Reports start flooding in almost immediately after Derek leaves the church. My phone buzzes constantly with updates from the team and DVDs, each one more frustrating than the last.

  Lily: Checked Ruby Street location. Barbed wire wrapped around a dumpster. Inside was just trash and a polaroid taped to the bottom. Black guy in boxers, hands zip-tied, "TRY AGAIN" written on the polaroid.

  Maggie: Similar setup on Pearl Street. Took 20 minutes to cut through the wire safely. Another photo, different angle, same message.

  I forward these to Derek, who's racing against his own deadline.

  "How many locations are we talking about total?" he asks, sounding winded. The taxi drive to the nearest location was maybe 5 minutes, but from there he's had to hoof it. I can hear street noise in the background - he's moving fast.

  "At least thirty-six possible combinations of street names and numbers that result in valid addresses" Tasha replies, scanning the spreadsheet she's created. "And that's assuming we're even interpreting the clues correctly."

  "There's no way to hit all those before sunset," Derek says.

  "And they're all covered in barbed wire. My gloves should be thick enough to handle that but, be careful," I point out.

  "Cool," Derek replies, sounding thoroughly unenthusiastic.

  I text Rampart and Crossroads directly, pulling them into our group chat for better coordination.

  Me: How's it going on your end?

  Crossroads: Five locations checked so far. All negative. Same M.O. you said - barbed wire, photos, "TRY AGAIN" messages.

  Rampart: These wire obstacles are slowing us down significantly. Takes 15-20 minutes per location to safely clear. Some of them he's pre-soaked in blood and something that could be urine and feces.

  Me: Gross.

  Rampart: Tell me about it. Some of them have broken glass, some of them have razors hid underneath hinges... he's trying to make it as hard as possible to check each location.

  Crossroads: And I can't peek.

  Me: Huh?

  Crossroads: It's taking us too long to disarm each location. The travel time combined with the time to get rid of each booby trap, it goes too far beyond my horizon and I can't pre-check locations.

  Me: ...

  Me: Shit!

  If each location takes half an hour to check properly, and we have dozens to go through... even with all our teams deployed, we might not find this guy in time. On a warm September day, in a metal dumpster... Even if it's in a shaded location, if that dumpster isn't ventilated, this guy might not be able to physically tolerate the air inside for very long. And that's assuming that it's shaded, and not in direct sunlight, in which case...

  No, I don't want to think about that. Would Shrike do that?

  ...

  Yes, he would.

  "Tasha," I call across our video link, "can you map all the remaining locations? I want to see the distribution."

  She nods, and gets to work. A minute later, her screenshare fills with a map of Philadelphia dotted with red pins.

  "The gemstone streets are clustered in a few areas," she explains. "Agate, Amber, Coral, Diamond, Emerald, Garnet, Jasper, Opal, Pearl, and Ruby Street. They're scattered all around. More than a couple of them are near Kensington, but would Shrike deliberately stash someone close to where his church show was? Or is it a red herring?"

  Crossroads: Fury Forge and Bulwark are handling what they can in West Philly. City can't go on hold for this manhunt. Multiplex is keeping an eye on as many areas as he can to see if he can catch Shrike.

  Me: Thanks.

  Me: Sorry about the inconvenience.

  Crossroads: Don't apologize. You told me some grandpa stuff when we were still doing YD together.

  Crossroads: Saving one life is the same as saving the world. Right?

  Crossroads: That always stuck with me.

  I grit my teeth together, zooming in on the nearby cluster, noting the proximity to my location. Less than three miles from my house. Maybe a fifteen-minute drive, forty-five-minute run.

  Me: Now's not the time for platitudes.

  Me: But I appreciate the attempt at lifting my spirits.

  Rampart: Not to interrupt but every address on Garnet St. is clear. No dice.

  "Fuck! How many possible addresses in that Kensington cluster?" I ask. "I hate this mind game shit."

  I pull everyone into one group chat while Tasha types.

  Me: This is an absurd amount of. I don't know.

  Me: Elbow grease. How can one guy do all this shit overnight?

