The kids snapped to attention. Their enormous eyes, whites glistening in the meager light, looked first at Striker, then his gun. Almost immediately, the helpless terror set in.

They were cornered. The oldest kid was holding his brother, both smeared in a startling amount of red from the tracking device sunk into the younger boy’s lower back. The girl cowered behind them both, pale as a sheet and almost swallowed in the blue-black shadows of the alley. They were dirty and disheveled, and above all, scared out of their minds.

Behind Striker, the clamor of excitement surrounding the halted bus was once again drowning in the steady roar of traffic. He swore he heard the faint strains of faraway sirens.

“S-stay back,” the oldest one—Abel, if Striker remembered correctly—stammered.

The boy pulled himself to full height and positioned himself between Striker and the two others. The girl moved and Striker almost pulled the trigger, but she just crouched beside her injured brother, who was struggling to support himself with his arms, a haze over his eyes. Abel tensed when Striker moved, clenching his fists, but otherwise, he remained still.

Striker couldn’t help but crack a smile. The kids were breathless, bloody, and trapped, but still they dared to look him in the eye. Dagger would have liked them. He noticed the girl glancing at the alley behind them with a swift spark rising in her eyes.

“Don’t bother,” Striker said. “You can’t run.”

“I’m not going to let you kill them,” Abel growled, his voice shaking.

“Kill you?” Striker laughed. “We’re not going to kill you.”

“Huh?” the girl—Evelyn? Eve?—furrowed her eyebrows. “B-but you’ve been trying to kill us all this time.”

“Hunt you, yes,” Striker said. “But not kill you. The details don’t matter. I suggest you cooperate and come with me without a fight or you’ll have more to worry about than just a tracking device. This gun has real bullets in it.”

The kids stared in silence. The distinct wail of sirens sped nearer. They only had a matter of minutes before this place was swarming with the law, and even having the kids wedged into such a tight corner wouldn’t give him enough time to slip away. Between the sharp sirens, he heard the grunts of his men as they jogged nearer.

“All right, start moving,” Striker said. “Time is running out. You coming quietly, or am I going to have to gag you all?”

Abel glanced at the other two. The other boy, Wesley, looked on the verge of passing out, slumped against his sister, who kept glancing over her shoulder at the black abyss behind her. When Abel looked back, his jaw was set.

“How do I know you’re not going to kill us as soon as we come out there?” Abel asked.

“Because,” Striker said. “If I’d really wanted you dead, you would never have made it out of your house.”

That seemed to satisfy his question—for now. Abel worked his jaw as the rest of the men gathered behind Striker. The raised their guns.

“Hold your fire,” Striker said. “They’re coming with us.”

Phantom lowered his weapon. “Roger that. But we’ll have to move fast if we’re going to outrun the cops.”

“And that’s why we brought the Charger,” Striker said. “Hurry up and bind them. I’ll bring the car around. Or—” He gripped Phantom’s shoulder. “Maybe you should. I’ll have to stay here myself if I don’t want to risk losing them again.”

“I’m touched you think I’d do such a good job,” Phantom said. “But fine. Just make sure the team doesn’t get too rough. They’re children.”

“Which ones?” Striker mumbled under his breath.

Phantom broke away and vanished toward where they’d parked. The car wasn’t too far away from the first motel back on the other street, but Phantom would still have to sprint to beat the cops.

When Striker turned back, he saw Venom and Klick already herding the kids to face the wall, snap-lock handcuffs and black head covers at the ready. None of the kids made a sound, aside from the injured one. When Klick heaved him to his unsteady feet he let out a half-cry, half-grunt that would have set Abel on her like a wolf if he hadn’t already been pinned and handcuffed by Venom. The girl had lapsed into shivery silence, although she stared at her brothers and refused to meet the eyes of any of her captors. Together, lined up side-by-side against the grimy alley wall, they made an oddly inspiring image.

Striker spat on the ground. These weren’t the first kids he’d captured for a client by any means. But most times, the kids came with at least one parent, and they weren’t half as resourceful as this bunch. He’d had his fair share of snarling at whiny, over-babied brats who tended to cry too loudly when they needed to shut up. Usually rich kids. But these three were quiet. Once the bags were over their heads, they started to panic a little more—probably because they couldn’t see each other. But they still offered little resistance to being led away.

“Not terrible,” Striker said, surveying the scene.

His eyes went to the alley floor. The blood was an issue. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small vial filled with red liquid. This was old stuff, but it would still serve its purpose. It was one of the black-market items that came most in handy in this line of work. He shook the vial over the puddle of blood until it was empty, splashing over the blood. The chemicals bonded, and the red began to evaporate in front of his eyes. He gave it a little swirl with the toe of his boot, which he then scraped off the pavement a few times.

“Boss?” Venom called.

“On my way, keep moving,” Striker said.

He spun on his heel, coat fluttering, and strode out of the alley and back into the semi-glaring streetlight glow of the road. The sirens were screaming now. The kids perked up at the sound, but the team members tightened their grips, and their shoulders sagged again. They knew. Phantom would be back soon.

There was no escaping this time.