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agreed, wriggling out from under his arm. She’d clenched her fist and was about to drive an elbow into his ribs as his arm slithered free. She stepped clear of him, a fake grin plastered across her face. “Thanks. Not for the invitation, for the project. The rest, that’s so far over the line it might as well be in Mexico. Let’s not go there.”
    “I never . . . that’s not what . . .”
    She turned and walked away, not bothering to listen to his denials.
    She’d heard them all before. Tom Campbell didn’t understand subtle hints or gentle brush-offs. He had the hide of a rhino. The only way to get through to him was ego-piercing bullets. Direct. Firm. No trying to ease the blow. He wouldn’t take offense at a blatant refusal, she’d discovered. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t take it to heart either, and soon enough they’d be doing this whole sexually inappropriate dance all over again.

CHAPTER FOUR
    THEY WERE ALMOST IN SIGHT OF THE TIMES SQUARE PLATFORM when the train died. The lights went out.
    “Fucking trains,” a fellow straphanger moaned, looking at Jake for affirmation that indeed the train cars were having a ten-minute conjugal coupling-uncoupling before pulling into the next stop. Jake just nodded. The nod meant: That’s life. Nothing more profound than that. He eased his way forward, muttering an occasional “Excuse me,” before shoving someone out of the way. It wasn’t graceful, but it was effective. He was a big man. It wasn’t exactly irresistible force meets immovable object. He worked his way to the front of the car.
    “Hey!” He banged on the driver’s door at the front of the packed car. A second later a flashlight shone in his face. It stayed there for a moment, blindingly bright. The glass door muffled the worst of the driver’s cursing, then there was a moment of silence on the other side and the bolt ratcheted open. The flashlight lowered to settle on the MTA logo on Jake’s vest. A second later the door opened.
    “Need a hand?” Jake asked. Without the light in his face he could see the conductor was around his age, give or take a couple of years depending how hard he’d been living, Latino, missing out on muscles, with slicked-back hair and a neat Freddie Prinze mustache. There wasn’t even a two-pack under his shirt.
    He held out a callused hand. “Luis Trujillo, captain of this here sinking ship.”
    They clasped hands. “Jake Carter. Tunnel crew and all-round floatation expert.”
    He caught the other MTA employee’s raised eyebrow. Working on the trains themselves was the top of the heap, the job everyone wanted. Handling platform trash and clearing track fires were the worst. But tunnel crew, that was some serious stuff—they did the actual repair work on the lines, skilled labor, and more often than not mission-critical. There were a lot of former Army engineers scouring the tunnels. It was good work.
    “So, talk to me, Luis. Why are we sinking?”
    Luis shook his head. “No idea, man. We were going along fine, then all of a sudden, no power. Nothing.” He stepped back and opened the door wider. “You wanna take a look?”
    “Sure.” Jake slid into the tiny front booth beside him. He studied the small console. It looked fine, there were no obvious alarm bells. He pulled the voltmeter from his tool belt, and hooked its leads into a plug on the dash. He checked the meter’s display with his own small Maglite. Nothing; the needle was flat. The train was as dead as Tupac and Biggie, and just as beyond resurrection.
    “Zed’s dead, baby,” he agreed. Luis showed no sign of recognizing the Tarantino line, which knocked him down a peg or two in Jake’s estimation. He packed away the voltmeter. “Let me call it in.”
    “Be my guest.”
    Jake pulled out his radio. The control room wasn’t there. The only response he got was a burst of static.
    “Mine’s dead too. I was trying to call it in when you showed up.”
    “Makes no sense,” Jake said, more to