grabbed the baller’s hair. Swung a heavy fist at the guy’s nose, busting it open and causing blood to spurt out of the nostrils like water out of twin faucets.