The impact stung Caplan’s hand. But he reared back and delivered another thundering punch to the man’s face. And another one. And then another one.
After a few more punches, he released the hair and watched the man’s bloodied face sag to the concrete. Standing up, he swung around to face the prey.
The old man stood slack-jawed in the alley, shifting his gaze between the baller and Caplan. Then he started backing toward the fallen pistol. “Thank you,” he said. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t showed up.”
A single look into the man’s eyes told Caplan everything he needed to know. His body ached from the blows he’d sustained as he strode forward. His hands were in desperate need of ice baths.
The old man stooped to pick up the pistol. But Caplan’s boot pressed down, pinning it to the concrete.
The old man looked up. Gave Caplan a confused look.
Caplan smiled. Shifted sideways.
And slammed his left fist straight into the old man’s kisser.
The old man’s head snapped back. His legs folded under him and he was unconscious before he hit the ground.
“Thought you could pull a con job on an innocent, huh?” Caplan whispered between breaths. “Thought you and your boys could draw in prey of your own with that little performance of yours? Well, guess again.”
For a moment, Caplan stood over the vanquished old man, breathing rapidly and allowing his adrenaline to ease. His ribs hurt and he could feel blood trickling down the side of his face. It wasn’t his first fistfight, but it was definitely one of the more painful ones. He’d taken a tremendous beating. And for what? To punish some gang of thieves for trying to prey on good Samaritans?
He crouched next to the old man. Patted the guy’s pockets until he’d located a wallet. Pulling it out, he peered at the man’s license.
“James Corbotch?” With a frown, he tossed the license — clearly fake — onto the old man’s unconscious form. Then he marched out of the alley, still frowning. He wondered what kind of confidence trick the old man had intended to pull with the license. And what kind of gullible person would actually believe it? After all, James Corbotch wasn’t just another Joe Schmo.
He was the richest man on the planet.
Chapter 3
Hunger pangs hit Caplan’s stomach as he half-walked, half-limped into his tiny, dilapidated apartment. His groceries, along with the cotton tote bags, had disappeared by the time he’d gone back to retrieve them. It pissed him off to no end. This was why he hated the city, hated everything about it. There was always some lowlife waiting in the shadows, looking to take advantage of a good Samaritan.
He slammed his door so hard paintings would’ve rattled in their frames if he’d actually owned any paintings. After locking the dual-bolt mechanism, he dragged himself to his couch and eased himself into its lumpy cushions. The sofa, a three-seater purple mess he’d bought from the local Kettler Thrift Store, was an eyesore. But what did he care? All of Manhattan, from the shocking amount of waste to the soulless skyscrapers, was an eyesore.
A dull ache sprung up in his jaw. Gently, he touched the tender skin. While he hurt all over, the predator’s punch hurt most of all. He wondered about that. After that first strike, the predator had hunkered down and taken Caplan’s punishment. Why? Why hadn’t he fought back? Wasn’t the whole point of the scheme to draw in a good Samaritan? To trap that person and rob him?
A few doubts entered Caplan’s brain. On one hand, he knew a scam when he saw it. And a single look into the old man’s steady, calculating eyes had confirmed it. But maybe he’d gotten the scheme wrong. Maybe they weren’t trying to rob him. Maybe they were trying to capture him, use him for something. Like steal his organs or one of the countless insane crimes he’d read about in the free subway newspapers.
Caplan’s side started to hurt. Then his belly stung. Lifting his shirt, he checked his wounds. He wasn’t anywhere near hospital shape, but he still required medical attention.
Wincing, he stood up and trudged to the bathroom, cursing his bloodlust the entire way. It had felt therapeutic in the moment, but he was paying for it now.
As he neared the bathroom, he cast a glance at a tall dresser. The wood was heavily splintered and covered with stains. It wasn’t fit for a homeless shelter, let alone an apartment. But so what? It held his clothes just fine.
An unframed photo atop the dresser caught his eye. Two small rocks propped it up. The photo showed a young woman, backed by a forest of willows, pines, and oaks. She wasn’t smiling. Instead, she looked like she’d always looked, as if she were about to bitch someone out. Her pupils, sharp and blue, were surrounded by eye shadow. Her nose was a bit big for her face, but certainly not unbecoming. Her cheeks were rounded at the top and angular all the way down to her pointy jaw.
His gaze flitted to her long blonde hair, shiny and swept back into a simple updo. The updo glittered under intense sunlight.
He stopped and stared at this gorgeous creature. This woman he’d once loved with all his heart and soul. This woman that he’d ripped out of his life five months ago. Not because he loved her any less, but because he no longer deserved her.
Some sins, after all, could never be forgiven.
“I don’t know what you’re doing right now, Amanda,” he whispered under his breath. “But I hope you’re happy.”
Chapter 4
The air whipped as Amanda Morgan swung the rifle butt in an arc, cracking it against Secretary of State Barbara Slayton’s skull. Secretary Slayton, all eighty-three years of her, slumped to the ground. Blood seeped from the back of her head, staining her bluish-white hair and oozing across the hardwood floor.
The screams and shouts halted. The other prisoners, clad in silk suits and formal cocktail dresses, backed into the center of the room. One by one, they found their seats at the circular tables.
Morgan inhaled a deep breath as she faced the prisoners. A ripped white lab coat hung limply from her well-toned body. Her blonde hair was scraggily and damp with sweat. “Consider that a warning,” she shouted. “Next person who disobeys an order gets a bullet in the face.”
The prisoners swapped uneasy looks.
Morgan’s eyes drifted to the room itself, known internally as the Eye. Giant monitor banks, one per wall, shifted video feeds every fifteen seconds. She saw wild horses, bison, and zebras grazing in steppe grasslands. Asian and African elephants, along with deer, grizzly bears, and jaguars, weaving their way through dense forests. Mountain goats and camels feeding gracefully on the foliage of arid mountains, keeping watchful eyes out for mountain lions and other predators.
Normally, workstations, desks, and computers covered the floor space between the monitors. Well-trained rangers used them to maintain a distant eye on the various ecosystems that made up the Vallerio Forest. But hours earlier, the room had undergone a transformation. The normal occupants had been shuttled off to their quarters for the evening. Their workstations and desks had been pushed to the sides of the room. Circular tables, covered with white cloth and surrounded by chairs, had taken their place. Extravagant food and the finest wines had been wheeled in on fancy carts. A party celebrating… something… had commenced.
Axel Eichel, Managing Director of the International Monetary Fund, sat up straight. A longtime member of the Socialist Party and hailing from the 5th arrondissement of Paris, he was both beloved and despised for his gentle handling of the continuing European debt crisis. “We’ll behave.” He eyed the room’s other prisoners. “You have my word.”