David Meyer
Knox
Acknowledgements
Although I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting him, I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to Dean Wesley Smith for his book, Writing into the Dark: How to Write a Novel without an Outline. Thank you Dean… your book helped me regain a love of writing I’d begun to lose after years of endless outlining and rewriting.
As always, thank you Julie, my muse, for your helpful editing work. And thank you Ryden, for your crazy laughter.
The curtains are about to open. So, take your seat. Get nice and comfortable.
Welcome to the Cy Reed Adventures.
Welcome to KNOX.
Chapter 1
She sensed them before she saw them. But Beverly Ginger didn’t shift her gaze, didn’t break stride. At this point, it was better not to tip her hand, better to let them think she was oblivious to their presence. She’d let them sneak up on her, get real close.
Then she’d strike.
On she walked down Madison Avenue, breathing softly, high heels clicking gently against the sidewalk. She knew the time, knew she was running late to the annual Explorers Society Awards Night. Of course, that was deliberate. For her, making an entrance always trumped timeliness.
Her dress, a formal black number that still managed to scream bad girl, stretched to her calves. Slit down the middle, it hugged her curves in all the right places. Her wavy, chestnut hair draped down both sides of her face and past the elaborate choker that encircled her neck. She carried a small clutch bag — filled with mints, a mini perfume bottle, her smartphone, lipstick and gloss, a thin wallet, but no gun — in one hand.
She sighed, annoyed at herself. She wished she hadn’t chosen that particular dress for the evening. If things continued as expected, she was going to get blood — not hers — all over it.
She glided farther down the sidewalk, heading north, bathed in the harsh glow of overhanging streetlights. After a short distance, she spotted Toad Road, a popular Upper East Side sports bar. It was dark, quiet.
That’s strange, she thought.
It was Friday evening, five minutes shy of eight o’clock. In other words, Toad Road’s sweet spot. But the usual clientele, a mix of hormone-charged twenty- and thirty-something investment bankers, lawyers, and marketing gurus, was nowhere to be seen.
As she passed by Toad Road, she saw the reason there was no crowd. The bar was closed and blocked by one of those expensive rolling aluminum grilles. There was no sign on the grille, no notice, nothing.
Walking farther, she saw another restaurant, a chic Thai lounge. It was also closed. Same type of security grille, same lack of explanation. Broadening her gaze, she studied her surroundings.
Metal gates and grilles of varying designs enclosed every visible storefront. Besides herself, the sidewalks buttressing Madison Avenue were vacant. And the street was vacant as well. No people. No taxis or cars, parked or otherwise.
Glancing up, she took in the tall buildings lining either side of the street. Windows were dark. Blinds were drawn. Shades were closed. It was as if the entire neighborhood had up and vanished.
She sensed something in the air. Something much bigger than the three oversized men who continued to stalk her at a distance and from the shadows. It was a sort of dark energy, vibrating from within the buildings and down the side streets. It felt like unseen forces were enclosing her, cutting her off from the rest of the world.
A sudden gust of warm air struck her side. A door banged against a stopper. Twisting her neck, she saw a couple of men and women gathered inside the darkened lobby of an apartment building. They wore black hoodies and jeans. Bandanas, carefully knotted, covered their faces.
The group stood still for a second. Then a short, husky woman filtered through the entranceway. Others followed her outside, followed by still others.
Beverly exhaled. Her muscles tensed up in anticipation of a fight. But if the people noticed her, they didn’t show it. Instead, they fanned out, some moving down the sidewalk and others into the street.
Glass shattered in the distance. The light changed, dimming a bit. She spun around on her heels and saw more people pouring out of more doorways. They wore dark clothing and gloves, along with bandanas, ski masks, and even gas masks. Some were empty-handed. But most of them carried crowbars, hammers, and tire irons.
A man, tall and skeleton-skinny, brushed past her. He raced into the street and reared back with what looked like a ball of fire in his hand. A moment later, he launched the object into the air. It flickered wildly in the darkness before smashing through a third floor window. Flames erupted and smoke poured out into the night.
Throaty cheers rang out. Screams and shouted curses quickly followed, along with the sounds of metal crashing against metal.
Her stalkers forgotten, Beverly turned in a slow circle, transfixed by the depravity, the destruction. It was a full-blown riot. In Manhattan’s wealthiest neighborhood
And she was smack dab in the middle of it.
Chapter 2
One by one, the streetlights caved to the growing violence. A pall of darkness spread across Madison Avenue. Crowds of rioters joined together, attacking mailboxes, lampposts, and decorative bushes and trees. Looters went after the metal gates and grilles, eager to cause mayhem and make off with ill-gotten gains. Fistfights broke out and quickly transformed into all-out melees, complete with swinging pipes and stabbing knives.
Why didn’t anyone tell me about this? Beverly looked down at her sleek, formal attire with distinct distaste. I would’ve worn my leggings.
Prior to linking up with Salvage Force, an archaeological salvage company, Beverly had spent several years immersed in violence. She’d done tours with the U.S. Army as well as with ShadowFire, the globe’s largest and best-known PMC. As a result, she was more than prepared for nearly every conceivable situation. But a riot? Well, that was a different matter altogether.
The very nature of riots was what made them so difficult to endure. Yes, there was a certain logic to how they worked. But there was also a whole lot of chaos and unpredictable herd-like behavior, too. Plus, about a million ways, accidental or otherwise, to sustain injuries.
A hoodie-clad man, wielding a long wrench, stopped in the middle of the street. He turned and stared at her, his lustful eyes locking in on her breasts. But before he could make a move, a second man smacked into him. The first man twisted and nearly lost his balance. Recovering quickly, he raced after the second man, his lust replaced by fury.
Beverly frowned. She wasn’t afraid of a fight. But she had to stay on her toes. She was a beautiful woman, outfitted in a dress and heels. That made her a big target for predators, especially the powerless sort who tended to frequent riots.
A heavy fist plowed into her unprotected stomach. She dropped her clutch and crumpled over at the waist, heaving for air. But the tight fabric restricted her lungs and kept them from refilling.
A second fist rose out of the darkness, striking her jaw. Her head flew down and back and her teeth rattled so hard she thought they’d come loose.
She stumbled backward, barely maintaining balance in her heels. Blood filled her mouth and she spat it out, getting the copper-scented liquid all over her dress and the fallen clutch bag.
The air shifted ever so slightly. But this time, her senses were on high-alert. She dove to the sidewalk, narrowly dodging another fist. Then she rolled across the rough surface and climbed back to her feet. Still gulping oxygen, she twisted around to face her attacker.