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

with his thumb, waiting.
    The target had climbed through a jagged hole smashed into a brick wall. Footprints in the dust told him that the target had come to this place and left at least once.
    Among the target’s tracks he spotted another set. Whoever had left them was a person of interest, might have met Subject 523 here. Ozan studied the prints, about a size ten, but that meant little. Plenty of short men had large feet, and large men had small ones. The stride would tell him more. He left Subject 523 alone in the brick room and circled back to follow the other man’s prints, careful to keep to the train ties and leave no prints of his own in the dust here.
    Based on the length of the strides, the man who had left the prints was tall, around six feet, and had been running. Maybe he’d come across Subject 523 here, too, and 523 had chased him off. A quarrel like that might prove useful to Ozan. He’d prepared an alternate scenario for Subject 523’s murder for the police, but would he use this one instead? The footprints might be years old. Better to stick with what he had. Still, he would track those footprints back to their source later, to be sure.
    He crept back toward his target. He didn’t want to lose sight of his quarry tonight of all nights. This was the perfect place. They were alone down here, and he could work without fear of detection, away from the people and surveillance cameras that plagued him. And he’d been told that he must do it soon.
    He moved until he could see through the jagged opening into the room where 523 had disappeared. A rusty blue train car sat inside. A curious Ozan slipped closer, glimpsing a small skeleton resting undisturbed in a layer of dust atop the car. Another skeleton lay on the ground a few feet from the car.
    The target sat down on the rusty steps, sweat plowing furrows in the dust and grime coating his face.
    Ozan didn’t have much time before the trains started running and the security sweeps came by. Someone might hear the man’s screams. And Ozan believed in acting with caution. This man had killed a skilled colleague. He was probably trained to withstand interrogation, at least for a time, and he was large and possibly armed. The best option was to kill him and search for the papers later. The contract had said that their retrieval was desirable, not mandatory. Ozan had no intention of risking his life on lower-level priorities.
    He spotted a sledgehammer leaning against the outside of the broken wall, and the decision was made for him. A thin layer of dust coated the hammer, as if it’d been used long ago and then set aside. Maybe 523 himself had brought it here to break the wall. A perfect weapon of opportunity. He closed in on it quickly.
    The wood felt slippery under his gloves. It had seen good use, this tool.
    The light stayed still in the car, and the target still sat on metal steps that had been folded out from the side of the car as if it had stopped at a station. He leaned forward, hands clenching and unclenching in his pockets. “It has to be here,” the man whispered over and over.
    It didn’t matter what he was talking about. Ozan had a job to do. He leaped over the broken bricks and into the room. He landed with each foot flat on a different train tie. The time for stealth was past.
    The hammer arced down.
    The target lifted his head, quicker than Ozan expected.
    Hammer met bone. Bone gave. But not the skull. The man had deflected the blow with his right arm.
    The man’s left fist connected with the side of Ozan’s head. O zan’s ears rang, and he stumbled back.
    The man was on him then, knocking him to the dirt.
    Ozan rolled to the side, but the man fell onto him. His wounded arm dripped blood in Ozan’s open eyes. Ozan blinked it away and twisted the man’s wounded arm. It felt hot, as if the man had a fever. Broken bones grated against each other. The man screamed and reared back.
    Ozan pulled away from him and reached for the hammer. The