The Manuscript

Chapter 9

The tenement block was filthy. The areas surrounding the bleak brick towers were strewn with garbage. Desperation and poverty permeated the atmosphere; the denizens seemed shell-shocked and resigned, the predatory gangs of drug dealers having turned the housing project into a war zone. Groups of confidently menacing youths on foot met cars at the curb and exchanged paper packages for cash, which every few minutes their counterparts on bicycles would swing by and collect, dropping off a new batch of product.

The vehicles that wound their way down the battered asphalt were of no uniform type. Everything from new BMWs to beat up old Chevy Novas crawled the curbs of the graffiti-stained neighborhood, willing to brave the indigenous dangers, their drivers eager to secure the magic formula for a partying weekend night.

The police typically steered clear of these streets; it was not uncommon for gunshots to ring out for no apparent reason, and nobody in a squad car wanted to go home in a body bag because a sixteen year old with a little too much stimulant in his bloodstream had decided to take some potshots at the 5–0. The unwritten policy of the police force was to let the little fuckers kill each other off like cockroaches, and they’d come in once it was safe and shovel up the bodies. Given that the drug business had been going on strong in areas like this one for forty years without any noteworthy impact having been made by the hundreds of billions of dollars expended on the War On Drugs, it was safe to say that the effort was a losing proposition to date. When the enemy in this political conflict was your own citizens, driven by their insatiable appetite for substances made illegal to ‘protect’ them, it was tough to fight a winnable war. All that needed to happen for victory to be gained was for Americans to tire of taking illegal drugs — cocaine, meth, heroin, marijuana. Instead, they were the most prolific consumers of recreational chemicals on the planet. Yet the representative government duly elected by this population insisted on spending a fortune every year on an effort that had been a failure for as long as most Americans had been alive.

A significant segment of most inner-city economies was an underground one, where cash was king and nobody asked questions. The economics of participating in trafficking were easy for even a novice to comprehend: if you were poorly educated or lazy, working a real job, likely in a fast food restaurant, might pay you one-twentieth of what you could make slinging dope on the streets. True, there were significant dangers involved in the drug trade, but that just added to the excitement factor when you were in your teens, suddenly being taken seriously because of your stash and your cash and your gun. Your entire life revolved around the glorification of your fast-money lifestyle and violent creed, from the clothes you wore to the rap music you listened to.

A lowered Impala came rolling around the corner, following two creeping cars — the occupants obviously looking to score — and suddenly, the street in front of the projects became a killing field. The distinctive chatter of automatic weapons fire popped like firecrackers. By the time the ancient Chevrolet accelerated and made it to the end of the block, the bodies of hooded adolescent wheelers and dealers littered the lawn, some groaning and moving, many not.

A few innocent passers-by were also cut down, not unexpected given that an adrenaline and cocaine-charged teen firing an unfamiliar weapon with no training was hardly likely to have a particularly accurate aim. Many of the wounded wouldn’t make it — emergency vehicles took a long time to respond in this particular neck of the woods. It was just part of living in the concrete and brick jungle that housed the projects; a kind of hell to the inhabitants. In that violent world, you defended yourself; you didn’t rely on the police to do so, and you expected no mercy and offered none.

Once the shooting was over, the remaining members of the gang that ran the drugs on the block assembled, vowing to avenge the attack and take down the rival group that had intruded into their turf. They would plan a drive-by of their own at the gang’s main distribution block, killing as many of their soldiahs as had been shot today — and then some. It never occurred to any of the participants that designating twelve and thirteen year olds as soldiers in the wealthiest nation on the planet defied logic — this wasn’t some sub-Saharan African civil war between adversarial tribes, where it was routine to find ten year olds brandishing Kalashnikovs and bragging of the number they’d killed; where the average resident made a few hundred dollars a year and had no hope of any future beyond misery and death. This was any large city in the U.S., a country with the most expensive educational system in history, where the emphasis was on building fortunes and achieving one’s dreams of prosperity, and where the government had spent many billions every year to ‘battle’ drugs, while smugly assuring its population that it lived in the best country in the world.

And so it went, a never-ending cycle of killing to protect the distribution of illegal substances and the mega-profits associated with their traffic. The lessons of Prohibition had been forgotten — the violence associated with criminal cartels controlling the distribution of alcohol, which ended virtually overnight once drinking became legal again, was politically forbidden to speak of. Thus the pattern of violent crime and murder continued unabated, regardless of how many prisons were built to incarcerate an ever-growing percentage of the citizenry, or how many billions were spent on a war against its own population’s appetites.

