The desk clerk returned, dragging his feet like the detestable, dead-end-job-working nobody he was. Striker and Phantom had already sent the team to surround the hotel, but had planted themselves in the front lobby in case someone tried to pull something. The clerk, however, did not look bright enough to pull anything. His name tag, which read ‘Elias’, hung by one pin, and his hair was a greasy, tangled mess. He reached his desk, sat, and exhaled.

“Sorry, fellas,” the young man said with a shrug. “No party here by that description.”

Striker grimaced. “Is that so?”

“Yep. No kids.”

Phantom glanced at Striker, eyebrow quirking. Striker gave him a slight nod.

They’d been in the city for about an hour and a half. The GuardianAngel app had proven accurate only up to about a city block, so they’d had to resort to the old, reliable methods, on foot. The alleyways had turned up empty, so they’d started questionings.

This was the second hotel they had searched so far. The other place had been clean enough—not in the literal sense—and the proprietors were, while cautious, clueless. It’d only taken a swift walkthrough to determine the kids weren’t there. The place was filled with characters just as suspicious as they were. If any of the kids had half a brain, they would’ve turned right around.

This place was different in all the right ways. The moment the word ‘kids’ left his lips, Striker had seen the desk clerk’s pupils dilate just the tiniest bit. He had dropped his hands to his lap to avoid tapping his fingers, but he’d managed to keep the lazy drawl in his voice when he said he would go and check. There was no mistaking it.

Striker leaned forward, putting both forearms on the desk.

“Look… Elias,” Striker said. “I can appreciate random acts of kindness and discretion as much as the next guy, but we’re sort of in a rush here.”

Elias gave him big, innocent eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I mean tell us where the kids are.”

“There are no kids.”

Striker wet his lips. “I’d think real carefully about rephrasing that if I were you. And about exactly what you’ll say when you open your mouth.”

Striker reached to the inside of his coat and withdrew a small pistol with a silencer screwed to the barrel. Before Elias could react, he pressed it against the kid’s chest and placed his finger over the trigger.

“Now,” Striker said. “Where are the kids?”

“Go easy,” Phantom muttered. “Cameras.”

“Don’t care,” Striker said, staring Elias dead in the eye. “Look, kid, I’ve killed plenty of people in my day, and I’m not about to let some desk-nerd stand between me and what I’m looking for. Now tell me where the kids are, or your friends down in housekeeping will have to scrub your innards off the wall behind you, and I’m sure they wouldn’t appreciate all that extra work.”

A moment passed. Elias’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped, trying to see the weapon without moving his head. Striker was about to ask the question again, with a rough shake to the collar for good measure, when the kid spoke.

“They’re on the fifth floor,” Elias said, voice shaky. “In room 502, with the ‘closed for cleaning’ sign. It’s locked.”

“Clever,” Striker said. “Is that all?”

Elias nodded.

Phantom nudged Striker’s elbow. Striker pulled away from the now much paler young man and lowered his weapon. He smiled.

“Thank you,” Striker said. “Cooperation always pays off, you know. You made a good choice.”

“Right,” Elias said. “I’ll remember that.”

Gunshots cracked from the rear of the hotel. Phantom and Striker snapped to attention and swung their heads toward the sound. Just as Striker’s eyes left the desk, Elias launched from his seat and made a swipe at his weapon. On instinct, Striker jerked out of range and shot Elias in the chest. Twice. The kid went flying back with a cry and tumbled backward over his own desk, trailing blood splatters behind him. His body thumped on the other side. The chair rolled away.

Phantom cursed. “Let’s get out of here.”

Striker said nothing as he and turned and sprinted toward the gunshots. Phantom fell into step beside him, and together, they barged down the hallways for the nearest door.

Striker’s heart was hammering. It had been months since he’d seen action like this, and much longer since he’d actually shot someone. Six months? Eight? A year? He couldn’t remember. All he knew was that his finger was still resting on the trigger guard and the familiar blast of adrenaline was zinging through his veins.

The kid hadn’t looked a day over twenty.

Save it for later, Striker thought.

“There,” Phantom said.

They both burst out the hotel’s rear door, their feet leaving the moldy plush-carpet hallway and clattering onto pavement in an alley painted black with night. Klick was running past, but paused when she saw them burst out of the door.

“Sir!” Klick barked. “We’ve got them. Tailing them now.”

The three broke into a run, racing down the slick pavement toward the end of the alley, which opened into a wider street lit by dozens of multicolored neon signs and packed with a jungle of vendors.

“Report,” Striker said as they ran.

“They sneaked out one of the kitchen windows, sir,” Klick said. “Yellowjacket, Venom, and Zealot spotted them first and went to pursue, but the one kid threw a Molotov at them and used the distraction to break for the next street.”

“Where’d they get a Molotov?” Phantom asked.

“No idea,” Klick said.

They broke into the open roadway. Ahead of them, Yellowjacket and Zealot were already halfway down the sidewalk, scattering civilians as they charged after the kids, yelling at the top of their idiotic lungs. Venom trailed behind them, making gestures for onlookers to clear the way. Striker and the others made quick pursuit.

“They’ll get us caught,” Striker muttered. “How are those kids so fast?”

“At the very least,” Phantom panted, “it’s good exercise.”

Another gunshot went off ahead of them. Striker shoved his way around Klick and sprang to the front of the pack. He could hear a little girl screaming while some of his men shouted indiscernible curses. Civilians poked their heads from doorways and windows, but Striker could only ignore them and hope they didn’t care enough to call this city’s cops. He surged ahead, boots pounding off the pavement, and came to the street corner a good five paces ahead of the others.

Brakes screeched. People screamed. Striker heard a thump—he saw Zealot fly several yards through the air as a bus slammed him full-on. Striker hesitated, watching the man slide along the pavement until he came to a stop. Striker swept his eyes over the crowd.

No sign of the kids.

Striker raised his voice. “Fan out! Take every side street and split up if you have to! Go!”

His men scattered. Yellowjacket was suddenly at his elbow, heaving in breaths.

“I managed to tag one of them, sir,” Yellowjacket said. “One of the boys.”

“Good,” Striker said. “Now go. Tell Klick to tend to Zealot.”

Yellowjacket disappeared. Striker looked at the road, where traffic was already starting to crawl around the accident site and drive right on by. The kids must have gone in a straight line to draw Zealot across the street like that. He debated waiting, but then took off toward the opposite sidewalk. He dodged a couple cars—just missed getting hit himself—and arrived on the other side.

He spotted several big, bright drops of blood on the muddy-white sidewalk. He followed them with his gaze. They led to an opening between two storefronts several yards to the left. On his wrist, the tracker showed a winking yellow dot straight ahead.

Striker grinned. “Got you.”