As he thought about it, Feeney snagged a few almonds out of a lopsided bowl. "Any chance the kid's a hostage?"

"Doesn't feel like it. This wit? He'd have noticed if the kid came in under duress. They checked into the hotel together, had already requested that particular room. Stayed the night, stayed through the morning. That's planning and patience. And it's lying in wait. So I ask myself: Why this kid? You took me."

Sipping coffee, Feeney nodded. "You had juice."

"I was green."

"You never had much green on you. I saw potential, guts, a working brain cop's brain. Maybe a little bit of me there, back in the day. And you wanted Homicide. You took Peabody," he reminded her.

"Yeah, and thinking on that. I can't say I saw any me in her, but I saw potential, and that working cop brain. I figured, give her a shot at Homicide because she wanted it and try her out as my aide. Then it fit, that's all. We fit."

"She's got you in her. A sunnier outlook, and that Free-Ager base, but she doesn't quit. And it's not just the job matters. It's the victim. You saw some of that, or you might've put her into a cube in Homicide. You wouldn't have set yourself up to train her."

"Yeah. I guess. Yeah. So there's maybe some of the adult in the kid. The potential to kill. You took me, I took Peabody and I gave Baxter Trueheart but there's more than the potential, all three trainees were already cops."

With a nod, Feeney gulped some coffee. "You're wondering if the kid's already a killer."

"You don't pick an apprentice out of the air. You don't take them on because they're handy. Where'd they find each other? The adult suspect has to have police or military training, almost has to have been in uniform. So, do you pick this kid off the street, out of some war zone?"

"There's another choice."

"I know it. They're related. Father and son, uncle, older brother, distant fricking cousins. I get the description I can run it through Missing Persons, see if anyone's looking for a teenager. Let's say they're connected, why train to kill? This doesn't come off as a pro none of the three victims had anything worth the hire. And there are a lot less visible ways to do a training exercise if you're heading up a fricking assassin's school. This comes off personal."

"A lot easier ways to kill for personal reasons."

"Damn right."

"Unless this is what you do." Companionably, Feeney nudged the wobbly bowl toward her. "Not an assassin for hire, but a sniper police or military. That's where you're leaning anyway."

On a long breath, Eve nodded. It helped to have him lean where she did. "Yeah, that's where. You take on the trainee because you want him to share what you do, you want to give him something maybe. You want to see something of you in him. The age difference..."

"More like you and me." Feeney nodded. "I never worked an LDSK with a partner, or with a trainee, but I'd say the trainee has to show a what's it propensity for the work, and some skill, and the same cold blood. You can't teach the cold blood, Dallas. It's just got to be there."

And again, he helped to hear him say what muttered in her mind.

"How'd they pick and train snipers during the Urbans?"

"Same way they do now, I'd say. You've got to have the skill, the control. You have to be able to see a human being as a target. You don't take that target until you get the green, and when you do get the green, you don't hesitate."

"Whoever made those strikes didn't hesitate," Eve said. "And they won't hesitate when they get the green again."

Working out the oral report in her head, Eve headed to Commander Whitney's office. Whitney's admin gave her a nod, held up one finger to signal for her to wait. Then tapped her ear-link.

"Lieutenant Dallas, Commander. Yes, sir. Go right in, Lieutenant."

He sat behind his desk, a big man with broad shoulders that carried the weight of command. His wide dark face was set in sober lines as he watched Eve come in.

"I've kept you out of this morning's media conference, as you were in the field. Tell me you have something."

"I have the nest, I have a description of two suspects, and Detective Yancy is working with the witness."

Whitney sat back. "That's more than something. Details."

She gave them all, quickly, to the point, and on her feet.

"A teenage apprentice," Whitney murmured. "It wouldn't be the first time. The D.C. snipers," he told her. "Early twenty-first century. The Ozarks snipers, 2030 to '31. Brothers, the younger barely thirteen when they began."

Eve made a mental note to research both cases.

"When we have the sketches, we'll release them, and this time you'll need to participate in the media conference. Stand by while I contact Kyung. We want to set this up carefully."

She wanted to work, wanted her board, wanted to think it through, but she stood, as ordered, and waited.

While Eve waited, so did the apprentice. Mixed with the cold blood was a hot thread of anticipation. This time it would be different. This time the knowledge of how it felt, how that power pumped from finger to target colored all.

The flop smelled of piss and roaches. But it didn't matter. The sight line straight up Broadway to Times Square was unobstructed. The thinning sleet, even the occasional sky tram winging by didn't distract.

"I have the target."

The trainer nodded, picking out the target himself through a scope. "You have the green. Take your time. Take the target out."

"I want more than three this time. I can do six. I want six."

"Speed and accuracy, remember. Three is enough."

"It sets a pattern, and I can take six."

After a moment, the trainer lowered the glasses. "Four. Don't argue. Do the job. Argue, we abort."

Pleased, the apprentice watched the people thronging the streets of Times Square, watched them walk and gawk, snap their pictures, run their videos, haul their bags of worthless souvenirs.

And began to do the job.

Officer Kevin Russo patrolled with his friend and fellow cop, Sheridon Jacobs. They'd just grabbed a couple of loaded dogs off a cart on their break, and his sat warm in his belly.