In the end, nothing changed. Drugs remained widely available anywhere in the nation and were consumed with enthusiasm by many — but the thousand percent profits associated with their traffic remained intact, ensuring there would be continued misery for generations to come as children killed each other to protect the easy money the industry produced.

“Give me an update,” Sid ordered into the phone.

“So far, nothing much. The technician didn’t know anything other than that the office had been bugged. Nothing about the document,” the voice reported.

“Are you sure he was telling the truth?” Sid demanded.

“Completely sure.”

“So what else do we have?” Sid asked.

“We’re working our way up the food chain. I don’t think the staff has any idea what the book agent was up to, so that’s likely to prove non-productive. The receptionist’s account was consistent with the technician’s. The security company did a routine sweep and obviously left the bugs in place, and that’s all anyone knows. She didn’t have any idea about the manuscript. So we’re back to doing this the hard way,” the voice advised.

“What about the head of the security company?”

“We left messages posing as prospective clients, but so far there’s been no contact. We’re watching his place and there’s no sign of movement. Could be he has a girlfriend he’s staying with, or he could have gone to ground. If he’s got contacts at NYPD, he’ll know the agent didn’t suffer an innocent heart attack by now — the preliminary police report’s now calling it a homicide.”

“The security owner, this Michael Derrigan, is ex-SEAL, so he might have gotten spooked by the hardware. I’d just assume he has ties to the police and is now on full alert. My bet is you find him, and a lot of the questions about the document get answered,” Sid advised.

“We’re thinking along the same lines. From the time the literary agent downloaded it to the time he was sanctioned, he only had contact with a few people. Barring someone we haven’t accounted for on the first night, the likely culprit is Derrigan. We’re working under the assumption that he’s read it and is fully aware of the ramifications, which will make our job tougher. But on the other hand, even professionals slip up eventually, so if we can’t figure out where he is, we’ll get him when he does. That’s the least desirable outcome, obviously. We’re turning over every rock we can, sir,” the voice said.

“I want a full report as soon as you know more. I’ll be up late,” Sid directed.

He didn’t like the direction this was taking. In his experience, if there wasn’t progress within the first twenty-four hours of a manhunt like this, then the odds of a successful conclusion dropped dramatically. So far all they knew was that part or all of the manuscript had been printed and was unaccounted for. Abe wasn’t going to be talking to anyone, so he couldn’t tell them anything. They knew it wasn’t at his home. The office had come up empty. And nobody they’d interrogated knew about it.

Perhaps the most disturbing aspect now was a pro in the mix on the opposing side. If Derrigan had the manuscript and they couldn’t find him soon, it was anyone’s guess as to how he would play the next round. Then again, it was almost impossible to stay off the radar anymore, so they could be assured he’d turn up eventually.

But every hour he was unaccounted for increased the likelihood of him sharing the manuscript with someone else, which then would magnify their containment problem.

And there was the more fundamental issue, namely the source of the manuscript. They were no closer to understanding who had drafted the damning document than they had been when it surfaced, which was troubling in the extreme. A review of the contents yielded no new information. The source was highly informed about operations that were at the highest level of top secret, even decades after their completion, as well as about ongoing connections that would prove disastrous if they were made public. The administration would have no choice but to round up some rats before they tried to jump ship — and Sid would be at the head of the line. He wielded an enormous amount of power and influence, but not enough to escape a bloodbath if this went viral.

This was a dangerous game, and the stakes were as high as he’d ever played for. The positive in it all, if there was one, was that his search team was the best, and he could access a lot of proprietary NSA intel if necessary, as well as use Homeland Security to augment their efforts. His team couldn’t go overt but they could come pretty close, so Sid was confident they’d get Derrigan sooner rather than later.

He just hoped it was soon enough.

Koshi was buzzed. His group had polished off a fair amount of liquor at the restaurant and then they’d stopped in for a nightcap at one of the large dance clubs in the Village. The gang had three or four haunts they favored, and the sushi place was closest to a club that catered to a mostly Asian crowd, so they dropped in to see if anything was jumping. It was a Thursday and the crowd was thick, packed to the rafters with those trying to get a jumpstart on the weekend’s partying.

