Free The World Beneath (Joe Tesla) by Rebecca Cantrell Page A

spotted six men who fit that description in the first few hours of staking out Grand Central Terminal. He’d followed each one, eliminating each one as his target.
    Sometimes, jobs were like that—many false trails had to be followed before the right one revealed itself. Ozan didn’t mind.
    He’d first spotted Subject 523 when he had walked into the terminal just before the last trains left for the night. He’d gone straight down to Platform 23 and headed into the tunnel where Ozan had lost him. Ozan had a feeling, based on the man’s easy, comfortable stride, that he always used Platform 23 to access the tunnels. He’d probably be back there the next day.
    Ozan passed through a maze of tracks where commuter trains converged on Grand Central Terminal. Security swept this area often, and he had to appreciate the target’s stealth. Had the man had been coming down here for months without being caught? Ozan hoped that he himself would be so fortunate.
    He was ready to turn back when a glimmer of light twinkled far ahead in the tunnel. A golden orb bobbed up and down—a lantern, not a flashlight. Subject 523 had been carrying a lantern.
    Ozan pocketed his own flashlight and closed in on the light. Mindful of stones and debris on the ground, he chose each step carefully, footfalls whisper quiet. It was a matter of professional pride that no one ever heard him coming. And it kept him alive.
    The target walked furtively, shoulders hunched, head on a swivel. Whoever the man was, he was nervous. His steps, too, were cautious. The target clearly had training in moving undetected. Nothing about this background had appeared in the dossier Ozan had received, so he had to assume the worst—that the man was trained as a deadly killer and no one had bothered to tell Ozan. Any other assumption was foolish.
    Ozan crept closer. The man’s head turned far enough to one side that Ozan recognized his receding chin. Subject 523. In one dirty hand he carried a battery-powered lantern that radiated light in a giant circle. That lamp had drawn Ozan to him as brightness drew so many predators to prey.
    The man stopped and held the lantern high, searching in all directions. Ozan stopped, too. The light from the tunnel behind might silhouette him, but he could do little about that now. He eased himself against the stone wall and waited.
    Seeming satisfied, the target turned around again. Ozan lagged behind. Once the man chose a tunnel, there were few places where he could turn off and, even for those, his light would make him easy to find—as long as he didn’t become suspicious and douse it. But he was a careful man, Subject 523, so Ozan could take nothing for granted. He didn’t let him out of his sight.
    The light bobbed along in front of him like a will-o’-the-wisp. It promised magic and excitement. Because tonight Ozan hoped to kill the man who held it.
    He fingered the knife in his pocket, then touched the hard steel Glock he carried in a shoulder holster. Both weapons were suitable, but he hoped to come across an object at the scene that he could use instead. A rock. A brick. A discarded board. On-site weapons were impossible to trace and made the police think of crimes of passion instead of premeditation. That would lead them down blind alleys.
    The light ahead stopped abruptly, then jerked up with tiny quick movements as if the man were climbing over a low wall. Ozan noiselessly closed the distance between them. He smelled the target’s sweat and the clay-like odor of disturbed brick dust.
    The beam angled toward the ceiling as if it had been put down. Ozan drew his knife. The Glock was a better distance weapon. Considering how the last man on the job died, the more distance the better, but he didn’t enjoy it as much when he killed from a distance. He liked to be close enough to feel their muscles go slack, see death dull their eyes, and let their last rattling breath whisper against his cheek. He stroked the knife’s hilt