"Normally you'd be quite right, but not in this case. SEM-WDS found nothing metallic in any of the wounds, certainly none of the metals typically used in making blades. Not so much as a single bloody atom. It seems impossible, I know, and I did thoroughly check the scanner, but there's no mistake."

"A non-metallic blade, then," I ventured, "maybe one of those fractal porcelain blades the Russians are allegedly experimenting with."

"There's nothing 'alleged' about them," she dissented, "Interpol recovered one last year from a Russian Mafia hit; I've seen analyses. But you'd never get results like this; applying as much force as was used here would shatter the edge of a blade like that, and I would've found fragments. Such blades are fragile and hence can only be used to make subtle cuts - they were originally designed for surgery, but they're often used in assassinations." She shook her head. "No, Commander, that's not the way of it.

"The only possible answer I can suggest is a monomolecular edge...but I can't imagine how you could apply such force more than once, maybe twice, before ruining the edge - especially when you're cutting through human bone. A ruined edge would definitely leave a few traces, even from a monomolecular blade. But there aren't any."

I looked thoughtful. "Couldn't be TiCrIr, could it?" I asked, referring to a remarkable and very, very tough alloy R & D had recently developed.

Jocelyn shook her head. "Even that would leave traces for precisely the reasons you so astutely named, and anyway our R & D boys are the only people in the world who can even make the damn stuff." She looked despondent. "For the first time in my twelve years as a forensic expert I am totally baffled, Commander. Nothing about this case makes any sense whatsoever."

I had to agree.

Then something else occurred to me:

Other than backhanding her, the killer hadn't touched Candy. Or the six girls. That made even less sense; why leave witnesses?

Okay, none of the witnesses had actually seen all that much, not even Candy, but still...

Look, I'm not one to blow my own trumpet. But one reason I was given command of the Unit is that every now and again I get a...feeling. Call it instinct or intuition, call it just whatever makes a good cop, call it psychic powers even - whatever you like. Whatever it is, it's helped me crack case after case, even a couple which seemed unsolvable. I've learned never to ignore it. This time it was telling me, in no uncertain terms:

WE ARE MISSING SOMETHING.

Commissioner's office

An hour later

Ed Callaghan was scrolling through the PDF reports on his tablet as I entered. He didn't look happy, and I knew why.

I sat, and waited for the sort of tirade I was used to from commissioners whenever an op went wrong. But he surprised me by simply asking calmly, "Okay, did anyone slip up?"

"Not as far as I can see," I answered. "I reconstructed the scene from helmet cams and the coverage looks solid. We had the entire building covered, every way in or out, above and below."

"And yet someone, somehow, got past them," Ed observed, but not in an accusatory tone. He seemed remarkably willing to believe this wasn't our fault...but I didn't dare take that for granted until I knew we were in the clear.

"There was no way we could've anticipated anyone's use of stealth tech," I pointed out, "especially not at that level of sophistication. As far as I'm aware, whatever this guy has it's beyond state-of-the-art."

"And you're sure there was only one?"

He still isn't accusing us, I thought curiously. I thought we'd have had the DA or even IA up our asses by now. Unless...is there something else going on here...?

But I was sure, at least, of my answer to that question. "More than one, we'd have definitely picked them up," I stated definitively, "even with that tech. Team Three picked up just one movement source. Siemens MT scanners, we've discovered via...um, research...are known to act up a bit in hot weather -"

Ed actually grinned. "February issue of Cop Tech? Yes, I read it, too. I've passed your request for the newer model upstairs, and you should get it by Thursday."

"Thanks. - but they aren't so bad they can't pick up multiple signals," I went on. "No, there was definitely just one kook."

Ed looked up from the tablet. "And from what Jocelyn reported," he noted soberly, "one was more than enough." He shook his head. "From anyone else I would've dismissed that forensics report as contradictory and utterly impossible, but from Jocelyn Barton? Not so easy to discount. Her graduation thesis on differentiation between different blade wound types is still required reading at the Academy - I mean the regular Police Academy, not just ours. It was a brilliant piece of work."

I nodded. "I know." And she was only 21 when she wrote it.

Ed frowned. "So who exactly are we dealing with here? Some tech ninja with a vendetta? Or some bored rich kid trying to be Judge Dredd or an anti-Batman?"