Koshi had downed a few Red Bull and vodka cocktails, and then reluctantly pulled away from the group, bidding them a fond goodnight. It was midnight by that point, but the streets were still humming with pedestrians, so he felt okay hoofing it to his place, which was eight long blocks away. He reasoned the exercise would help sober him up, and began making a mental checklist of the items he’d need to pack for a couple of days at his cousin’s. There was no way he would be leaving tonight for Jersey, but he could get out by six a.m. and be there by eight, which would be fine, he was sure. Michael was over-reacting to what was a completely routine security job. Even if they were questioned, what could he possibly tell anyone? That he had failed to find some old man’s lost e-mail? Wow. Stop the presses for that newsflash. Still, Michael didn’t tend to go off half-cocked, and he’d never been alarmist before, so better to be safe than sorry.

It was a balmy night familiar to early September, one of his favorite times to be out in the city. Summer could get unbearably muggy and hot, but this year had been mild and the fall was shaping up to be a beauty. There were very few places in the world where it was as good to be young, single, and with some money in your pocket than in New York. Koshi was making the most of it. His consulting business paid extremely well — he was always in demand as a programmer as well as a hacker. Of course, the hacking paid far better, and it was truly what he enjoyed doing, so Koshi couldn’t complain about much. Sure, he drank too much on occasion and burned the candle at both ends, but that was what you were supposed to do when you were in your twenties. So what the hell. He had plenty of time to grow up later. For now, life was a party and a game.

Two blocks from his house a figure startled him, stepping out of a doorway and blocking the sidewalk. One of the town’s homeless population, wanting a cigarette or a handout. Koshi was used to such encounters. He fished out a Marlboro and tossed it to the man even as he skillfully avoided any contact. Some of these creeps could be dangerous, especially late at night, so he kept a few feet of distance between himself and the shabbily dressed vagrant. Koshi picked up the sour scent of alcohol and nicotine, as well as urine and general decay.

“God bless you, man,” the shambling form mumbled as he passed. “You got a light?”

“Gotta run, bruthah. Enjoy the smoke,” Koshi responded without stopping. He knew from experience that if you engaged street people you were setting yourself up for them to hit you up for something else. A light would turn into a request for some spare change, which could easily spiral into a demand. Best just to avoid the whole mess and pick up the pace.

Koshi’s combat boots thunked against the sidewalk as he rounded the corner of his block. He automatically checked behind over his shoulder, as well as across the street and down the block, before turning and unlocking the building’s front door. When you lived in the city, you became sensitive to potential threats, and by now this sort of late night scan was routine. Everything was quiet.

He mounted the stairs to his apartment, which was on the second floor, situated over a dry cleaner’s shop. As he stepped onto the landing, he felt a tickle of apprehension. What the fuck. Michael had him afraid of his own shadow. There was nobody around, just his battered door with three deadbolts, and opposite, the door of his neighbor — a geriatric Vietnam vet who drank his dinner and was usually passed out by nightfall. Koshi keyed his locks, humming drunkenly to himself, and pushed his door open.

The electric current hit him with blinding suddenness, his legs buckling like spaghetti as his muscles lost control. The wavering hulk of two figures stood over him, one of whom was holding a cattle prod. Both wore black and were smiling.

“Koshi Yamaguchi, I presume?” the shorter of the two inquired conversationally. Then everything went dark.

The East River at dawn was eerily calm before the bustle of the city got into full gear. Joggers and bicyclists moved along the waterfront paths — the more athletically inclined of the island’s residents striving, as always, to get in their exercise before the workday began. Laborers lounged around roach coaches along the concrete embankments that framed the river, joking with one another before starting their construction shifts.

A six year old boy strolled along, gripping the hand of his eighty-four year old great-grandfather. This was their bonding time. They ambled along the river as the old man had done with his children, then his grandchildren, and now this generation.

Things in the city had changed dramatically since the Great Depression, which was the environment he’d been raised in. His father, a railroad man, had been one of the fortunate few who remained employed throughout those days of darkness. He still remembered the shanties in the parks of that era, the Hoovervilles where the homeless and downtrodden had hung their hats even as the wealthiest people in America rode by in their exotic automobiles on their way to day jobs on Wall Street. Even as a teenager, during the 1939 World Fair, he remembered the stark contrast between the haves and the have nots.

He’d lived in the city his entire life, through the post-World War II era prosperity and the hope of the fifties, through the troubled and divided years that marked the sixties and seventies, when crime soared through Manhattan and his neighborhood went from a relatively-safe family area to a violent ghetto. Then a trend of surprising urbanization and newfound prosperity had hit, and after decades in squalor, he’d found himself with new neighbors who’d paid seven figures for rundown brownstone walkups that had previously housed drug gangs and addicts.

