Finally, he makes the whole circuit.

Nothing. And no one.

Certainly no floor blown out. No way to the deep downstairs.

They’re gone. Those squirrelly bitches up and left. They knew they were on the radar, and so they set up a dummy location for just such a time like this. Confirms doubly that Nora isn’t operating alone; they’re with her on this. With her lock, stock, and barrel.

And suddenly it makes sense. The front door is padlocked. On the outside. Nobody goes out that way. Comes in, maybe. But never goes out. This is just a ruse. A front.

Shitfuck.

He’s not going to get to kill Nora Pearl today. And that, make no mistake, is what he’s here to do: kill that little bitch. She tweaked Mookie’s head last year, led him around by his nose until he cleaned out that big nest of goblins, then took over a little slice of the Blue trade. She’s been moving and shaking ever since, and now to hear that she killed Casimir which means she’s probably gunning for the Boss, well…

Oh, and then there’s that other thing – she shot Werth in the fucking hip. He owes her for the limp. He owes her ten times what he got in pain.

So to lose the chance to pop her today…

Whoa, hold up. What’s this?

Werth sees something. Just a shape of an image on the back brick wall.

Flashlight time. He pops the flashlight, turns it on, screws it between his lips like a fat cigar, and walks forward.

Well, looky-looky.

It’s their mark. Their sigil. Painted on the wall like graffiti.

A girl’s hand. Thorn tat on the wrist.

The hand holds an upside-down roller skate like it’s a gun. The skate is Pepto pink. The wheels are robin’s egg blue. Their gang colors.

Inked on the side of the skate: GEG.

Get-Em-Girls.

They use this sign to mark their territory. Which encompasses parts of Hell’s Kitchen – oh, pardon, Mid-Clinton-West-Town-Bullshitland or whatever they’re calling it now – and the northernmost blocks of Chelsea. That means this is their place. Or was, at least.

Werth runs his hands over the mark.

The floor judders beneath him. Just a faint tremor.

He starts to wonder what that means, but doesn’t need to wonder long.

Because the floor drops out from under him, and he plummets into darkness.

The flashlight spins in the air. Drunken strobe.

Werth sees he’s falling down a cylindrical shaft.

Sees more red brick.

And a ladder, too – a metal ladder bolted in. He reaches for it – the gun falling from his hands – and he starts to catch a cold rung, but he’s falling too hard, too fast. His wrist twists. He yelps in pain. His body bounces off the shaft wall. His head hits the ladder – gunggggg – and stars explode behind his eyes.

Then the ladder is gone.

So too is the brick.

His hooves hit rocky ground. Pain shoots up into his hip.