"I'm not sure," I admitted. "But to be honest, the biggest mystery here is Candy." At his raised eyebrow I elaborated, "Why isn't she dead? The most he did was backhand her, that's what the bruise pattern on her mouth suggests. But he didn't kill her, and he didn't even touch the six girls. Why not?!"

"Well, we know he didn't hesitate to murder Tereshkova," Ed noted, "so it's got nothing to do with the usual cultural inhibition against striking women. Unless he just thought they weren't worth killing because they were no real threat to him," he suggested.

It was at that moment I had a...feeling. Somehow I knew Ed had part of the answer there, but only part. "Surely, though, he wouldn't want to leave witnesses?"

"You wouldn't have thought so, no," Ed conceded pensively. "We don't have any similar cases on file at the moment, do we?"

"No, thankfully, and neither do the Blues," I confirmed.

"Serial killer?" Ed ventured. "Like the Terror Twins?"

I found a grin somewhere. "Now we're reaching, aren't we?"

He chuckled briefly. Now, I knew, we were getting down to it.

Ed straightened up in his chair, and I inquired quietly, "Okay, just how much trouble are we in?"

He sighed. "Not trouble as such, but we are going to come under enormous pressure and scrutiny. The Unit is a tremendous gamble, as we both know; nothing like it has ever been created before. Of course the powers that be do understand there are bound to be teething troubles, a learning curve, and so they are prepared to cut us some slack, Kelly...but I don't know how much, or for how long. I'm meeting with the DA and Blake Conover -" the IA rep, "- in the morning to discuss our next move."

"Our 'next move'," I protested, "has to be finding and nailing this maniac! Ideally before he does anything like this again! In fact," a thought occurred to me, "isn't Luigi Bernalli's birthday coming up? What do you want to bet he'll show up there?"

Luigi Bernalli was a major pain in our asses. On the one hand he was a Mob boss, running all the usual Mob shenanigans. On the other, he paid (some) taxes, contributed to a children's shelter - he'd even sourced close to half a million surgical masks at the height of that Covid-19 crap, and the fatality figures in New York could've been a lot higher without his aid. Plus he was less disposed towards violence and murder than most Mafioso - hardly clean, but he was far from being the worst.

What can you do?

His birthday parties tended to be a cover (we were pretty sure but hadn't yet been able to prove) for brokering illicit deals, as well as being lavish shindigs often attended by perfectly legit movers and shakers.

And their kids. There were always lots of kids at Luigi's birthday parties. Cynics maintained this was just for them to serve as cover, but I didn't agree - he seemed to genuinely like kids and had four of his own. The thought of armed police trying to make arrests in such an environment was enough to give any self-respecting cop nightmares. All it would take, especially in these days of Facebook, Twitter and the like, would be just one kid getting hurt by a stray shot...brr.

Then again, the Unit specialised in non-lethal weaponry - last time Luigi threw a party the Unit didn't exist even as a concept, but now...hmm.

"So what do you intend to do - warn him?" Ed jokingly suggested.

I was about to deliver an angry retort - but then the thought occurred: Well, why not? If this creep's taking it upon himself to fight organised crime and he's prepared to kill, maybe Luigi and I can declare a case of mutual self-interest and help each other out...

So I replied: "Yeah. That's exactly what I'm gonna do!"

I did say earlier that I had a feeling we were missing something, didn't I?

Well, I was right - but in the wrong way. It was more a question of one of our basic assumptions being wildly off the mark. I had thought the initial hit implied that this was about organised crime.

I couldn't have been more wrong if I'd tried.

Though admittedly no-one could possibly have predicted how far out in left field this case was going to go, into weird and scary territory no simple cop on the beat could possibly have envisaged, I doubt I'll ever forgive myself for the worst mistake I ever made.

The Bernalli Penthouse, Manhattan

Next morning

Bernalli was just finishing a good breakfast with his wife and daughter when Tony Cristo, his bodyguard, came up to him and said, "Hey, Boss, we got a cop downstairs, says he needs to talk to you." Cristo frowned. "That's how he said it, Boss: needs to talk to you."

Finishing his glass of freshly squeezed orange juice (he wasn't no health freak, but his wife insisted he eat and drink sensibly - plus he happened to like orange juice), Bernalli inquired offhandedly, "He got a warrant?"

"No, Boss, but here's where it gets weird: we checked him out, and he's got nothin' - no locator, not even a phone. Hell, he ain't even packin'."