The more things changed, the more they stayed the same, though. The concentration of wealth and power had never been greater with the financial elite than it was today, with some hedge fund managers making as much per year as the gross domestic product of small nations. Even as the average Joe couldn’t afford a cup of coffee on the island anymore, the wealthy got wealthier — as they had done so since the dawn of civilization. There were some things that would be perennial.

For now, the old man had his memories and his treasured quiet time with his great-grandson, Bernard, before he had to get the boy home to his ma so they could truck off to school. These weekday morning walks lasted half an hour and were an important time for the old man; a reminder of the vitality of new life as well as of his ebbing time on earth. The cycle was relentless, he’d seen far too much to try to fight it anymore. He had his small chunk carved out for walks with Bernard, and that, in the end, was enough.

They moved to the river side of the path, taking in the rush of water as it made its way out to the sea. The East River was a source of endless fascination for Bernard; he could spend hours watching the current sweep all manner of debris past their vantage point. It was just one of the many wondrous things the world reserved for the entertainment of the young.

“Look! Over in the water. Is that some kind of animal?” Bernard asked, gesturing with his small hand at an object bobbing against the concrete pilings near the base of the Brooklyn Bridge.

The old man peered at the area where his great-grandson was pointing, straining to see. His vision wasn’t what it used to be. Nothing was, really, but it beat the alternative.

“I…I don’t see what you’re looking at,” he admitted.

“Right there, in the water, by the posts. It’s floating,” Bernard urged.

“Oh, I see. Nah, it’s probably some kinda garbage. Don’t look like no animal. Too big for a dog,” he said, and then finally was able to better focus and get a clearer look at the mystery object. He gasped, then concentrated on getting his voice under control so he wouldn’t alarm Bernard. The little boy sensed something was wrong and looked up into the old man’s dim eyes.

“Bernard, come on, come away from there. We gotta go call the police. It looks like somebody mightta fallen in the water.” In spite of his efforts to stay calm, the old man was twitching with agitation by now. He’d gotten a good enough look to know that what they were looking at was indeed no dog.

They made their way to the nearest pay phone, and with trembling hands he dialed 911. The operator took down his information and assured him there would be a squad car on site within a few minutes and asked that he wait for it to show up so he could pinpoint the location. He agreed to do so, more because he wanted to see how the cops would react than anything else.

The old man and Bernard sat expectantly on a nearby bench, watching the joggers as they waited for the police to show up. It was exciting for them both when the car arrived and the two uniformed officers got out and asked him to show them what they’d seen. It wasn’t often that Bernard got to stand in the spotlight and be the center of adult attention. He nervously walked to the edge of the path, trailed by the old man and the police, and thrust his tiny finger in the direction of the object in the river.

The cops exchanged glances, and the old man read their faces, knowing that this was going to present an interruption in their morning traffic patrol routine.

A grossly distended body bumped against the pilings, wedged there by the current as the river forged its way out into the harbor on its journey to the sea. The submersion had already begun to take its toll on the bloated pale blue flesh of the waterlogged corpse.

Michael woke late and went through an abbreviated workout before showering and making his way down to the coffee shop. He’d toyed with the idea of trying the other place at the far end of the block, but decided against being adventurous with his breakfasts. There was a certain comfort to knowing the food was going to be good and the coffee hot and plentiful, so he saw no reason to broaden his admittedly narrow horizons.

He bought a paper from the magazine vendor and settled into his usual booth. The café was filled with older folks, who had the distinct aura of having no particular place to be or adhering to any well-defined schedule. He supposed that was what retirement must be like — endless mornings at the corner diner, arguing politics or religion with the same acquaintances you saw every day, whose minds had consistently failed to be changed for years. Michael was by far the youngest person in the place, with the exception of a sketchy twenty-something year old couple in the back who looked either badly hung over or in need of a fix. Or both.

He opened the paper and scanned the news with a cynical eye. The government was claiming the economy was in fair shape, which everyone knew to be an outright lie. Inflation was said to be tame, which ignored that items like food and gas were excluded from the data. So as long as you didn’t need to eat or go anywhere or buy anything that got onto a truck or a boat, inflation was low. Gold and silver were up fifty percent over the last two years, signaling that the dollar had fifty percent less buying power. But the talking heads ignored such trivialities, choosing instead to focus on home prices, which were carving fresh lows.

