He went around the block once, then twice, just to be safe, and returned to the ugly, squat four-story former warehouse, now a quasi-residential structure. That is, quasi-legal. Or maybe completely illegal. We’re talking New York City real estate, after all. He’d paid cash for the short-term rental, a lot of cash. The agent had taken the money with a smile and made a point of not asking a single question.

Not that it mattered. He’d been prepared to spin a credible tale, forged documents included.

Thou shalt have thy cover story memorized.

Then, confirming that the sidewalk was deserted, Billy walked down a short flight of stairs to his front door. Three clicks of three locks and he was inside, exchanging as a soundtrack the horns of irritated drivers stuck in Chinatown by the bad weather for the rumble and brake squeals of the subway cars running directly beneath his place.

Sounds from underground. Comforting.

Billy pressed a switch and anemic lights filled the twenty-by-twenty-five-foot space – a combination living room/bedroom/kitchen/everything else. The room had a certain dungeon feel to it. One wall was exposed brick, the others halfhearted Sheetrock. He had a second rental, farther north, a safe house, which he’d planned to stay in more frequently than here on his mission for the Modification, but the workshop had turned out to be more comfortable than the safe house, which was smack on a busy street populated with the sort of people he despised.

The workbench was filled with glassware, books, syringes, tattooing machine parts, plastic bags, tools. Dozens of books on toxins and thousands of downloaded Internet documents, some more helpful than others. The Field Guide to Poisonous Plants was sumptuously illustrated but didn’t have quite the same level of useful information as the underground blog called Knock ’Em Off: A Dozen Deadly Recipes for When the Revolution Comes and We Have to Fight Back!!

All arranged neatly on the workspace, just like in his tattoo parlor back home. The far corner of the room was pooled in the cool glow of ultraviolet lights that illuminated eight terrariums. He walked to these now and examined the plants inside. The leaves and flowers comforted him, they were so reminiscent of home. Pinks and whites and purples and greens in a thousand shades. The colors fought against the dull mud tone of the city, whose hateful spirit lapped every minute at Billy Haven’s heart. Suitcases contained changes of clothes and toiletries. A gym bag held several thousand dollars, sorted by denomination but wrinkled and old and very untraceable.