It was Bernalli's turn to frown. No cop was that stupid. Unless somethin' was goin' down and the cops were tryin' to get an angle. They'd been tryin' to pin stuff on him for years. This wasn't the cops' usual style.

Unless, it suddenly occurred to him, this wasn't the usual kind of cop...

The Unit?

If they were takin' an interest in him, that was a whole different ball o' wax. But who would have the balls to come alone, and unarmed, even if he was a Unit cop?

But one would, he knew. McAllister. Gotta be.

"Send him up," he decided.

Cristo's look of surprise lasted only a moment. You didn't argue with the Boss. "You got it, Boss."

When Cristo (prime suspect in multiple crimes including murder, but he was almost as slippery as his boss when it came to proving anything) showed me in, I took a moment to admire the penthouse's décor. Lavish without being showy, tasteful artworks and a statue or two - one of his grandfather, I think. You'd expect a Mafia boss to have the money for such, but unusually Bernalli wasn't flaunting his wealth. "Mr. Bernalli," I greeted him as I sat.

"Mmm. McAllister, isn't it? Commander?" he graciously corrected, smiling.

I relaxed. As I'd hoped, Bernalli had correctly interpreted my deliberately calculated bravado of entering his presence unarmed and with neither locator beacon nor covert surveillance equipment (Candy and Ed had both tried futilely to talk me out of it, but it was vital that I build up a level of trust right from the start in dealing with this man). He'd realised a cop would never take such a risk without a damn good reason, so now he was intrigued. The groundwork was laid.

"That's right," I confirmed, "New York Tactical Operations Unit."

"Yeah, the latest attempt by the forces of law and order to make things difficult for me and mine," Bernalli grinned.

"Well, that's the general idea," I grinned back, taking another calculated risk by cracking a joke.

He took it in good spirits as I'd hoped, laughing. He wasn't to know I was utilising Unit-devised psychological analysis techniques to feel him out more thoroughly than he or any other crook, however high-class, could suspect. Oh, sure, he knew I was taking his measure, as of course he was doing with me, but he had no idea just how deeply I was going...and there was no way in hell he was getting anything significant from me.

"So," Bernalli sobered, "cards on the table. You're not here to try to arrest me. You're too smart for that 'this is my city, scumbag' macho crap. You're a busy man and, hey, so am I. So what's this about, huh?"

"You're smart, too," I observed matter-of-factly, with no intention of flattering him, "what do you think it is?"

"I think...you're cuttin' some kinda deal with me," he ventured, "mutual back-scratching. I lay off on certain, shall we say, activities, an' you and your boys cut me a little slack here an' there." He shrugged. "I can live with that. Wouldn't be the first time I've made deals with the cops."

"Though you are not, of course, confessing to any such thing," I observed dryly, "since that in itself would be a felony - albeit one I couldn't prove, as this conversation isn't being recorded."

He glanced at Cristo and chuckled. "Tony, I like this guy."

"Laugh a minute, Boss," the hood dutifully agreed.

Now to go for it. "Shrewd guess, but completely wide of the mark. Actually I'm here to warn you."

Bernalli sobered abruptly. But again he was shrewd; he correctly guessed I didn't mean I was warning him specifically about some impending operation against him. "About what?"

"I don't believe for a moment you haven't heard about what went down last night," I answered quietly, "but I doubt you know any significant details. We don't have much on the attacker, but he seems to have a serious grudge against organised crime. You are - allegedly -" I tactfully added, "a Mafioso, so I wouldn't be surprised if he came after you next."

"I had nothing to do with any deals which might have been going down," he automatically denied.

But I shook my head. "I already know that - otherwise, believe me, I would have come with a warrant. And a strike team. But you're not even a suspect." I couldn't help the snort of bitterness. "All our suspects for that deal are in the morgue, dammit. No, what I mean is: your birthday's two days away, isn't it?"

Bernalli grinned again. "Yeah, the big five-oh, can you believe it?"

"Well, I'll admit you don't look it," I wryly conceded. Then I faced him and assumed a deadly serious mien. It was vital he took me seriously. "Your parties are always well-attended, often by civilians." I paused. "And children." Now he was getting it; the look in his eyes was turning to worry, which was exactly what I needed. "Ask yourself if you want kids to look like this..."

I reached into my inside pocket; Cristo reacted exactly as I'd anticipated, assuming with the typical Mafia mindset I was going for a weapon...forgetting he'd already scanned me at the door. Bernalli tutted and chided, "Tony, Tony, chill already. He ain't packin', you scanned him yourself. Give New York's finest, and newest, more credit for sense, huh?" He smiled. "This man is not so stupid as to pull a gun with a bodyguard watchin' his every move."