  Jordan: Give me Ritalin, a pickup truck, and a monomaniac focus on humiliating one person in particular and I'll get it done in 8 hours no sweat.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Me: Jordan, I love you but if you're not hacking shit you should sit out of the rapid response chat for now.

  Jordan: ??

  "Nine total between the three streets," Tasha replies. "Three potential addresses on each street."

  I check the time. 2:37 PM. Derek has about three and a half hours before he needs to secure himself for sunset. Lily and Maggie are clear across the city. Crossroads and Rampart are dealing with locations in South Philly. Fury Forge and Bulwark are handling West Philly past the river.

  No one is covering these Kensington addresses yet. And they're the closest to the church where Shrike set up his twisted mannequin display.

  "I need to go," I say suddenly, the decision crystallizing in my mind. "They're probably a trap or a red herring, but every second we spend not checking locations off the list is another second this guy can get heat stroke."

  "Your parents will freak," Tasha points out.

  "I'm not going to sneak out," I reply, already formulating my argument. "I'm going to explain the situation and make my case."

  "Bold strategy," Maggie murmurs, audibly struggling with some traps. I can tell from a sort of gentle, buzzing hum that comes on whenever she uses her powers that she's probably sweeping away the glass, or something like that.

  "Tasha, man the drones?" I ask, but it's more of a command.

  "Roger roger," she replies.

  I close the laptop and head downstairs, finding Mom and Dad in the living room. Mom's on her phone, coordinating with other coalition members about the Shrike situation. Dad's cleaning his gun - a sight that would have been unthinkable in our house six months ago.

  They both look up when I enter. I take a deep breath.

  "We have a problem," I begin, keeping my voice steady and professional. "I don't know if you've paid attention to the news, but this Shrike guy--"

  "He's holding someone hostage and now there's a manhunt for the hostage," Dad interrupts me. He points to the television, which is displaying multiple angles of Shrike's fucked up church "display", a news crew visibly examining every nook and cranny.

  "The police are involved now," Mom points out. "And I assume the DVDs."

  "Yes, but they're all spread thin," I continue. "There are nine unchecked addresses in Kensington - Amber, Emerald, and Jasper Streets. They're less than three miles from here. Either you can drive me, or I'm going to run and neither of you will be able to catch me."

  Dad's expression hardens. "Sam, we've been through this. You're not going out there with this psycho hunting for you."

  "I've thought this through," I insist. "The hostage has been in a metal container since at the bare minimum two hours ago, probably more. On a day like today he's probably going to get heat stroke in six hours and be dead in eight. We have no idea what time in the morning he got taken."

  "That's still not--" Mom begins.

  "Every location is wrapped in barbed wire that takes at least fifteen minutes to safely clear," I cut in. "Crossroads can't use his future vision effectively because of how time-consuming the physical obstacles are. Derek has to leave soon because of sunset. No one else is available to check those Kensington locations for at least an hour, maybe longer."

  I take a breath, meeting their eyes directly.

  "Someone could die today because we didn't have enough people in the right places. I'm not asking to patrol or fight Shrike. I'm asking to check three specific streets that are closest to us, with the highest probability of finding this hostage before it's too late."

  "What exactly are you proposing?" Mom asks, directly.

  "You drive me. I check the locations. You stay in the car, a block away, with Dad and his gun. I have my phone and earpiece for constant communication."

  Dad raises an eyebrow. "And if you find Shrike?"

  "I don't engage. I call it in and wait for backup. This is a search mission, not a confrontation."

  Another silent exchange between them. I wait, trying not to fidget. I wonder if I get married to someone, will I get this form of telepathy? Or is it just something you get after knowing someone long enough?

  "Three streets, nine potential addresses," Mom says. "How long would that take?"

  "Roughly two hours if I'm thorough," I estimate. "Less if we get lucky early on."

  Dad sets his gun down carefully. "You wear your vest. Full protective gear."

  "And we establish a check-in protocol," Mom adds. "You communicate every five minutes, without fail."

  I nod quickly. "Agreed."

