It's barely been twenty minutes since Jordan's message went live when Tasha's voice bursts through my headphones.

  "Sam! We've got something."

  I straighten up so fast my neck cracks. "What is it?"

  "Social media buzz about some kind of 'art installation' at an abandoned church in Kensington. Ascension of Our Lord on East Hunting Park. Reports of mannequins arranged in 'disturbing positions' with spikes through them."

  My stomach drops. "That's him."

  "Definitely," Tasha confirms. "Some sort of remote controlled doohickey unfurled a banner about five minutes ago. 'COME FIND GOD', it said. And a second one just dropped like literally thirty seconds ago. 'TRY AGAIN'."

  I switch camera feeds, redirecting one of the drones toward the church's location. "Derek, you hearing this?"

  "Yeah," he grunts. "I'm still at the supermarket. There's nothing here but police tape and gawkers."

  "You need to get to Ascension of Our Lord church in Kensington. Now."

  "Kensington? That's an hour by foot, maybe forty five minutes if I hoof it."

  "Taxi, now," I insist, already pulling up a map on my second screen. "I'll pay for it."

  I peek under the pile of Jordan-money from vigilantism, something that's been steadily dwindling as I use it for tiny little things like this. Reminders of a... very different time in my life?

  "Fine, but the meter's running on your tab," he mutters.

  I watch through the drone feed as Derek - looking surprisingly convincing in my Bloodhound costume - flags down a taxi. The helmet and all-concealing coat cover his features, and it's not like my boobs stuck out past the bulletproof vest anyway, so looking flat isn't a problem. The height difference between us isn't noticeable. He slides into the back seat, and I can hear him giving the driver directions.

  "You think he's at the church?" he asks me through the earpiece once they're moving.

  "No. If he has some sort of remote controlled banner... dropping thing, then it's probably because he doesn't want to get caught out. But he's going to be watching."

  "Great. Sounds like a lovely way to spend my Saturday."

  I redirect my second drone toward the church, trying to get eyes on the scene before Derek arrives. The feed crackles into focus, showing the imposing brick and stone structure of Ascension of Our Lord - once grand, now decrepit, with boarded windows and graffiti-covered walls. A small crowd has already gathered outside, some with phones raised, filming the scene. Two police cars are parked haphazardly at the curb, officers trying to establish a perimeter.

  "Can you get a view inside?" Derek asks.

  "Working on it," I mutter, maneuvering the drone toward a broken stained-glass window high on the church wall. The angle is tricky, but I manage to position it for a partial view of the interior.

  I don't like what I'm looking at.

  "Whoa," Maggie says quietly. "Sacrilegious."

  Mannequins. I count at least twelve but the angle I'm at doesn't let me look better without flying in, and I'm a clumsy flyer. Each one of them is a girl mannequin, with a black metal spike driven through it, growing upward at an oblique angle through their lower torsos from the floor. A splash of red paint is added to accentuate to each one, making it look like some sort of real injury, red around the entry, red around the exit. They're posed in, uh, ways that are not appropriate for a church.

  "Holy shit," I whisper. "This guy's a psychopath."

  "What? What do you see?" Derek demands.

  I swallow hard. "It's... it's like he's recreated a church service. With the mannequins as worshippers. All impaled on spikes."

  "Jesus," Derek mutters.

  "Pretty much the opposite, I think." I adjust the drone's angle, trying to get a better view. "There's something written on the wall behind the altar. In red."

  I zoom in, the camera focusing on large, dripping letters that look like they were painted in a hurry and barely even dried:

  "CAN YOU SAVE THEIR SOUL? GOD KEEPS HOSTAGES. IS THERE ENOUGH TIME?"

  "There's no way he did all this just now. He must've been working on this all morning while we were preparing our callout," Tasha points out.

  "More importantly, he's got a hostage," Derek says immediately. "Fuck!"

  "You alright back there?" The taxi driver murmurs. "Don't worry about the meter, Bloodhound."

  "Huh?" I hear Derek ask, clearly taken aback by the treatment. "What?"

  "You sound like you've got something going on. Don't worry about the meter. It's on me," the taxi driver repeats, although I barely hear it over Derek's earpiece.

  "Oh, uh, thanks," Derek replies awkwardly. "I'll be there in ten minutes," Derek says back into the headpiece. I can hear the taxi driver in the background complaining about traffic.

  I switch back to the exterior feed. The crowd outside the church is growing, people drawn by social media posts and the increasing police presence. A news van has just pulled up, a reporter and cameraman jumping out.

  "This is getting complicated," I say. "Too many civilians, too much attention."

  "Isn't that what we wanted? To draw him out?" Tasha asks.

  "Yes, but not like this. Not with a hostage in play." I chew my lip, thinking fast. "Tasha, can you contact the DVDs? Tell them what's happening?"