It was funny because, at the time Michael had been growing up, his parents had been staunchly patriotic; to the point where they automatically assumed that Michael would spend some time in the military serving his country. There was never the slightest hesitation. But since then, something had changed. The disenchantment that had begun with the Iraq war had grown deeper after the economy fell apart in 2008, when former Wall Street bankers leading the treasury handed out the nation’s cash to their friends like it was play money. The politicians who accepted the largest funding from the financial sector nodded along like it was all business as usual. And now, many in the middle class had lost much, if not everything, even as those same banks, which wouldn’t even exist were it not for the country’s tax dollars, booked record profits quarter after quarter, and speculators who had helped structure the mortgage vehicles that collapsed the economy made billions while the rank and file picked up the tab.

Everyone Michael knew was in harsher financial shape than they had been a decade earlier, and it didn’t look like it was going to get better any time soon. New York was largely an exception because the entities that had most benefitted from the taxpayers’ generosity were based there, so the money tap was never shut off. But in the heartland, in the states between Los Angeles and New York, the country was struggling as those in positions of power shortchanged them time and time again. It sucked, but nobody had ever told Michael life was supposed to be fair, so he wasn’t in the least surprised. Abuse of power had been a constant throughout human history, and he didn’t see why anything would suddenly change, absent divine intervention.

He supposed he was thinking along these lines because of the manuscript, which made abundantly clear that there were two sets of rules: those for the general population and those that the rich and powerful lived by. That was one of the reasons the allegations in the document were so incendiary — it documented a system so cynical and so different than what was represented outwardly, as to make a mockery of the country’s identity. It was a manifesto to create social unrest on an epic scale. Michael could envision rioting in the streets as a very real consequence. But the real question was, what would the population do if it turned out its leadership had been provably running a drug smuggling, murder-for-hire and financial swindling racket for decades with the most nefarious criminal cartels on the planet — all the while pretending to be their mortal enemies?

That was one of the most troubling aspects of the manuscript for Michael at a personal level. He’d been in active duty and seen his friends take bullets in the 1990s in the Middle East, and he knew more than a few families who’d lost children during almost a decade of continuing action in Iraq and Afghanistan while battling in the name of democracy. It was impossible for him to believe that it was all artifice, but if the document’s revelations turned out to be true, then facts were facts, however unpalatable. It would mean that a lot of what he held sacred and had fought for was a living lie. He could see that there would be a whole lot of angry people out there who wouldn’t take kindly to such information.

How in the hell had he gotten involved in this in the first place? What a nightmare. He almost wished he could just rewind a few days and remain blissfully ignorant. Knowing such truths wasn’t exactly a peace-of-mind builder.

The waitress arrived and delivered his breakfast with a surly flourish, which he observed she did with everyone, so he didn’t take it personally. He dug in and tried to think about something besides the damned manuscript. Which was roughly like trying not to think of a zebra after somebody instructs you: “Don’t think about a zebra.”

Oh well. If he was going to contemplate striped animals, might as well do so constructively. He washed down his third cup of coffee, motioned for the bill and thought about his day’s agenda. First, he wanted to get hold of Jim and warn him there could be some storm clouds on the horizon. Next, he wanted to check on Koshi and make sure he’d made it to his cousin’s with no issues. Once he’d completed those two errands…what was the plan? So far he’d been entirely reactive. That ran counter to his nature. He wanted to do something. Take some sort of control.

He’d start by making the calls he could to verify that all was well. Once that was dispensed with, he had the germ of an idea growing in his head. It was a little outlandish, but he couldn’t see much else in terms of moves. It was still just a kernel but it had occurred to him last night at some point and his gut was now spurring it to grow.

Back in the apartment, he logged onto his new e-mail account and checked for a message from Koshi. Nothing. Fucking Koshi. He could be so unreliable sometimes. He probably thought this was a joke of some sort and hadn’t gotten through his head that this was a real threat.

Michael angrily stabbed at the keys on the internet phone. His call went straight to voice mail. Incredible. He had his phone off.

He talked himself down, even though he was fuming. Getting angry wouldn’t do anyone any good. Koshi could be a dick sometimes, that was all. It was just the way things were. Move to something more productive.

Michael next called Jim and got the same response. He tried twice to no avail. Didn’t anyone answer the damned phone anymore?

That reminded him. His cell phone was doing precisely the same thing to callers. The irony wasn’t lost on him. Michael called into his voice mail box, to find two messages. One was from yet another potential client and the other was from Ken, telling him to call immediately when he got the message. The time stamp was from twenty minutes earlier. He dialed Ken’s number.

Ken cut straight to the chase. “No bullshit, Michael. Where are you?”

