The last sliver of the moon hung above the great, teeming
city and its million souls like the flickering remnants of a guttering candle.
Its few, feeble rays reached into the thousand dark places the gaslight could
never
penetrate – the alleyways,
the long-quiet industrial ruins, the waterfront. Silver fingertips bruised
themselves against the creeping darkness of the badlands and found themselves
buried in its lifeless chill. The moon retired and was seen no more. Those of
the city that could do so made their way to warmth and safety behind locked
doors. Those that could not whispered a prayer to the morning, and let the
waves of darkness wash over them. Night came to the city.

Mitch Reynard stared
out into the blackness and blinked hard. Four hours of this. It was too much.
He shook his head a little to persuade his eyes to stay focused and stamped his
feet to fight the chill of the damp spring air. He felt inside his coat for a
cigarette. As he fumbled with the lining of his torn pocket, his fingers brushed
against the cold steel of the .38 revolver he wore on his shoulder. For a
moment he remembered that he had a job to do. Like a truant schoolboy, his eyes
turned back to the weary blackness that surrounded him.

He pressed the cigarette between thin, dry lips and felt for his
matches. Nothing. He was sure that he’d had half a book. His eyes turned again
to the void. He took six steps forward and looked over the edge of the roof he
stood upon. He could barely see the walls of the warehouse below him, but he
could hear the soft scuff of the men at the front door as they struggled to
keep their watch. He could see the orange glow of their cigarettes as they
paced. Reynard almost called to them, but six stories below they wouldn’t be of
much use to him, and they could no more leave their posts than he could his. He
turned back in towards the rooftop. To his left, he thought he could almost
make out Jake on the corner of the roof with his Thompson. Or maybe he just
thought he could. It didn’t matter – he’d be there all right, and he’d
have a light.

Reynard turned out to face the night. Nothing. He decided that this was
pointless. Night after night, watching for something that didn’t come. Tonight
he wouldn’t have even been able to see it if he’d known what he was looking
for.

“No sense being a hero,” he thought, and smiled at the irony.

He turned and made his way carefully across the rooftop to the corner
where he knew Jake stood waiting. Waiting and watching. He’d gone fifteen feet
before he was sure he could just make out the shape of Jake’s light colored
raincoat. Another twenty feet and Reynard could see him, outlined in black and
white like a picture show. He began to wonder at what distance it would be safe
to call out to the waiting gunman. Didn’t want to surprise him. Jake didn’t
much like surprises. Reynard heard a sudden noise behind him. His blood froze
in his veins, and for just a moment, he had no idea what to do. He heard
another footfall gently brush against the stones that covered the roof, closer this
time. Reynard’s instincts took over. His right arm reached across his body as
he turned and then straightened, .38 in hand. He heard a familiar voice hiss,

“Reynard! Reynard, what in blazes do you think you’re playing at?”

Reynard sighed. It was Malcolm, the boss’ right-hand. He could just see
him striding forward through the darkness. Malcolm was afraid of nothing.

“Reynard! You’re not at your post!” hissed Malcolm.

“Geez, Mister Malcolm, I was just gonna get a match off Jake.”

Malcolm was close enough to be seen clearly now. Reynard could see the
bigger man’s immaculately pressed grey suit and the scowl of contempt he always
seemed to wear. He could smell Malcolm’s expensive cigar and more expensive
hair tonic. Yes, sir. Malcolm was doing all right, that was for sure. He’d been
old man Sclareli’s toughest soldier before he was put away, and his nephew’s
loyal lieutenant since that dark day. Young Vic Sclareli was the boss, but
Malcolm knew where all the bodies were buried, and how to dispose of another
one if the need arose.

“Mister Sclareli doesn’t pay you to make social calls, Reynard.” There
was menace in the gravel of that voice.

“Honest, Mister Malcolm.” Reynard was sweating now, in spite of the
cold. “Lookit,” he said, pointing toward the unlit cigarette still stuck to his
dry lips.

