oland Bell wasn’t quite as calm as he sounded.

The widower father of two children, a nice house in the burbs and a sweetheart down in the Tarheel State he was getting pretty close to proposing to… All those domestic things tended to add up on the negative side when you were asked to be a sitting duck on an undercover set.

Still, Bell couldn’t help but do his duty—particularly when it came to a perp like this 522, a rapist and killer, a species of criminal that Bell had a particular dislike for. And, truth be told, he didn’t mind the rush from ops like this one.

“We all find our levels,” his daddy had often said, and once the boy realized that the man wasn’t talking about misplaced tools he embraced that philosophy as a cornerstone of his life.

His jacket was unbuttoned and his hand poised to draw, aim and let fly with his favorite pistol, an example of Italy’s finest firepower. He was glad Lon Sellitto had stopped his banter. He needed to hear this fellow’s approach, and the slam slam slam of the pile driver was plenty loud. Still, concentrating hard, he heard a scrape of shoes on the sidewalk behind him.

Make it thirty feet.

Bell knew the takedown team was in front of him, though he couldn’t see them, or they him, because of a sharp curve in the sidewalk. The plan was for them to take 522 as soon as the backdrop was safe and no bystanders were in danger. This portion of the sidewalk was still partly visible from a nearby street and the construction site and they’d been gambling that the killer wouldn’t attack until Bell was closer to the tactical officers. But he seemed to be moving in more quickly than they’d planned on.

Bell hoped, though, that the man would hold off for a few minutes; a firefight here could endanger a number of passersby and construction workers.

But the logistics of the takedown vanished from his mind as he heard two things simultaneously: the sound of 522’s footsteps breaking into a run toward him and, much more alarming, the cheerful Spanish chatter of two women, one pushing a baby carriage, as they emerged from the back of the building right next to Bell. The tac officers had sealed off the sidewalk but apparently nobody’d thought to notify the superintendents of the buildings whose rear doors faced it.

Bell glanced back and saw the women walk right in between him and 522, who was staring at the detective and running forward. In his hand was a gun.

“We’ve got trouble! Civvies between us. Suspect’s armed! Repeat, he’s got a weapon. Move in!”

Bell started for his Beretta but one of the women, seeing 522, screamed and jumped back, slamming into Bell, knocking him to his knees. His gun dropped to the sidewalk. The killer blinked in shock and froze, undoubtedly wondering why a college professor was armed, but he recovered fast and aimed at Bell, who was going for his second gun.

“No!” the killer shouted. “Don’t try it!”

The officer could do nothing but lift his hands. He heard Sellitto say, “First team’ll be there in thirty seconds, Roland.”

The killer said nothing, just snarled for the women to flee, which they did, and then he stepped forward, gun on Bell’s chest.

Thirty seconds, the detective thought, breathing hard.

It might as well have been a lifetime.

Walking from the parking garage to One Police Plaza, Captain Joseph Malloy was irritated that he hadn’t heard anything about the set involving Detective Roland Bell. He knew Sellitto and Rhyme were desperate to find this perp and he’d reluctantly agreed to the phony press conference but it really was over the line, and he wondered what the fallout would be if it didn’t work.

Hell, there’d be fallout if it did work. One of the top rules in city government: Don’t fuck with the press. Especially in New York.

He was just reaching into his pocket for his cell phone when he felt something touch his back. Insistent and purposeful. A pistol.

No, no…

His heart galloped.

Then came the voice, calm. “Do not turn around, Captain. If you turn around, you’ll see my face and that means you’ll die. You understand?” He sounded educated, surprising Malloy for some reason.

“Wait.”

“Do you understand?”

“Yes. Don’t—”

“At the next corner you’re going to turn to the right into that alley and keep going.”

“But—”

“I don’t have a silencer on the gun. But the muzzle is close enough to your body that nobody will know where the sound came from and I’ll be gone before you hit the ground. And the bullet will go through you and with these crowds I’m sure it will hit somebody else. You don’t want that.”

“Who are you?”

“You know who I am.”

Joseph Malloy had made a lifelong career in law enforcement, and after his wife was killed by a drug-crazed burglar the profession became more than a career; it was an obsession. Maybe he was brass, an administrator now, but he still had the instincts he’d honed on the streets of Midtown South precinct years ago. He understood instantly. “Five Twenty-Two.”

“What?”

Calm. Stay calm. If you’re calm you’re in control. “You’re the man who killed that woman on Sunday and the groundskeeper in the cemetery last night.”

“What do you mean, ‘Five Twenty-Two’?”

“What the department’s calling you internally. An unknown subject, UNSUB, number Five Twenty-Two.” Give him some facts. Make him relax too. Carry on a conversation.

The killer gave a brief laugh. “A number? That’s interesting. Now, turn to the right.”

Well, if he wanted you dead, you’d be dead. He just needs to know something, or he’s kidnapping you for leverage. Relax. He’s obviously not going to kill you—he doesn’t want you to see his face. Okay, Lon Sellitto said they were calling him the man who knew everything? Well, get some information about him that you can use.

Maybe you can talk your way out.

Maybe you can lower his guard and get close enough to kill him with your bare hands.

Joe Malloy was perfectly capable of this, both mentally and physically.

After a brief walk 522 ordered him to stop in the alley. He put a stocking cap over Malloy’s head and pulled it down over his eyes. Good. A huge relief. As long as I don’t see him, I’ll live. Then his hands were taped and he was frisked. A firm hand on his shoulder, he was led forward and eased into a car trunk.

A drive in the stifling heat, the uncomfortable space, legs tucked up. A compact car. Okay, noted. No burning oil. And good suspension. Noted. No smell of leather. Noted. Malloy tried to keep track of the directions they turned but that was impossible. He paid attention to the sounds: traffic noises, a jackhammer. Nothing unique there. And seagulls and a boat horn. Well, how’s that going to help pinpoint where you are? Manhattan is an island. Get something useful!… Wait—the car has a noisy power-steering belt. That’s helpful. Tuck it away.

Twenty minutes later they came to a stop. He heard the rumble of a garage door closing, a big one, squeaky joints or wheels. Malloy gave a brief cry as the trunk popped, startling him. Musty but cool air embraced him. He gasped hard, sucking oxygen into his lungs through the damp wool of the cap.

“Out we go.”

“There are some things I’d like to talk to you about. I’m a captain—”

“I know who you are.”

“I have a lot of power in the department.” Malloy was pleased. His voice was steady. He was sounding reasonable. “We can work something out.”

“Come on over here.” Five Twenty-Two helped him over the smooth floor.

Then he was seated.

“I’m sure you have grievances. But I can help you. Tell me why you’re doing this, committing these crimes.”

Silence. What would happen next? Would he have a chance to fight physically? Malloy wondered. Or would he have to continue to work his way into the man’s mind? By now he’d be missed. Sellitto and Rhyme might have figured out what happened.

Then he heard a noise.

What was it?

Several clicks, followed by a tinny electronic voice. The killer was testing a tape recorder, it seemed.

Then another: the clink of metal against metal, like tools being gathered up.

And finally the disturbing screech of metal on concrete as the killer scooted his chair so close to Malloy’s that their knees touched.