  "Already on it," she responds. "Mr. Davis says he's already dispatched Crossroads and Rampart on it and Fury Forge is on standby to do some quote unquote constructive B&E."

  The taxi carrying Derek finally pulls up to the edge of the growing crowd. Whispers ripple through the onlookers: "Bloodhound... it's Bloodhound..."

  "You've got an audience," I warn him through the earpiece. "Try to look confident."

  "I know how to play a role," he mutters back, then raises his voice to address the nearest police officer. "I need to get inside."

  The officer looks up, surprised, then his expression hardens. "Bloodhound? Hold up. This is an active crime scene, and you know you can't be doing vigilante work anym--"

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Derek flips up the bottom half of his helmet visor, revealing his decidedly adult male face covered in thin orange stubble. "I'm filling in today," he says in his normal voice. "The kid's sidelined for her own safety with this psycho targeting her specifically."

  The officer blinks, clearly processing this information. "You're not--"

  "I told you, I'm filling in," Derek says. "There's a hostage situation developing and time matters."

  The officer glances at his partner, who shrugs slightly. "Fine. But don't... cause a fuss."

  I watch through the drone feed as the officer lifts the police tape. The crowd parts as Derek strides toward the church entrance, his movement purposeful but not quite matching my usual gait. I hear him muttering "fucking pigs" under his breath. From a distance, he's a convincing Bloodhound.

  "Main doors are chained shut," he reports quietly. "Looking for another way in."

  "Try the side entrance," I suggest, maneuvering the drone around the building. "Northeast corner. Looks like the boards have been pried off."

  Derek follows my directions, finding the partially open entrance. He slips inside, and I trail a drone behind him, keeping the other ones at a holding pattern, watching the roof, the crowd outside, just in case we see our mystery man.

  "Christ, it's even worse in person," he mutters, taking in the mannequin congregation. The church interior is cavernous, with high ceilings and shadowy corners. Dust motes dance in the shafts of light from broken windows. And everywhere, the mannequins - seated in pews, standing in corners, arranged in lurid poses, hands out, grabbing for invisible things.

  "Look for anything that stands out," I instruct. "A mannequin that's different somehow."

  Derek moves cautiously through the space, examining the figures. "They all have something carved into them," he reports. "Different symbols. This one has a four-digit number - 1842. The next one has... looks like a gemstone name? 'Ruby'."

  "What about the others?" I ask, curiosity piqued.

  "This one says 'Emerald'. Another says 'Diamond'. This one has '2974'. There's one with 'Garnet', another with '7133'. Also found 'Pearl' and 'Amber'."

  "A pattern," I mutter, making notes on my laptop. "Gemstone street names and numbers."

  "There's more," Derek continues, moving systematically through the church. "Some have compass directions - 'North', 'South', 'East', 'West'. And more names. 'Avenue'. 'Street'. 'Boulevard'."

  As Derek continues cataloging the mannequins, I notice more people gathering outside on my exterior feed. The crowd is growing despite police attempts to keep them back - civilians with their phones out, recording, posting to social media in real-time.

  "Police presence is increasing outside," I warn. "And the crowd's getting bigger."

  "Great," Derek mutters. "Love an audience."

  I'm rapidly typing everything Derek finds, organizing it into categories. "It's like he's created a deconstructed address puzzle," I say. "Tasha, are you getting this?"

  "On it," Tasha responds. "Cross-referencing the numbers with the gemstone street names in Philly."

  "Wait, this is too many combinations," I realize. "Ruby Street, Diamond Street, Emerald Street, Garnet Street, Pearl Street, Amber Street... plus directionals... plus different number combinations... and if it's on an avenue instead..."

  "That's thousands of possible addresses," Tasha confirms. "He's making this deliberately overwhelming."

  Derek reaches a mannequin that's different from the others - instead of standing or sitting normally, this one is posed on all fours, like an animal, with a spike growing out of the floor and into where the sun don't shine. Ew. "This one's weird," he reports. "It has 'The Genuine Hound' carved into its back and... oh, fucking awesome. There's a cavity in its stomach with what looks like raw meat stuffed inside. It's not rotten, though. Just like. Ground beef. Cool. I'm not touching that."

  "He's testing to see if the real Bloodhound is there," I point out. "Someone who can sense blood would notice that without having to look inside."

  "Well, he's out of luck," Derek mutters. "I'm stuck using my boring human eyes."

  He continues his methodical search, finding more mannequins with disturbing additions - one with fake blood packets embedded in its chest, another filled with something that emits a putrid smell when Derek gets close, judging by the way he quietly retches. "You owe me so much, dude."

  "Tasha, any progress narrowing down those addresses?" I ask impatiently.

  "Working on it," she responds. "I'm checking which combinations actually exist. There's too many possibilities - I'm finding dozens of valid addresses with these street names and numbers."

