Page 47 of Knife Thrower

In the back corner, Marek hums a low, haunting lullaby. He lifts a syringe, holding the plastic barrel up to the dim overhead light. He flicks the side with his index finger, dislodging a tiny air bubble, and pushes the plunger until a single drop of clear liquid beads at the needle’s tip.

“The dose is calculated specifically for a man of his constitution,” Marek murmurs. His light gray eyes reflect the blue glare of the monitor. “He will go down fast, but he won’t stop breathing.”

Sloane watches the needle. Her tongue darts out, wetting her lower lip. “Good. I’d hate for the sedative to accidentally kill him before I get my fill of him.”

Across the van, Logan shifts his weight. The fire eater drops his head back against the metal siding. He bites down hard on his lower lip, a chaotic, thoroughly deranged grin splitting his cheeks.

“God,” Logan whispers, his voice thick and rough. “It is so fucking hot that you are this bloodthirsty.”

I reach down, snag a greasy mechanic’s rag off the floorboard, and launch it straight across the dark space.

The oily cloth slaps Logan directly in the face.

“Keep your dick in your pants, Holloway,” I snarl.

Jonah occupies the far bench, taking up half the available space. A deep laugh rumbles out of the strongman.

Elias rolls his icy eyes toward the ceiling. He taps his cane against the floor.

“Calm down, children,” the ringmaster orders. “Focus on the screen.”

Silas hits a key. “We have movement. He’s abandoning the phone.”

On the monitor, Raymond snatches a heavy leather duffel bag off the floor. He shoves a stack of banded cash and a lockbox into the main compartment, yanks the zipper closed, and practically runs toward the interior garage door.

“He’s running,” Silas announces. The illusionist slams his laptop shut, plunging the van into pitch black.

“Show time,” Elias murmurs.

I pull a black mask out of my pocket, sliding the fabric over my face, leaving only my eyes exposed. Beside me, Jonah and Logan do the same.

We wait in absolute silence.

The heavy iron gates of the community roll open. Raymond’s silver luxury sedan tears out onto the asphalt, the tires squealing as he takes a hard right, aiming for the interstate.

Silas drops the van into gear. We pull out, keeping a solid quarter-mile distance, tracking his taillights.

I tap my earpiece. “Rowe. Teddy. Target is mobile. Heading west.”

“Copy that,” Teddy’s voice crackles over the comms. “We have eyes on him. Moving into position.”

The pursuit lasts exactly nine minutes. Raymond drives like a man possessed, swerving across the double yellow lines, checking his rearview mirror for flashing red and blue lights. He expects the feds. He expects sirens.

He doesn’t expect a former Secret Service turned FBI agent behind the wheel of a battered cargo van.

Teddy executes the maneuver with terrifying, clinical precision. He shoots out of a cross street, cutting off the sedan’s forward trajectory.

Silas accelerates, boxing the sedan in from the rear. The silver car jerks hard to the right, the front bumper crunching violently into a guardrail, shattering the right headlight.

“Go,” Elias commands.

I throw the sliding door open before we even completely stop.

Logan hits the asphalt first. Jonah follows, his massive boots crushing the gravel. I bring up the rear, palming the syringe Marek handed me.

Raymond scrambles inside the cabin. The doors are locked. He fumbles frantically with the center console, his eyes wide, blinded by the sudden assault.

Jonah doesn’t bother with the handle. The strongman drives his fist straight through the driver’s side window. Safety glass explodes in a shower of glittering diamonds. Jonah reaches through the jagged frame, grabs a fistful of Raymond’s expensive suit, and violently yanks the man out of the vehicle.