“Good morning to you, too. What’s up? What’s so important you got me out of bed?” Michael figured he’d try the light approach to diffuse the obvious underlying tension.

“You have no idea what’s going on, do you?”

“Ken. You called me. I’m calling you back. What’s the problem?” Michael asked.

“The problem? The problem is that Jim, your electronics technician, decided to jump out his window last night and splatter himself all over the sidewalk.”

Michael took a few moments to digest the news. “That’s impossible. How do you know?”

“I check the overnight bulletins first thing every morning. Routine. And I saw Jimbo’s name there.”

Jim had been referred to Michael by Ken, years before.

“Ken. This stinks. No way would Jim commit suicide. He wasn’t the type. I saw him just a few days ago…at Abe’s. That was the last contact I had with him. Fuck. I’ve been trying to call him since last night…” Michael rambled.

“Why, Michael? Why were you calling him? Another job?” Ken’s tone was suspiciously even — always a warning, in Michael’s experience.

“All right. Ken. Look. I’ve got reasons to believe that whoever planted the bugs in Abe’s office is working through my security team. Jim was there — his prints were all over the place. Abe is dead, and now Jim goes curb diving…and the bugs are nowhere to be found. It’s too coincidental, Ken. Someone’s rolling up the team.”

“If they are, it’s another good coincidence that you’re out of town, huh?” Ken observed.

“Ken, since last night, I’ve been trying to call Koshi, my computer guy, who was also all over Abe’s office. I keep getting the same non-response as on Jim’s phone. Nothing. Dead.” Michael suddenly had a very bad feeling.

“Jesus, Michael. What have you gotten into here? Seriously.”

“I told you. Abe got an e-mail with a damaging document that implicated the government in a whole bunch of really nasty shit. If this is related, and it sure is starting to seem that way, somebody’s trying to tie up all the loose ends that could have come across it. That’s how it looks to me,” Michael said.

“Does this have anything to do with you being AWOL?”

“Ken, if I said I had a premonition something ugly was going down once you told me Abe was murdered, would you believe me? Or more importantly, does that even matter right now? Please — just do me a favor and check on Koshi. He was going to leave town last night, but he wasn’t taking this seriously. I’m worried. I last talked to him at ten p.m. and he was out at some restaurant, and then he went dark.”

“All right. Give me his number and his address and I’ll send a car by to check on him. I hope to God you’re wrong about all this, but I guess I don’t blame you for making yourself scarce under the circumstances. At least you’re still answering your phone…and returning calls.”

Michael gave him the info.

“Is there a number I can reach you at?” Ken asked.

“For now, let me just call you again in a few hours to confirm he’s okay. I’m working on getting a new phone. My old one’s on the blink,” Michael said, feeling lame even as the words left his mouth.

“I should know something by one o’clock on Koshi. Call me then at this number — or better yet, on my cell,” Ken instructed before giving Michael the number.

“Will do. Thanks, man, I owe you a big one. And I can guarantee Jim isn’t a jumper. This is the second murder in this string,” Michael emphasized.

“If you’re right, I have a feeling he won’t be the last. Watch your back. I’ll talk to you in a few,” Ken said, and hung up.

This was far worse than anything Michael could have predicted. Jim was just hired hands who knew absolutely nothing about anything. If someone was taking out even the peripheral players, they were going scorched earth and it was a one hundred percent certainty Michael and Koshi were targets. He just hoped Ken could reach him in time or that Koshi was asleep at his cousin’s after a late night drinking session with the family.

Somehow, Michael found that unlikely. It would be nice, but so would winning the lottery. Hope was a poor investment strategy and an even poorer survival tactic. And Michael wasn’t feeling particularly lucky at the moment.

So what to do? People were dying, so his decision to go to ground had been a sound one, but what now? He couldn’t stay holed up in his friend’s condo indefinitely. Michael suddenly had an overwhelming urge to move, to get out. He long ago had learned to go with these impulses so he began assembling his gear for departure. But where was he going? Where could you run when the entire machine was looking for you?

New Jersey seemed like as good a place as any to start. That way, if Koshi was still in one piece, they could hook up and formulate a strategy. If he wasn’t, then he was further from New York, which was where the search was localized at this point. They had no reason to believe he had left town so the natural play was to stake out his apartment and known haunts — and wait. Because targets inevitably made mistakes.

But they hadn’t banked on Michael being their quarry. That slim edge would disappear soon enough, but he needed to use every advantage in his grasp while he could. And right now, he had first-mover advantage.

He was going to need it.