He liked his beat always something happening, always something to see. Of course, he'd only been assigned to Times Square the last four months, but he didn't see it getting old anytime soon.

"There's Grabby Larry," he said to Jacobs as he watched the aging street thief casing the tourists. "Guess we'd better run him off."

"He's showing the miles." Jacobs shook her head. "There ought to be a retirement home for old street thieves. Guy has to be pushing the century mark."

"I think he passed it a few years ago. Jesus, he doesn't even see us coming."

They didn't hurry. Grabby Larry wasn't as nimble as he'd been in his prime; and the week before, his mark had beat him to the ground with her purse the one he'd hoped to steal.

Russo started to grin at the memory, then today's mark a woman of about seventy, with a bright red purse dangling from her arm dropped like a stone.

"Ah, shit, call the MTs, Sherry." As Russo darted forward, a kid on an airboard in a small pack of kids on airboards went flying, took out a trio of pedestrians like bowling pins.

Russo saw blood bloom on the back of the kid's bright blue jacket.

"Get down! Down! Take cover."

Before the first scream, the first realization of those around him, Russo pulled his weapon. He leaped toward the kid in hopes of shielding him from another strike. But the third hit Russo in the center of his forehead, a scant inch below the brim of his cap. Russo was gone before he hit the ground, before the fourth body fell, and a fifth.

While chaos erupted blocks away, while screams ripped the air and tires squealed, the apprentice sat back, smiled up at the trainer.

"Five was a compromise."

The trainer lowered the scope, aimed stern disapproval. But pride shone through it. "Pack it up. We're done here."

In Whitney's office, Dallas's communicator buzzed almost simultaneously with Whitney's 'link signaling a breakthrough communication.

"I'll get back to you," he told the media liaison. His eyes met Eve's as they both answered.

"Dallas."

"Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Officer down, Broadway and Forty-Four. Multiple victims. Four confirmed dead. Wounded unverified."

"Acknowledged. On my way. Sir."

"We have a dead cop. I'm coming with you. Let's move."

She tagged Peabody on the way. "Garage. Now. We have another strike, Times Square. He got a cop."

Automatically, Eve turned toward the glides. "They're faster, sir."

If anyone thought it odd the commander rushed to keep pace with her, weaving through bodies on the glides, they were discreet enough to keep it to sidelong looks and most just quickly made a hole.

Halfway down, Whitney grabbed Eve's arm. "Elevator. I'll bypass from here."

When Whitney muscled onto the jammed elevator, cops, not so discreetly, came to attention. And no one bitched out loud when he swiped his ID card and called for the garage.

"What level?" he snapped at Eve.

"Level One."

After ordering it, he glanced at her. "Your rank rates higher."

"I like Level One."

"The way you like an office the size of a broom closet."

"I guess. Yes, sir. Commander, it's going to be mayhem."

He pulled a black scarf out of the pocket of the coat he'd yanked on as they'd rushed out of his office. "I've dealt with mayhem."

Eve decided to be discreet, and said nothing.

They shoved off the elevator into the echoing garage. One glance told Eve they'd beaten Peabody, and that gave Whitney time to survey her ride.

"What kind of vehicle is this, and why in hell don't you have better?"

"It's my personal vehicle, and better than it looks." Quickly, she opened the locks, glancing back as she heard the elevator clump. "Take shotgun, sir."

As he climbed in, she sent a warning stare toward Peabody. "Take the back. The commander's riding with us."

Eve slid behind the wheel. "Speed's key. We're going hot."

As Eve turned on the engine, screamed into reverse, Peabody leaned forward and murmured toward Whitney's ear, "Lock down your safety, sir. Trust me."

Sirens blaring, Eve burst out of the garage, barely hesitating to make sure traffic had cleared, and zipped around knotted cars, hit vertical to take the turn north.

"What is this thing?" Whitney demanded.

"It's a DLE, Commander," Peabody told him, strapped in, gripping the seat with both hands. "It's not even on the market yet."

"When it is, I want one."

So saying, he yanked out his 'link, made his first contact with Chief Tibble.

Eve blocked him out, zigging, zagging, leaping, and shoving her way through knots of traffic.

Multiple strikes on one of the busiest sectors of the city, the eternal party that was Times Square.

And a dead cop.

Mayhem would be putting it mildly.

She needed the scene secured, needed any potential wits quarantined and interviewed. She needed the dead protected, and the wounded, if any, out of harm's way.

She'd expected another strike, but to have it hit under twenty-four hours from the first... A pattern, an agenda. Maybe a fricking mission.

Killers on a mission didn't stop until they'd completed it.

"Peabody, tag Yancy, put a fire under his ass. I need those sketches. Get out of the fucking way! Do you hear the sirens?"

She went up, fast, skimmed over a couple of Rapid Cabs that appeared to be playing Chicken on Eighth.

As she'd suspected, when she nipped across Seventh, bulled onto Broadway, mayhem reigned.

A small platoon of uniforms fought to control hundreds. Panicked pedestrians, crazed vehicles, people with cameras and 'links trying to shove in for a better look, shopkeepers, waiters, street thieves those seeing a bounty of profit in a small window of time.

The noise was amazing.

She stopped the car, flipped up her On Duty light, more to stop some overenthusiastic uniform from having it towed, and pushed clear.

"Commander... Sorry."