  "If anything feels wrong, get back to the car immediately," Dad continues. "No heroics, no exceptions. We'll be a block away at most."

  "Understood."

  Mom stands, keys already in hand. "I'll drive. Ben, bring your pistol."

  Twenty minutes later, we're in Mom's car heading toward Kensington. My collapsible helmet is down by my feet in a gym bag, but the rest of my summer costume is on, that liquid-wicking stuff that Gossamer made for me that's designed for blood but works great on sweat too.

  "Amber Street first," I say, studying the map Tasha sent. "Three possible addresses: 3156, 3236, and 3301."

  "That's a rough area," Dad comments. "Lots of abandoned buildings, not many witnesses."

  "Perfect for hiding someone," I reply grimly.

  We pass the outer edges of Kensington, the landscape changing from our relatively stable Mayfair neighborhood to more dilapidated buildings, vacant lots, and suspicious stares from the few people on the street. Mom navigates cautiously, clearly uncomfortable in this part of the city.

  "Pull over here," I say as we approach Amber Street. "I'll suit up in that alley and then check the addresses on foot. You can circle the blocks, stay within sight of me but not obviously connected."

  Mom nods tightly, pulling to the curb. "Five-minute check-ins," she reminds me. "And keep your phone in your pocket, not your bag."

  "I know." I grab the gym bag and slide out of the car. "I'll be careful."

  In the narrow alley between two abandoned storefronts, I flick the helmet open and clamp it on, buckling it around my neck. G-d, that feels good after so long unhelmeted. Like slipping into freshly laundered boxers.

  I step out onto Amber Street, immediately scanning for blood signatures. Nothing unusual yet - just the background hum of minor injuries and menstrual cycles from nearby buildings. I activate my earpiece and sync it to my phone, and then call my Mom.

  "Check one, two, three," I say quietly.

  "I hear you, Sam," Mom replies immediately. "We're circling to East Allegheny now."

  I start walking north on Amber, my senses fully alert. 3236 is first, a loading dock between two random businesses. Barely even an address. More of a crook in an alleyway, but I smell it nonetheless, lighting up red in my mind's eye. Fresh blood. Not much, but definitely recent.

  I pause at the mouth of the alley, peering down its length. There, against the back wall, is a rusty dumpster wrapped in what looks like three layers of barbed wire, with a padlock securing the lid. My pulse quickens.

  "I think I found something," I murmur into the earpiece. "First location. There's a dumpster with barbed wire, just like the others described."

  "Be careful," Dad's voice comes through. "We're approaching from the north end now."

  I advance slowly, scanning for traps or surveillance. The alley is narrow, littered with trash and metal. The barbed wire glints dully in the afternoon sun - nasty stuff, razor-sharp and densely wrapped. It would take at least fifteen minutes to cut through safely. A fine layer of glass sits on the ground, with what is, uh, definitely human shit mixed in. My first immediate thought is whose, but I push the interesting question out of the way for the more urgent question.

  Not a question at all, actually. If it's not airtight, I can smell it.

  "Someone's in there," I report, my voice tight. "I can sense blood. Their heartbeat is active and they're breathing. They're alive. And they've been in a metal box for anywhere from, like, three to eight hours by now. There's an awning, but the angle of the sun means it's going to start cooking them like an oven once we start getting close to sunset. I'm going."

  "Just be careful, Sam," Mom hums back through my earpiece. "Tasha just texted your Dad. You guys have six more locations down since your last check in, but still no dice."

  "Awesome," I whisper back. I approach the dumpster cautiously, studying the barbed wire setup. Whoever did this wasn't an expert - there are gaps, places where the wire is less dense. I might be able to create an opening without cutting all of it.

  "I'm going to try to get through the wire," I tell my parents. "Stay on the line."

  Ugh.

  Ugh.

  Ugh!

  I pull the bottom jaw of my helmet off and take a deep breath in through my nose. I try to find an angle where I can get in close without puncturing my face full of extremely infectious holes.

  My jaw clamps shut, and a knot of barbed wire goes with it. Time to chew.