Cristo hurriedly halted the movement of his hand towards the .38 snubnose I knew was his weapon of choice in the shoulder holster. Not that it would've been any use against my ArmorLite™ uniform, of course, but it was vital that this go just so, and Cristo's attack of sense was a relief. "Sorry, Boss, force of habit. No offence," he added, to me.

"None taken," I returned evenly. He was just doing his job, so I wasn't going to hold that against him. "I have some crime scene holographs here...uh, I'm not sure your wife and daughter should look," I added tactfully. "To say they're graphic is putting it mildly."

Bernalli didn't hesitate. "Sweetheart," he addressed Francesca, his wife, "didn't you say you had shopping to do?"

"Si, mi amore," she agreed in Italian. "I thought I'd take Maria to the new mall, pick out her outfit for the party."

"Suona bene," he nodded, "but not so many frills this time, huh? Last birthday she looked like she'd stepped off a Gone With The Wind movie set."

"Oh, idiota," Francesca laughed, swatting him, and Maria giggled, "that was the idea! Mama always said you didn't have the first clue about women!"

"You see what I put up with, Commander?" Bernalli sighed resignedly. "No respect from my own wife. Go, woman, go, before I forget how much I love you."

"Bel salvataggio, tesoro," she answered warmly, kissing him. He chuckled and kissed his daughter's cheek, hugging her, and the two left, accompanied by a female bodyguard at a discreet distance.

Once the doors closed, I took out the holographs of Tereshkova, Tomosawa - and Mr. Missing, who'd been found two floors up in an unoccupied apartment early that morning by a now-traumatised cleaner. The fact that Piotr Vaslovik was missing practically all his blood, most of his soft organs and a large portion of his muscle tissue, suggesting he'd been partly eaten, hadn't exactly helped her state of mind. "Ask yourself if you want to see your wife like these...or your daughter," I emphasised.

Few things are more important to a Mafioso than his family. I could immediately see that Bernalli was indeed picturing it...and didn't like the idea at all. Cristo crossed himself, uttering a Hail Mary under his breath.

"And you are suggesting," Bernalli said quietly, "that this man would do such a thing to my family? Why? There were kids there, weren't there, and he never touched them!"

"We can't take that as any guarantee of his future behaviour," I pointed out as quietly, "because as yet we haven't a clue who he is. I'm assuming the worst and I strongly advise you to do the same. For their sake if not your own."

Bernalli took only a moment to weigh his options. No-one could accuse him of being indecisive. "Okay, how do you want to work it?"

"I insert my people, in civvies, into the party - if anyone asks, they're friends of yours from out of town. Most of your people wouldn't recognise most of mine anyway; we deliberately keep low profiles."

"Smart," he approved.

"They'll be issued with non-lethal weapons, and I can supply same to your people. My most experienced and coolest heads will be packing, just in case; for you, I guess that means Tony here. You and your family will be shadowed by my very best officers, as unobtrusively as we can manage. We'll maintain constant surveillance around the entire building - if anything larger than a rat moves, we'll know." I paused. "There is one thing I have to insist on: if anything does start, I am in command. That part is not negotiable."

He regarded me silently for a moment, but I could not give ground on that point. Bernalli and his men were essentially civilians, untrained for this, whereas we were trained and experienced police officers. If this killer showed up it could make all the difference.

"One question, police officer: why do you care about my family? They are nothing to you."

I took no offence at that, because I knew he only meant that I didn't know them personally and owed them nothing. Fair enough. But the answer I gave him was the same answer any cop would give. "Mr. Bernalli, whatever you and yours are alleged to have done, you are citizens of New York -"

"Born and bred," he proudly remarked.

"- and as such, you are subject to the laws of this city and of this state. However, since a suspect is innocent until proven guilty, this means you also come under the protection of the law - and I, as a police officer, am obliged to provide that protection. As for your family, they are by definition innocent - and like RoboCop, we are charged with: serving the public trust; protecting the innocent; upholding the law. In doing this for you I am abiding by all three principles of law enforcement." I held his gaze. "It is that simple."

He nodded slowly. "A cop through and through," he noted softly - and, I knew, with respect. "New tech, but old school."

