Tony cried out, “Oh my God, you broke my fucking ribs!”

Larkin ignored the crocodile tears, retrieved the handcuffs from his back pocket, bent over Tony, and cuffed one wrist. He attached the other to the gate so that Tony couldn’t run and was forced to cower on the stairs. “I’ll be right back to Mirandize you, you sonofabitch.” Larkin grabbed the shovel he’d dropped in the scrabble, then got close to Tony’s face and whispered, “Not a peep, or you and me are going to have a come to Jesus. And if your gal pal shoots my partner, you’ll be dealing with the bad cop and only the bad cop.” Larkin narrowed his gray eyes and nearly growled, “Got it.”

Tony’s eyes were so wide, they were nearly bulging. He nodded, panicked little breaths escaping from between his lips in a near whistle.

Larkin moved around him, quietly creeping up the steps and easing himself over the gate. The platform was empty, as it’d been roped off from upstairs, and Megan stood alone toward the middle, gun shaking wildly in her hands as she pointed it at Doyle. He stood in the middle of the open tracks, both hands raised in the air. Larkin could pick up the deep cadence of Doyle speaking, but wasn’t able to make out the individual words. He moved on the balls of his feet at an angle, his back to the downtown tracks as he gave Megan a wide berth so as to sneak up behind her.

“Stop it!” Megan cried. “Just stop. You’re from the street. You get it. Why’re you actin’ like this, Ira?”

“I’m a police officer,” Doyle corrected. “And I want to help you. We can still make smart choices. Right now, you can decide to put that gun down, and we can walk away from this.”

“You’ll come after me,” Megan retorted. “I just want to go to Montana. Let me go to Montana.”

“You can’t go to Montana if you shoot me.”

The gun wavered, began to point toward the floor, but then Megan squared her shoulders and raised it again. She awkwardly yanked the hammer back with both thumbs.

“Megan—” Doyle started.

A train that hadn’t gotten the fucking message about reroutes, its headlights bright as it rounded the tunnel corner from the south, laid on its deafening horn when the conductor saw Doyle. The brakes engaged and metal screeched against metal.

Larkin spun the shovel in one hand, held the handle tight, and slammed it into the back of Megan’s knee. She screamed, fell, and the gun went off, a round firing into the white subway tiles above Doyle’s head. Larkin grabbed the pistol from Megan, who now lay on the ground, cradling her leg. He holstered the weapon and bent over as Doyle was trying to hoist himself up onto the chest-high platform.

The train laid on the horn again.

Sparks shot up in a spray of bright white and blue as the wheels grated against the rails.