The kids had gotten away.

Striker’s men had been combing the back streets after almost two hours, and there was still no trace of the urchins. Three children—three weak, witless, vulnerable children—had somehow evaporated into the night air. How the brats had managed to escape his platoon of well-trained hit-men was beyond him. They would be hearing about it later.

The hit-men, not the kids. Although Striker wouldn’t mind giving them a piece of his mind, too.

For now, he stood in the shambles of what had once been a living room. It would’ve been a nice room, he thought, before his men shot it to pieces. It might even have been a decent home. But now the battered couch cushions were speckled with blood, and the holovid screen sported a huge crack along one edge. Greasy pizza boxes, t-shirts, and video game cases littered the rug. Little blood droplets led in a broken trail to the kitchen.

He frowned.

The mother had run. He hadn’t expected that. Mothers were supposed to stay with their children.

Striker hadn’t been there himself—he’d sent Yellowjacket and Zealot for the initial wave, although he had no idea how big of a mistake that would turn out to be. Apparently, when those two buffoons had broken in, the mother had leapt, screaming, from the couch and kicked the holovid in front of them before taking off for the back door. Zealot had managed to snatch her by the arm, but she had grabbed a nearby mixer and smashed him in the teeth. He let her go, but Yellowjacket shot her either in the shoulder or the side. He couldn’t remember. She’d escaped anyway.

Both men gave pursuit—and both neglected to search the house for the children or report to Striker. And when they finally did report in, the most Yellowjacket could say was that he thought he’d seen the eldest one—a boy—on the outskirts of the fray, but couldn’t be sure. Other than that, they had nothing. Everyone got away.

His men would definitely be hearing about this later.

“Boss?” Yellowjacket’s voice crackled through the earpiece.

“Here,” Striker said. “Did you find them?”

“Er… no. We’ve gone over the neighborhood twice now, and… there’s a million hiding places out here. I doubt we’ll find them before morning.”

Striker rubbed his forehead. “Is that so?”

“Yeah, but they’re a slippery bunch. They know this city better than we do.”

“No. There’s no excuse. Where did you lose them?”

Yellowjacket gulped. “In the alleys near the house.”

“And where are you now?”

“Down by Eighth Ave.”

“Too far. They couldn’t have made it there without being seen. Did you search the woods?”

“Yes.”

Zealot’s voice came on. “Sir, we followed a blood trail for a while, and it led us to a tree house, but it was empty. Trail stops there.”

“Anything in the tree house to indicate where they’d gone?” Striker asked.

“Negative.”

“Hm. Then get to work cleaning up that blood trail. Phantom?”

“Here,” another voice said.

“Meet Yellowjacket and do another quick sweep of the neighborhood,” Striker said. “Venom, Zealot, and Klick, split up and take some back streets to the surrounding areas. Everyone check in at twenty minutes. Understood?”

“Understood,” five voices said over the earpiece.

Striker muted the device and dropped his hand. He looked around. The only light came from a single lamp he’d switched on when he arrived an hour or so ago. The meager glow, combined with the eerie silence packed into every corner, made him tense. He’d already combed the house twice and turned up nothing except some toys and an old laptop, which he had already stowed in his backpack to pick apart later. The rest was junk and the slim food pickings most of the poor families in this district survived on. These people didn’t own much.

Striker ground his teeth. There was nothing more to be gained here, except maybe from hanging around on the off-chance one of the kids would return for something. He’d stay for now, at least until one of his men could take over. Later, they’d all have to scrub this room to the bones. Phantom could oversee that before morning came.

For now, Striker would keep a lookout and issue a report of his own. He did a quick perimeter of the ground floor, peering out the windows and spotting no one before he returned to the kitchen.

He pulled out his phone.

“Call C.D.,” Striker said.

The phone zipped through his contacts and selected the correct one. It rang a few times before someone picked up.

“Striker?” a garbled, mechanical voice asked.

“Yes.”

“Any news?”

“No. My men are still looking for the kids, but I’ll pull them in soon to set up a stakeout. After that, I’m heading back to base.”

“And any sign of the mother?”

“Unfortunately not.”

“I see. Make sure you don’t leave until you have a lead, either on the mother or the children, I don’t care. Bring in anything suspicious you find, and I mean anything.”

Striker thought of the old laptop. “Understood, sir.”

“Good. And Striker?”

“Yes?”

“If you don’t find them tonight, I want your men scouring this city every spare minute of every day until you have them. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

“I don’t want any loose ends. I’m paying good money for you to get the job done, and every day they remain missing is just more dollars off your fee.”

Striker worked his jaw. “Fair enough. I’ll have them in soon.”

“You’d better. Call me when your men return.”

“I will.”

C.D. hung up. Striker pulled back and gazed at the screen. It was the only contact in his phone without an avatar—a rarity what with the tele-com lords having full access to everyone’s data these days. Whatever his employer did for a living, it must have something to do with cyber security—or even higher importance.

But C.D. was also rich, and that was enough to enable Striker to assemble the team, which only made it more infuriating the longer those brats evaded him. If this kept up for long, he’d have to go look for them himself. It’d been a while since he was out on the field, and even longer since he’d been on a hunt. But he’d learned long ago that every job was top priority until it had been carried out, and the sheer caliber of this employer’s power was enough to alarm him into moving faster. He’d work his men sick if he had to.

Anything to get the job done.