“Shut up. I’m going to call for help. Don’t even think about dying.” Larkin checked his phone, the screen a beacon in the dark, musty tunnel, but he wasn’t at all surprised to see No Service load in the top left corner. Shoving it back in his pocket, Larkin hoisted himself out of the track bed and onto the walkway. His derbies squelched as he ran through the first still-open door, returning to Armstrong. Larkin got down on one knee, noting the bubbly, wheezy breaths the man was taking through his broken nose. He grabbed the two-way radio off Armstrong’s belt, pressed down on the side button, and said, “This is Everett Larkin with the NYPD. I’m in the uptown F tunnel with Demetrius Armstrong of the MTA, somewhere underneath Central Park, and I need two buses ASAP. I’ve got head trauma and a knife—”

Larkin’s breath whooshed out of his lungs in a sudden rush as something hard and heavy slammed into his back. He dropped the radio and collapsed forward. He felt paralyzed, gulping for air like a landed fish. A boot came down on his back, holding him pinned, while a hand dug the SIG from his holster. Larkin coughed reflexively, his body doing whatever it could to kickstart his lungs. The pistol slid free, the boot lifted, and Larkin was able to roll onto his back.

The same boy—maybe this was Tony—dropped the shovel in favor of the gun. It was clear he’d never held a pistol before, was surprised by its weight and unsure how to grasp it. “Leave Megan alone, and I won’t have to shoot you, pig.”

Larkin didn’t move.

Didn’t twitch.

Didn’t blink.

The radio crackled with a response to Larkin’s request, asking for clarification, confirmation, location, anything.

Tony took a few steps backward, using the track on his left side to keep in a straight line. He was still awkwardly pointing the SIG in Larkin’s general direction, likely to hit anything and everything, from the ceiling to Larkin’s forehead, if he pulled the trigger. “Don’t move,” he said again. Then he turned and bolted for Fifty-Seventh Street.

Larkin watched the teenage boy’s dark outline become lost to the blackness, nothing but his silhouette bouncing along the walls in disproportionate shapes as he raced past bare bulbs. His back twinged painfully as Larkin eased onto his knees, and he gasped once getting to his feet, but he grabbed the shovel and, fueled by undiluted adrenaline and rage, ran after Tony.

Because that little shitweasel was armed and was going to take Doyle by surprise.