Malcolm held his eyes for a moment as best he could in the blackness.
Finally, Reynard was sure he saw him smile. Reynard swallowed hard to persuade
his heart to go back down his throat. A light sparked as Malcolm struck a match
and lit Reynard’s cigarette. The smoke burned Reynard’s lungs and watered his
eyes, but he smiled in relief.

“Thanks. Thanks, Mister Malcolm.”

“Keep the book, Mitch,” Malcolm said, pressing it into Reynard’s hand.
“We can’t afford any slip-ups.”

“Geez, Mister Malcolm, I don’t mean anything by it, but how much longer
are we supposed to keep this up? It’s been two weeks now, holed up like rats in
a cage.”

Malcolm’s eyebrow arched. “A very tastefully appointed cage, Reynard.”

“Inside, sure it is,” chirped Reynard, feeling bolder now, “but from
out here it’s just a big old warehouse. We don’t even know what we’re watching
for.”

“Let’s hope you know it when you see it, Mitch,” said Malcolm, turning
away. “For your sake.”

Malcolm stalked back towards the door that led in from the roof to the
Sclareli mob’s headquarters – a hideout that had become a fortress. The
half-open door cast a red glow against the blackness, thirty, maybe forty feet
away. Reynard slipped the book of matches into his pocket. He’d need most of
these before dawn. He didn’t understand this. He didn’t understand why they
were hiding. They were hunters, not prey. They should be fighting back.

He started to return to his post. He turned and glanced back to Jake on
the corner. Good old Jake – never asked questions, never left his post.
Except…

Jake was gone.

Reynard froze and looked around. It was still too pitch black to see
far, but the black and white outline of the man with the Thompson was nowhere
to be found. He took two quick steps in that direction then stopped hard, like
a dog yanked by a leash. If Malcolm was watching…

“Mister Malcolm!” hissed Reynard, as loud as he dared. “Mister Malcolm,
it’s Jake.” The red glow of the half-open door still hung in the air, but there
wasn’t a sound.

“Mister Malcolm!”

Nothing. Like most men that pursued his line of work, Mitch Reynard was
a coward. Able enough in a group, or when told what to do, but one way or
another the equation was always balanced by fear. After another moment, he
realized what Sclareli would do to him if he let an unwelcome visitor slip past
him. That tore it. He was more afraid of the boss than Malcolm.

Reynard pulled his .38 again and raced across the rooftop, stumbling in
the darkness. As he picked himself up, he turned. The glow of the open door
seemed very far away now. It actually seemed to be getting darker. Cautiously,
he felt his way forward until he found the low wall that surrounded the edge of
the roof. He groped further into the darkness, his tongue dry and heavy in his
mouth as he called in a hoarse whisper,

“Jake! Jake? Where are you?”

Reynard’s right hand found the point where the north and east walls
met. He turned in towards the roof, feeling with his outstretched hand as he
instinctively lowered himself down to the surface of the roof. His eyes could
just make out something…

Jake’s battered pork-pie hat, lying on the ground beside a
still-smoldering cigar. But no Jake. Reynard scrambled to his feet and heard
the clatter of something metallic. He bent forward again and came up with
Jake’s Thompson. Reynard’s heart sank.

At that moment, a faint sound carried through the blackness. The
beginnings of triumphant laughter, like a far-off song in a haunting minor key,
taunting him. Reynard felt the chill of doom grip his heart. He had heard that
sound before. At that moment, there was a clatter from across the roof, and the
red glow abruptly disappeared. The door was shut. That laughter was inside the
Sclareli headquarters. Reynard raced towards the door, shouting,

“He’s inside! He’s inside! Everybody–” Reynard was cut off as he
tripped over something lying in the darkness and fell, hard. He turned in a
rage. It was Malcolm, dead or out cold, Reynard couldn’t tell. No one was
responding to his cries. There was no movement or sound on the rooftop. Reynard
knew he was alone. The others had been taken, one by one. He’d only been spared
because he wasn’t at his post.