  "So we've got no way to know which is the right one," I say, frustrated. "And we don't even know if any of these are actually where he's keeping the hostage."

  Derek reaches the altar and finds a mannequin unlike the others - crucified on a makeshift cross, no markings on it but dressed in a crude approximation of my Bloodhound costume, a red hood and mask over its featureless face. Multiple spikes pierce its body - through the wrists, ankles, torso.

  "This one's different," Derek mutters, examining the figure. "No markings at all. But..." He peers closer at its torso. "There's a seam here. I think it opens."

  I watch as he carefully pries open the mannequin's chest cavity. Inside is a small key and a torn piece of paper with a crude drawing of a basin.

  "Old-fashioned padlock key," he reports. "And I'm guessing this drawing is pointing us to the baptismal font. There should be a baptistery alcove,"

  "The what?" I ask.

  My drone buzzes a little bit as he looks around without explaining. "Found it."

  "What's a baptistery?" I repeat myself.

  "Don't worry about it," Tasha says. "Lily, Maggie?"

  "Yeah?" Maggie's voice crackles to life, suddenly reminding me that they've been there the whole time, listening.

  "What's up?" Lily asks.

  "I'm gonna send the two of you two halves of a route. Trying to hit as many of these addresses as possible in a short period of time. You two are our fast movers. The ones that are on the other side of the city I'm sending to the DVD. Alright?" Tasha orders. I feel a twinge of pride, and then a twinge of annoyance that we haven't split the route into thirds so I can participate.

  "Aye aye, captain," "Got it!"

  Derek moves quickly to the alcove, where a cracked stone basin sits dry and empty. Next to it is a small door, secured with a heavy padlock.

  "This must be it," Derek says, inserting the key. The lock opens with a rusty click.

  As soon as he pulls the door open, a scratchy recording starts playing - some kind of tripwire or pressure plate triggered by the door movement. Derek recoils as the stench hits him. I pick the drone up a little and pull it back, trying to get a better view.

  "Jesus fucking Christ," he chokes out. He doubles over retching, staggering back from the doorway.

  "What? What is it?" I ask, the drone camera struggling to get a clear view in the darkness.

  "Dead animals," Derek manages, covering his nose with his arm. I can hear him dry heaving through the earpiece as he forces himself to approach again. "Lots of them. Small ones. Can't even tell what they were originally. Maybe mice, stray cats? At least one bird. And there's a recorder playing in there. There's some string jury rigged to it."

  The recording plays a male voice, whimpering and terrified: "He's really taken me," it mumbles, shaky. I can almost imagine the gunpoint. "You have to find me before I run out of time," it says, stilted - reading off a script. "Please, find me."

  Then silence, followed by the recording looping back to the beginning. "Can we get anything off the acoustics there?" I ask Tasha, grasping at straws.

  "Not with audio quality that shit we can't," she points out.

  "He's really got someone," Derek says grimly, popping open the jaw of his helmet so he can wipe his mouth. "Ugh. Gonna be smelling that shit for weeks. We still have too many possible locations."

  "I've narrowed it down to like, three dozen tops. That's enough to check in a day with some elbow grease. Assuming this guy hasn't put up any Salò traps or anything," Tasha points out.

  "What traps?" Lily asks, which is what I was just about to ask if I wasn't so focused on this.

  "Don't worry about it," Tasha mumbles, blushing on her video screen.

  "See if there's anything else in there," I urge. "Carefully."

  I watch as Derek steels himself and plunges his hand into the dark chamber, feeling through what I can only imagine is a nauseating collection of decaying flesh. His face contorts with revulsion.

  "There's something... an envelope, taped to the back wall. Covered in... I don't want to know what."

  He extracts it, wiping it clean on his sleeve before opening it. Inside is a Hallmark wedding card with a message written in what looks like dried blood:

  "DIE ALONE"

  "Cool!" Derek grunts, frustrated. "Helpful little tip from our favorite deranged dungeon master! Fuck you too, buddy."

  "We still don't know where the hostage is," I say, matching his frustration. "There are too many possible locations."

  I hear commotion on the exterior feed and switch back to see police officers pushing through the crowd, heading toward the church entrance. "Cops are coming in," I warn. "Give them what you want to, and then we need to get moving. Tasha, are there any places that are out of the way that would be easier to take off Flash's and Blink's routes?"

  "Yeah, I'll send you a list. Hold on," Tasha mumbles, and her hands begin flying over the keyboard.

  "Man, what a freak," Derek groans to himself, trying to wipe the congealed blood off his hands on any remotely cloth-like surface he can find. I pivot the inside drone around while the outside ones watch the crowd, trying to find anyone who matches the description of tall, thin, dark clothes. "Let's go, Smalls. Don't you assholes have a civvie to save?" he asks while the cops start flooding in one by one.

  "Sounds weird coming out your mouth, but yes, we do," I say back.

  "Bite me," Derek groans.