Page 90 of Saint of the Shadows

“The crowd’s moving over there,” the sportscaster announced.

Marisol watched the corner of the television. The people parted calmly and synchronized. Darting through the pathway? Vincent on his motorcycle, dragging a gaggle of Bloodsuckers behind him.

“It appears some masked hero tied up the group and is helping the crowd move out of the arena,” the sportscaster said.

Marisol snuck a smile.

The broadcast showed Vincent tying the Bloodsuckers around a thick, rectangular column by driving his motorcycle in a circle.

“I transmitted a wave that would calm people. The crowd will leave the arena in an orderly fashion, so no one gets hurt. A quick body scan says none of these decoys have the virus,” Vincentannounced over the earpiece. “Bomb squad’s on the way.”

“I swear I came in with this bruise!” The camera captured a giant man in a black trench coat tended by an EMT half his size. “Gonna take more than firecrackers to stop me.” Marisol leaned into Rossi as a rush of relief weakened her knees.

The television scrambled into broken pixels. The announcement broke into popping vowel sounds. Digital boxes moved across the screen until they finally settled on an image. Circular rows. Of teeth.

“You think it was that easy?” Ruthven asked. Marisol cracked a knuckle at the sound of that voice.

“He’s in the press box,” Tobias whispered, tickling Marisol’s ear drum.

On the TV screen, the Bloodsucker held up a triggering device that must be harnessed to the explosives strapped to his decoys. “I am a god. I’ll be your destroyer.” Though Vincent had stunned the crowd with a calming hypnotic wave, her earpiece caught their screams and whimpers from a new round of fear.

The Bloodsucker continued on the broadcast, “But I will be your creator too. It was me who ripped those good-for-nothing gangbangers from limb to limb. It was me who made this place safer. And when I’m through, it will be me you’ll thank when I take this city into the stratosphere!”

Crash! Glass confetti sprinkled over the parasitic face on the television. Vincent had stormed into the press box, swinging from a cable. He knocked the Bloodsucker to the floor. The whole crowd cheered. Even a patient on the floor squeezed his fist into a Yes!

In the camera frame, Vincent threw the blue electromagnetic bolas. They locked up the Bloodsucker. “I have a place for bottom feeders like you,” Vincent said with a growl while pulling the connecting wires off the trigger. From his utility belt, he drew a small remote. After a high-pitched chirp, the transmission on the television cut out. “The trigger’s disconnected,” he said over the earpiece.

Marisol’s body unclenched, leaving her limbs a clammy, wet noodle. Without the television, the crowd on the patient floor dissipated. Patients limped back to their beds; staff helped them.

Dr. Foster barked, “Have more than enough supplies and beds ready. Patients will arrive from the arena!” But Marisol stood in a daze, concentrating on the melee in her ears rather than the ER.

Vincent boomed through her earpiece. “Ruthven isn’t here. Another decoy. That voice was a recording.”

Tobias said, “I think I see him. He’s in an EMT uniform, that rat fuck!” Rough shuffles jostled over the tiny speaker. Out of breath, he added, “Vinnie? Marisol? It’s been nice knowing you.” He gruntedrhythmically to a running pace, but it became erratic like the chaotic thumping of a struggle. Then static,click, and nothing.

“Quinlan, come in. Quinlan?” Vincent called. “I can’t reach him, but I can track his movements. How is he moving through the crowd so quickly?”

Marisol said, “If he’s after Ruthven…”

“Right. I’ll follow his signal. He’s heading west, away from the arena.”

Marisol inched closer to the blank screen in the room’s corner. She begged it to turn back on, to give her answers. Police cars, ambulances, all must be flooding the streets. Not to mention the game-day traffic and fans. If Ruthven moved while the whole city was at a standstill, all attention would be on the arena and… not on the actual target.

What if Ruthven only wanted Vincent to think he’d attack the Rooks’ Legacy Game? Where would he plant the virus to hurt the city the most?

“I found him. Quinlan, that is. He’s pointing to his wrist. The watch. It isn’t on him! Then who is heading west?”

“Vincent, if Ruthven’s out to destroy you, where would he hurt you? At the greatest thing you ever accomplished. Your legacy. The—”

“Hospital,” Vincent said. “I’m on my way.”

With the city in a stranglehold, they couldn’t get buses here to evacuate the hospital in time. But she had to keep patients away from Ruthven. Perhaps Fate shone when Vincent built thishospital in the heart of the Cold War. Infrastructure was old and needed updating, but not the bomb shelters below.

Marisol ran to the nurse’s station and flicked on the intercom. “Attention. Code 5. Follow the signs down the stairs to the shelter. If you need assistance, staff will help you. I repeat, this is a Code 5.”

Dr. Foster ripped the cord from the desk. “Of all the things Novotny, this takes the cake.”

“I have it on good authority that the hospital is under attack.” Marisol gripped the intercom and tugged it back.

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