Shards of Hope

Chapter 67

THEY HAD TURNED him into prey.

Sweating, his heart thudding, Blake hid in the narrow space behind an overflowing Dumpster. The stench made his stomach churn, the physical response a reminder of how badly he’d fallen. How badly they’d made him fall. They’d made him an animal scrabbling for scraps and a place to rest.

The hunger to kill was furious in him now, his blood boiling.

Worse was the physical gnawing in his gut that urged him to look in the trash for food.

No. He would not stoop to that. Especially not when he had a better option.

It was time to call in his marker.

Waiting until Amin’s team had passed, missing his shielded mind by mere inches at most, he pulled out his phone and called his contact. “I need an extraction.” It was then that he realized not all of the stink was from the Dumpster; he was filthy.

The person on the other end took time to reply. “Who is this?”

“No games,” Blake gritted out. “You know exactly who I am and I know exactly who you are.” He paused to let that sink in. “You made a mistake, exposed yourself.” It had been a small error, a single slip of the tongue, but that was all he’d needed.

“I’ll make sure not to make personal contact next time.”

“You do that. Now I need a fucking extraction.”

“You’re an Arrow. Act like one.”

“I also have the entire squad out for my blood. Get me out.”

A pause on the other end before the other party said, “I can organize it in another twenty-four hours. It’s too hot right now—my sources tell me the city is crawling with Arrows and with Krychek’s people.”

“I won’t survive twenty-four hours.”

“You can take a kill,” was the cool response. “Do it. Calm down so you can think.”

He thought of the amount of attention, the heat, and knew it would be irrational to act now, but the need was violent. And his contact was counting on that, counting on him being stupid. “Twelve hours,” he said. “Or I might decide to talk.”

“Don’t threaten me.” A rustling sound. “Be at the following location in exactly twelve hours.” The person on the other end of the line gave him the coordinates.

Hanging up after agreeing, he crawled out of his hiding place, flipped up the hood of his sweatshirt, and headed toward the one hidey-hole the squad hadn’t yet found and that Blake had kept in reserve. The small apartment had belonged to a man he’d killed years before. He’d made sure the taxes were paid, as was the rent, and since no one had ever come looking for the dead man, it wasn’t likely anyone would do so now.

The only problem was that the building was a busy one. Too many eyes, too many witnesses. That, however, didn’t matter now. All he had to do was slide in without attracting any notice, and stay down for twelve hours.

After that, he’d be free once again.