"The methods and tech have changed," I agreed, "but the basic principles have not, and will not. Not on my watch." I stood. "My liaison officer, Roger Johnson, will be in touch within the hour to start making arrangements."

Bernalli frowned. "Does he have my number?"

I grinned, knowing the Unit's skills in such matters - all done legally, too. "Not yet."

In a remarkably short time the whole thing was set up. Full marks to Bernalli's people - say what you like about the (alleged, alleged, I know!) Mafia, but they know how to get things done. The performance of my people, of course, goes without saying.

The guest list gave me pause for thought because one or two people I'd expected to be there weren't coming, namely a lawyer we'd been keeping an eye on and the local construction union head. It could only be because we would be there; any shady deals weren't happening at this party.

Hell with it, I decided pragmatically; we could deal with them another time. Covering the party was far more important.

The only doubter was Ed; as we were finalising details, he asked, "Are you sure about this?"

"No," I admitted, "but it seems reasonable, doesn't it?"

"Mmm," he conceded, and left me to it.

The Bernalli Penthouse

Two nights later

It started quietly, as I'd expected it to. After going over the sting footage again and again, we'd reached the conclusion that the killer had waited until the last possible moment to strike. It seemed as if he'd deliberately tried to make things difficult for himself. So I was expecting the hit to come sometime after 11.

The buffet was terrific (yes, we did indulge in the odd nibble, and Bernalli didn't say a word - besides, his wife invited us and it would've been rude to refuse a lady's invitation, wouldn't it?), and there were lots of party games for the kids, all of whom were having a wonderful time. Candy, who liked kids, even joined in to cement her cover, and I swear she was enjoying herself as much as they were.

But make no mistake, she was keeping a keen eye on things. She's a consummate professional.

At 10:30 I quietly polled my people. None of them reported anything out of the ordinary. About the only event of note was catching a junior Mafioso, Bernalli's youngest nephew, getting it on in a back room with a secretary. And who should catch 'em at it but Jocelyn of all people?

She didn't try to stop them. She just grinned and motioned them to continue; the girl grinned in return and finished stripping, clearly excited by the idea of being caught at it. Tino sighed and surrendered to the inevitable.

Jocelyn wouldn't tell us whether or not she joined in. I suspect she did. I know her.

But as for our tech ninja, vigilante or whatever the hell he was, there was no sign. I drifted over to the bar, where Bernalli was talking to a group of relatives; he glanced my way and asked, "What's shakin', pal?"

"Nothing so far," I admitted, "I'm starting to get worried. What am I missing?"

"Well, most of the kids will be goin' to bed in about an hour," he noted, "and their parents, too. Fewer targets."

That was true, but I still wasn't reassured. It's a measure of my nervousness and uncertainty that the wild idea crossed my mind that the SOB might already be inside, but after a moment I dismissed the idea as nonsense. We'd been watching the entire building for over a day, and no-one had gone in or out who wasn't supposed to or who was unexpected.

Certainly no-one packing plasma artillery (Jocelyn's best guess as to how Gusev got toasted, though such ordnance surely wasn't available outside the military) or a stealth shield.

But if he isn't here, I wondered worriedly, then where the fuck is he?

Less than twelve minutes later I found out.

Broadway Tunnel, between Columbus Circle and 72nd St.

10:33 p.m.

Young Blood had detected the ooman transportation system - primitive but, he had to admit, efficient and effective. Gaining access and hiding in a tunnel, clinging to its roof, was not difficult.

It was vulnerable to attacks from above. The boxy contrivance he detected approaching at speed was fashioned of some thin metal alloy of the element hui'ths, known to be common on many worlds including this one; it would afford little protection from him. It contained many oomans - and all but a few registered on the mask scan as ssk'dei. Therefore they were legitimate targets by the rules of the Hunt.

And in such tight quarters, with the shiftsuit to aid him, they would be forced to fight or die.

They would still die, of course. But their deaths would provide honourable trophies.

As the metal box flashed under him, he judged the precise moment - and leapt.

What happened next we pieced together from the eyewitness accounts of the three survivors in the two carriages that were attacked.

Three. Out of thirty.

Marie Simpson - a name Streetcat never used any more, and, hell, why should she use the name of an abusive father who, drunk, tried to rape her on the day she first got her period just 'cause she "smelled real good", or the first name her whore of a "mother" gave her? - was just hangin' with her fellow gang members, the Bloods. Just for once, they weren't lookin' for trouble; the Metro was a quick way to get to Van Cortlandt Park on 242nd St. where they could meet up with Jerry the Fixer for a little score. Maybe she could get laid, if Bobby was there. He was cute and he'd had her real good last time.

