He was halfway across the station, passing the automatic ticket kiosks, when his iPhone began to ring. He looked back at Mann and was about to yell that he shouldn’t abuse the phone. Mann wasn’t on the phone, however. The young detective was kneeling near the body and saying something to Lynch.

Coletti felt a cold breeze whisper through the station. It was the same breeze he’d felt in his dreams. As time began to slow and his hands began to tremble, he turned to his left. The horses in the bas-relief sculpture on the far wall seemed to move. The light around him seemed to dim. His face sweating and his eyes darting to and fro, he extracted the phone from his pocket and looked at the screen. “Private number,” it said.

He connected the call and listened. A few seconds of silence passed before he heard a sound he never thought he’d hear in waking moments.

“Only you can end this,” said the raspy voice from his dreams.

“How?” Coletti asked, the word coming out as a hoarse whisper.

“Meet me in the old factory at Stillman and Oxford,” the angel of death said. “You have ten minutes to get there. Be alone. If you’re not, more people will die.”

The line went dead and Coletti looked around him, knowing that he had no choice. If they were going to get the truth that would finally set things right, Coletti would have to be the one to find it.

As Lynch and Mann and all the other officers swarmed around the priest’s body that lay beneath the angel’s wings, Coletti moved toward the door. He was going to fix this, or he was going to die trying.

It was two o’ clock when Steven began his trek down Oxford Street, braving the fearful stares of those he encountered as he made his way toward the factory.

“Ain’t that him?” a woman whispered to her friend, nervously regarding his blond hair, black suit, heavy black boots, and steely blue eyes.

Steven looked up at her defiantly, his brow knit together in anger. He had no choice but to continue to walk. If he was going to see the glory of the final battle, he would have to walk by faith, believing far beyond what he could see.

Both women crossed the street. Steven didn’t care. He’d made it as far as Nineteenth Street. There were six and a half blocks to go.

With his arm hard against his side, he held the sawed-off shotgun in place beneath his jacket, his eyes fixed on the ground as an increasing number of people stepped silently aside to let him pass.

When he crossed Twentieth Street he felt more powerful, as if the very act of moving closer to the battlefield made him stronger.

“Oh my God!” a woman screamed as she watched him walk past. “That’s him!”