#1747

Jonathan slips into the dark corridor, making his way by feel and instinct down the hall until he comes to the recess at the end. He positions himself inside, gun drawn and ready, ears tuned to the heavy metal door just beyond his hiding place. Daren has to come through here, and no matter how silent or quick the murderer is, he can’t make it through the door without Jonathan knowing. Something will give him away; the rusted hinges, the bare cement, the light just shy of total dark on the other side of the door. Something will give him away, has to give him away, because Jonathan must catch the man.

Jonathan counts the passing of one minute, then two, when the door at the opposite end of the hallway squeaks open. He tenses for just a second before catching the lowered voices of two fellow officers. Rookies, clearly, or otherwise they didn’t take the debriefing beforehand seriously enough to remain on guard. It’d be hard to, he supposes, when you knew it would be fifteen men against one. They don’t understand who this man is, though. Jonathan knows. He can’t afford to forget.

Jonathan is about to peek out of the recess and whisper furiously at the officers to shut the hell up when they both go silent. He refocuses his attention just in time to catch the faint click of the door. He leaps out and throws a nearby switch, flooding the corridor with fluorescent light, but somehow, impossibly, it’s already too late. The officers lay motionless in expanding pools of blood, their throats cut nearly to the bone. On the wall above them in blood dripping like fresh spray paint are the words, “Hello, Jon.” Daren has already vanished.

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