She could feel herself gettin' wet already.

But they never made it, because Young Blood had other ideas.

There was a terrific crash and a screech of metal being rent apart by some incredible force. Everyone looked around, startled; it sounded as if the train had, impossibly, hit something. But as Streetcat glanced out of the window she saw they were still movin', they'd just passed the Columbus Circle stop.

Then the lights went out. A middle-aged passenger decided to be prudent and reach for the emergency alarm, as was only sensible...

Young Blood's mandibles clacked in annoyance as he saw this and realised what would happen. He didn't want the box to stop!

If matters are not as you wish them to be, Swift Kill once chided his student, do not waste time complaining! Instead, change them until they are to your liking!

So he did.

...but before he could pull it, something metallic spun through the air and his head leapt from his shoulders, the severed neck spraying blood everywhere. His corpse collapsed, to shocked screams from the horrified witnesses. But Charlie Adams was only the first of the Columbus Twenty-Seven, as they later came to be known. A nondescript man next to him pulled a .38 in a panic and started shooting randomly - and died abruptly as the tips of two serrated knives or swords exploded out of his chest.

Out of thin air, as far as anyone could see.

Streetcat was still working her way up in the Bloods, which was why she still wasn't allowed to carry yet, but although no-one knew it including herself, she had a natural talent for leadership. She now proved this by instantly and correctly evaluating the situation, realising a crowded train carriage where everyone was tooled-up (if they had any sense at all) was no place for a fight, and screaming to the Bloods, "GET OUT! GET THE FUCK OUT! MOVE UP THE TRAIN!"

"'Cat, what the fuck is it -?" No Change (so-called because he had cuprolaminophobia, a phobia of coins, and never, never carried loose change) attempted, fumbling for his 9mm Browning.

"Who the fuck CARES?!" she cried, pushing Bloods ahead of her. Evacuating the carriage was of course the correct and wise thing to do.

Except that they were unknowingly heading towards Young Blood, which suited him just fine. No Change was next to die, choking on his own blood as something sliced through his neck, showering Streetcat with it. She shrieked and instinctively reversed direction, again proving her wisdom as a leader. They almost made it through the screaming crowd before Billy the Knife bought it.

He was only nine, but with street smarts belying his years. He instinctively knew the Bloods would never make it out alive unless their retreat was covered. So he drew the 10-inch butcher knife for which he was named, turned and slashed wildly behind them.

Young Blood was impressed. He knew from the ooman's diminutive stature that it was a youngling, but clearly it had been well schooled in combat by its sire, and it was bravely covering its tribe's sensible retreat - and with only a blade. That was rare courage and selflessness indeed. Any yautja would have done the same for his mate, and younglings too if they were not of age. To honour this, he delivered the killing blow in such a way that the small ooman warrior would die instantly and without pain.

He did.

Streetcat saw it, saw Billy go down in a fresh explosion of blood and gore, and sobbed as she very rarely had since leaving her so-called home. "Bloods, get OUT!" she begged, pushing harder. Finally they were able to push through the door into the next carriage; one of its occupants had belatedly realised something was terribly wrong and had pulled the emergency alarm. As the screech of the brakes drowned out every other sound, Streetcat dared to look back.

Every sound except two, that is:

The wet, meaty sound of Billy's spinal column and skull being ripped out;

Young Blood's literally unearthly scream of triumph.

As she looked Billy's blood-covered skull right in its now-empty eyes, the most horrifying thing she'd ever seen, she reached the utter limit of what she could take and fainted dead away.

This was a mercy, for she was spared the horror of the rest of Young Blood's exultant killing spree and taking of trophies. None of the other Bloods survived, nor did all but two of the commuters in the next carriage. The others were indeed heeled, showing sense in Streetcat's reckoning, and fired wildly, blindly, with no idea of what they were shooting at - and of course it did them no good whatsoever.

When he'd finished taking trophies, Young Blood thoughtfully regarded the young - female, he saw - ooman, clearly the leader of her tribe, who'd done her best to herd them to safety. He knew she was female from her scent, the obvious milk glands and the quality of her leadership, plus the bone cradle which held her legs was definitely that of the child-bearing ooman gender, too wide for a male. Having taken one the other night, he knew full well how they were shaped.

