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He laughed at that. Imagine. He could be the first in a long line of angels of death that patrolled the Twin Cities Terminal, ensuring that the cold, indifferent assholes of the world met the end they deserved.

Angel of Death. He liked that. He preferred it to the name the press had given him—the Subway Vampire. As though he were some menacing force of darkness rather than an agent of the light.

Then again, to those mired in darkness, daylight seemed blinding.

Wow. That was good. Perhaps when he reached an age where he could no longer reasonably carry out his work, he could enjoy a second career as a writer.

Well, there were many years of health and vitality yet. He wasn’t young, but he was far from old. He would avenge himself and all the other downtrodden people of the world for decades to come. He wondered, did God grant him this power, or was he simply one of the randomly gifted individuals of the world, blessed with an ability that he could use to enact justice?

He caught sight of the FBI woman and her dog again and froze. If ever he needed to remain invisible, now was the time. This woman had come uncomfortably close to discovering him, probably would have discovered him if not for his gift.

She stared directly at him, and he remained perfectly still, gripping the mop and pressing down to keep the bucket from moving and revealing his presence. She continued to stare as she approached, no doubt wondering why a mop was standing directly upright in a bucket with no one there to hold it.

Then she spoke. “Good afternoon,” she said, meeting his eyes. “FBI. Can I talk to you for a moment?”

He stared at her, frozen in shock. Was she speaking to him? Could sheseehim?

Then the dog growled low in its throat, and when he looked down and saw the deadly intent in the shepherd’s eyes, he knew.

He wasn’t invisible. He was only lucky.

His mind raced with panic. He had grown too cocky. He had grown arrogant, and in his arrogance, he had allowed himself to be caught.

“Sir,” the agent said, her eyes narrowing. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

Her hand drifted toward her jacket pocket, where no doubt a handgun waited.

He lifted his eyes to meet hers and cried out, throwing the mop at the agent and kicking the bucket of water over. The agent’s hands snapped forward, catching the mop with lightning-fast reflexes. The dog’s reflexes proved equally sharp, and he easily avoided the flying bucket, but couldn’t maintain his feet in the soapy mess that spread across the ground around him. He stumbled and fell onto his rump, and the FBI agent looked toward him for a brief second.

A brief second was all he needed. He turned and sprinted away, shouting and screaming as he made his way toward the next platform.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Faith looked up to see her quarry sprinting away from the crowd, shrieking as he rushed toward the next platform. She looked at Turk, who continued to struggle through the soapy mess. “Turk, follow me,” she commanded.

She rushed after him, drawing her handgun and shouting, “FBI! Stop!”

He didn’t stop, and after a moment, it became clear that he was outrunning her. Faith holstered her weapon and increased her pace, moving faster than she had since the Marine Corps. A twinge of pain flashed in her right knee where almost two years ago Jethro Trammell had sliced the tendons connecting her thigh to her calf. She grimaced and shook off the pain, continuing to rush after the killer, for she was sure now that this one really was the man responsible for the three deaths so far.

So far.

Her jaw set. There would not be another death.

She lowered her head, lengthened her stride, and finally began to gain on the killer, albeit slowly, very slowly. He was fast. Too fast. She wondered if he had been an athlete in a past life. Whatever he used to be, what he was now was a psychopathic killer, and she would catch him and stop him no matter what it took.

It might take everything. He rushed through three platforms and showed no sign of slowing, continuing to shriek every few seconds when he turned and saw Faith still pursuing him. Her side burned, and her knee throbbed. A few moments later, her ankles joined in, sending bolts of lightning up her legs with each footfall as she tried and failed to gain ground on him.

When they reached platform 7A, he veered suddenly to the left, heading straight for the tracks. Faith watched in alarm as he leapt onto the tracks without slowing.

She rushed to the edge, expecting to see him lying on the tracks injured or dead. Instead, she caught only a brief flash of gray coverall as he ran into the tunnel.

“Shit!” she cried.

She jumped onto the tracks, rolling when she landed. Her hand came down on the nearest rail, and she stood and rushed after him, calling once more for him to stop.

Once more, her cry was ignored. The janitor ran down the tracks, deftly avoiding the middle rail and quickly widening the distance between himself and Faith, who ran alongside the tracks and had to move more slowly to avoid tripping over the tracks.

God, it was like he was a parkour champion or something. He moved like a dancer, effortlessly placing his feet inches from the center rail while avoiding contact that would surely kill him. She rushed after him, calling for him to stop, but he continued to ignore her and ran, shrieking, down the tunnel.

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