He used his key and slipped in behind the steering wheel quickly, eager to get out of the neighborhood.

Something has got my hackles up, he thought. Not his favorite Americanism, but a fitting one. The hairs on the back of his neck felt like they were standing for Ṣalāt al-Janāzah, the funeral prayer.

The smell from the alley had followed him into the car. He couldn't seem to get it out of his nose: a mix of human sweat, raw sewage and a vaguely familiar musky scent.

He flicked on the air before starting the car, hoping to vanquish the smell from his nostrils, then pulled out into the street. Traffic was minimal for Manhattan. He thought of putting on the radio but the news just depressed him these days, all pot stirring and fear mongering. There was more than enough to fear in the world without the news constantly reaffirming it. Martin's books spoke to that.

A grumble of faux leather from the backseat made him jump. His shoulder jammed against the seatbelt.

The musky odor wafted from the back and he sensed rather than saw the man sitting up in the narrow backseats.

Instinctively his foot raised off the gas, jerking the car a few feet into the next lane. The SUV in his blind spot honked, and the man in the back laid a firm hand on his shoulder, snapping Qurban back to reality from his fear-induced stupor.

"Now just keep on drivin calmly and carefully an' I won't have to hurt ya."

Qurban recognized the voice and glanced at James Barclay in the rearview. The musky scent of his cologne, the accent, the dark, piercing eyes and the soiled cowboy shirt—even with several days' growth of salt-and-pepper scruff on his face a man like him stuck out like a sore thumb. He had an angry-looking slash across his right cheek and held a long kitchen knife in his left hand. The blade was rusty but still looked sharp enough to slice and dice Qurban if he didn't play by the killer's rules.

"How did you get in my car?"

"How does a fella do anything?" The killer grinned, his teeth crooked and yellowed. "I set mah mind to it. Now quit troublin yerseff with inconsequentialities and drive, my Middle Eastern friend."

"Please," Qurban said. "I have children."

"Then think 'bout your children an' play it smart." Barclay flicked his gaze ahead. "Why'ntcha go on an' take a left here?"

Qurban nodded. He flicked on the turning signal, checked his blind spot and slipped into the other lane.

He was moving on autopilot. All he could think about was the salmon tartare he'd had with lunch and how it would be found partially digested during his autopsy.

Allah forbid. They'll find my body washed up in the East River, full of lobster brioche and champagne mimosas.

He flinched as Barclay reached over his shoulder. The killer pinched the star and crescent ornament hanging from the rearview and studied it a moment. The smell coming off him was horrendous, barely masked by his cologne. He mustn't have washed since his escape.