Strangely, she was not ssk'dei as her fellows were. Perhaps, though, he speculated, that was a sign of her tribal status; she was so highly ranked she didn't need a weapon, commanding instead through sheer force of will. Most female yautja had a similar skill; he was pleased to find a mark of commonality between their peoples. He would report this to Swift Kill and thus further increase his status by demonstrating he'd learned something new of oomans. Swift Kill would be proud; a Hunter who learned from each Hunt was worthy of respect.

She further earned Young Blood's respect when he realised she was already regaining consciousness. He decided on the spur of the moment to briefly disable the shiftsuit and let her see him, Unmasked, as a mark of that respect.

A Hunter who respected the prey was a worthy Hunter. For Swift Kill, Young Blood would be no less.

Streetcat moaned as she fought for and regained consciousness.

And immediately wished she hadn't. She was instantly paralysed, as much by shock and astonishment as by bone-deep terror. She hadn't come so close to wetting herself since she was a very little girl.

Facing her, crouched down only inches away, was...what the fuck was it? It was huge, bigger than Joey DiMaggio who worked for Bernalli as a bouncer over at Chico's Bar on Main St. It had her by the neck; she was utterly helpless in its grip, yet it wasn't tryin' to strangle her, she suddenly understood. No...it was lookin' her over. Its face (?) was - weird. More than anything else it looked like her own pussy, after she'd shaved it bare once at Bobby's saucy request. Who or what the fuck has a pussy for a face, she couldn't help but wonder.

And...why hasn't it killed me, too? Please, God, don't let it kill me, I want to live...please...

Had he been able to speak the ooman tongue, as a few Wise Elders could, he would have told her it was solely because she carried no weapon - and even though she deserved an honourable death at his hands to commemorate her bravery and leadership, and her kh'hli would look splendid on his trophy wall, it was against the Code. Unarmed pyode amedha were never, never killed by Hunters. It was wrong, unworthy, cowardly to do so. The very few Hunters who had behaved so disgracefully, long ago, had had their gonads severed at the very least, to stop the spread of their unworthy seed.

More usually they'd been killed outright, or dropped naked into a nest of kainde amedha as an object - if terminal - lesson.

But it was odd; supposedly the oomans had "evolved" past the custom of forming tribes, yet this one and her fellows all bore the same pattern of decoration on their pallid skin and the same cloth was bound about their heads. What were those if not tribal markings?

Then he mentally shrugged, completely unaware of his cultural misunderstanding. Let the Wise Elders study ooman ways. He was here to Hunt, not to study!

With gladness in his heart he released the ooman, re-engaged the shiftsuit, gathered his trophies and departed unseen.

She was left in the middle of bloodsoaked mutilated corpses, sobbing, unable to understand.

And that's how my horrified team and I found her, clutching what was left of Billy the Knife, after I'd received the frantic call from Frankie, who was alerted by a passenger who'd had the presence of mind to dial not 911 but 999, the Unit's special number (unlike its UK counterpart that number puts the caller directly through to the Unit), and realised the terrible mistake I'd made.

At the party I was just about to call the rounds again when my implanted transceiver squealed 'max alert' from Base. "McAllister. Go."

"Commander, there's something major happened in the subway, just past Columbus Circle! Shots fired, multiple casualties - it sounds like our boy, sir!"

"WHAT?!" I yelled, to the shock of the guests and my team. "Wait one - Luigi, any of your people on the subway right now?"

Bernalli frowned. "Not that I know of."

So Bernalli's people aren't the target..."Base, who's been hit?!"

"Just civilian commuters, sir, plus a number of the Bloods - I'm getting info and holos from first responders now...oh my God! Oh, God, sir, this is - it's horrible!" Frankie burst into tears, clearly too overcome to continue.

For a moment I was paralysed. Then training kicked in. Obviously we - I - had gotten this creep totally wrong. All we could do now was pick up the pieces. "All officers abort! This op is a bust! Pull out and report to the subway, now! Get location info from first responders! Let's go!"

But before I could exit, Bernalli caught my arm with what to this day I am certain was genuine concern on his face. "What's happened?"

"I was wrong," I told him tersely. "He's hit the subway, there are casualties. That's all I know right now."

"Sorry, Commander - an' good luck catchin' this guy."

"I'm sorry to have troubled you," I returned in the same spirit. "My apologies to Francesca. It was a nice party."