He gripped the Thompson hard and raced towards the door. He found it by
the sounds of a struggle from within, and then gunshots, a dozen or more. That
gave the alarm. Reynard could hear his confederates on the ground converging on
the front door. Reynard waited. Perhaps it was all over.

But then he heard the laugh again. Louder now, and with a crueler,
mocking tone. Reynard stood with his hand on the doorknob, his whole body
shaking. Few had heard that sound so close for so long. It was more than just
laughter; it was a battle cry. There was mirth in the laugh, a kind of reckless
joy.

“Oh, God,” Reynard whispered to himself, forgetting that he had long
ago forsaken the right to any aid from that corner. He gripped the doorknob
harder, unable to force his body forward. Unable to find the strength of will.
Alone on that roof, the sounds of titanic struggle beyond the door. And always
that laughter. It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, but to Mitch
Reynard, it was an eternity.

From within, there was a sound like an explosion. He could feel the
rush of air shaking the old wooden door. He waited a moment. No laughter.
Maybe… just maybe.

Reynard turned the knob and raced through the door. He fell forward
onto the high catwalk that ran around the top level of the warehouse Sclareli
had converted for his headquarters. Reynard had known the place for a year.
Neither he nor any other member of the gang had left it for the past two weeks.
He would never have recognized it now. The great open chamber that was Vic
Sclareli’s pride and joy was in ruins. The only light was from a fire burning
near the main doors, evidently the explosive blast Reynard had heard had
backfired. The lights flickered and sparked, but from the damage done to a
power relay near the door, Reynard could tell there would be no help there.
There was scattered gunfire from the lower levels as the remaining members of
the Sclareli mob tried to organize their counterstrike. And everywhere there
were bodies. They hadn’t been shot; Reynard couldn’t see any blood at all.
He
was taking them apart with his bare
hands.

Suddenly, Reynard looked up, across the open expanse to the other side
of the catwalk. There
he
was. Just a
man. A man like any other. Reynard struggled to collect himself. If he could
get a shot from here, he might have a–

Reynard’s thoughts came to a crashing halt as the frozen form sixty
feet away sprang into motion. Reynard could see six of his confederates rush
the man, and the casual ease with which he brushed them aside. The heads, arms,
legs… all broken and bent as they were never meant to be. Six men. In a moment.
In spite of himself, Reynard gasped.

The dark shape froze, like a wolf with the scent of blood in its nose,
and turned in his direction. No. It was impossible. The man couldn’t have heard
that sound. Not over the screams, the growing flames, the gunfire. And then the
laughter began again.

The man raced towards the edge of the catwalk and threw himself over
into oblivion. Red gauntlets thrust forward, fingertips extended to their
furthest reach. Something seemed to propel him forward, pushing him away from
the solid walls with such force that he barely fell an inch as he jumped.
Impossible. It couldn’t be… no man could make that leap.

Half the distance between the site of the last battle and the catwalk
where Reynard now stood there was a cross-beam, almost a full six stories in
the air. The man reached it as if it had been easy. He gripped the beam with
crimson gloved hands and propelled himself around it, seemingly oblivious to
the blaze of gunfire from below. He spun himself around the beam with terrible
speed and hurled himself into the air, feet first, towards the frozen form of
Mitch Reynard.

It was easily the most incredible thing that Reynard had ever seen. The
man stretched his arms behind his head, his hands reaching as if they worked
invisible controls. Some force of great power seemed now to be pulling him by
the feet, pulling him an impossible distance through the air. He actually
overshot his mark, hitting the wall above the catwalk feet first and, with
another sudden movement of his hands,
staying
there
. He turned and looked right into Reynard’s soul with eyes that were
blank, white and seemed to glow with an unearthly fury. And then he smiled.

Mitch felt weak in the knees as the man walked toward him, striding
along the wall as smoothly as if he were walking flat upon the ground. Several
stray bullets from floor level got his attention enough that he dropped to the
catwalk. Reynard felt the cold steel of the Thompson in his clammy hands, but
he couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t cry out to the world the terror
that gripped him by the heart.

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