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Hagen blasted through a red light, horn honking. Cars screeched to a stop in the middle of the intersection. Two horns returned Hagen’s warning, and the drivers added a selection of swear words to the noise.

Stella called Slade and put her phone on speaker as she scanned their suspect’s driver’s license. “We’ve got a lead on a Trevor McAuley, Caucasian male, twenty years old, almost six feet, light-brown hair, from Claymore Township, Pennsylvania. We have a lead that he’s at the Good Samaritan Shelter and Soup Kitchen in Idlebrook, a neighborhood just north of downtown. Agent Yates and I are en route, with Agents Ander Bennett and Anja Farrow in a second vehicle.”

“It’s been a busy night, Agent Knox. I’ll alert SWAT and head that way. How’d you find him?”

“Got a call from the mayor at Claymore Township. Trevor got in touch with him…watch it!”

Hagen shot through a stop sign, his hand on the horn, compensating for his foot on the gas. A Volvo hurtling too fast down Trinity Lane didn’t even hoot, let alone slow. With a curse, Hagen weaved across the lanes and sent Stella sliding across her seat.

Slade groaned. “That Hagen driving? Tell him to slow down. You people are no good to me dead.”

Stella eyed Hagen. “Hear that? Slade says to slow down.”

Hagen ignored her. If Trevor McAuley was at the soup kitchen, they needed to get there and shut him down. Before he killed again.

He gripped the wheel, set his jaw, and pushed hard on the gas. With a slight movement of his wrist, he pulled the car into oncoming traffic and zipped past a slow-moving Chevy.

A truck barreled down the road toward them. The truck’s horn screamed.

Bright headlights filled the SUV. Stella blinked. She reached for the dashboard as though her arm would be enough to stop the car collapsing in the impact. Hagen pulled the steering wheel to the right, and the SUV slid back into its lane, missing the front of the truck by inches.

“What did I just tell him to do?” Slade sounded exasperated.

Hagen didn’t slow. “You both worry too much.”

Stella recentered herself on her seat, pulling her seat belt tighter. “Trevor’s going to kill again. He’s got a shelter full of vulnerable victims, the kind he likes the most. We’ve got to get there.”

“Backup’s on the way. Wait for them. Don’t fall into his trap.”

Hagen had no intention of falling into Trevor McAuley’s trap. He had every intention of catching him. But Slade had a point. This dickhead had been pulling them around, arranging a corpse and calling in tip-offs to set up ambushes. They’d been lucky those ambushes hadn’t worked. But this call was more deliberate, clearer.

Trevor McAuley hadn’t phoned a hotline. He’d called Claymore Township and had the mayor pass on a message.

This was personal.

Slade spoke again. “Did you hear me? Don’t take any risks. If he’s there, take him down together. SWAT’s about ten minutes behind you. This ends tonight.”

Soon, a nightmare that had started with a bloodless corpse hanging in a Pennsylvania wood would come to an end in a Nashville homeless shelter. McAuley would surrender or be shot.

Determination closed in, sharpening Hagen’s focus, shrinking his world. They were going to get him. McAuley would fail, and this whole strange ritual was going to end. For good.

When Maureen King killed herself, Hagen was sure the case was over. Another killer down, another case closed.

He’d been wrong then. He couldn’t be wrong again.

“That Dispatch group. The one on Patrick Marrion’s phone. Did Mac manage to find a way in yet?”

“No.” There was just a hint of disappointment in Slade’s voice. “Mac’s still navigating red tape while waiting for an invite.”

Hagen checked the map on the screen. He slowed slightly and pulled a right. The back tires screamed. “Almost there.”

Stella glanced at him. “We need to take him alive.”

The “what?” that blasted from the phone was even louder than the question exploding in Hagen’s head. He followed up the SSA’s question.

“Stella, if we can take him alive, we will. But?—”

“We’ve got to get into that Dispatch group. We missed the mark with McAuley. Maybe there are others willing to kill. We need to know who they are, all of them, which means we need him to give us access to that group and start tracking people down.”

Stella was right. But they hadn’t been able to take Maureen King alive. There was no guarantee they could take Trevor McAuley alive either.

The phone was silent for a moment before Slade spoke again. “Your first priority is to keep yourselves safe and then secure everyone at the shelter. Only then can you take this guy down. SWAT is seven minutes out. Wait for them.”

Hagen yanked the steering wheel again.

Stella slid into the door. Hagen pulled into the soup kitchen’s parking lot and stopped.

“Yes, sir.” Stella hung up and clicked the safety off on her weapon. “Let’s go.”

Hagen killed the engine. They pulled on their bulletproof vests, and Hagen followed Stella into the parking lot. A food truck was parked near the fence, and there was a smattering of other vehicles.

Anja and Ander pulled in behind their SUV.

“Let’s see what we’ve got, ladies and gentlemen.” Ander greeted them as he tightened the Velcro on his vest.

“Slade said to wait for backup.” Stella was already moving toward the building, however. “But we can do a perimeter check.” Hagen and the other two fell in behind her, drawing their weapons.

The building in front of them had three doors, all lit by a single bulb that spilled a pool of yellow light onto a trio of welcome signs. The first welcomed the hungry to the soup kitchen, the second greeted the weary, and the third led to a meeting room.

Someone screamed.

They should wait. The rest of the team were less than five minutes away now. They should hold off until everyone arrived so they could all go in together.

Another scream. The noise came muffled through the wall, followed by a loud “nooo,” which was then followed by softer cries, a mixture of horror and panic.

Stella’s dark eyes met Hagen’s. He knew what she was thinking.

They couldn’t wait.

“Breaching.”

The three of them lined up behind Stella.

Stella tried the handle, and the door opened, but the dining room beyond was empty. A faint smell of cooked rice and soap lingered in the air. The lights were off, but enough moonlight beamed through the high windows and the blinds on the door to reveal chairs pushed neatly under clean tables and a floor that had been swept and mopped.

The place was silent. There was no clatter of plates or cutlery. Not even a quiet murmur of conversation from voices deepened by age, illness, and tobacco.

Hagen entered, going left. Stella came behind to his right. “Clear,” they echoed each other as Ander and Anja entered.

Hagen approached the door at the end of the room. A light glowed through the gap underneath. This room should correspond with the sign that had directed guests to the dorm through the second exterior entrance. He put his ear to the wood. Still no sound. Not even a heavy snore from someone who’d fallen asleep too early and wanted to make the most of a night in a soft bed.

Stella took a position by the opposite doorpost. Her eyes met his.

Beyond the door, the shelter had a single dorm room with six beds on each side of the wall. The light was on, and the air contained a thick odor of sweat and unwashed clothes. A door at the end of the room led out to the parking lot.

The place seemed empty.

Next to the dorm, the last interior door led to the meeting room. Here, Hagen heard voices but couldn’t make out the words. Still, the tone was calming, if pleading.

“That’s Father Ted.”

Hagen nodded and motioned for Stella to take point on the other side. Once she was in position, he gently turned the knob and pushed the door open an inch.

A group of men wearing an odd mixture of dirty clothes and clean Christmas sweaters sat on the floor beside the far wall. A priest stood in front of them, his hands pressed together and a look of intense pain on his face.

The cause of that pain was clear.

On top of a Formica-topped table in the middle of the room a man lay face up. He was red-haired and bare-chested. The outline of his ribs showed through pale skin pocked with scabs and fleabites.

His throat had been cut.

Blood ran from the gash in his neck. It flowed over the table, stained the back of his head, and dripped onto a pool that had already formed on the floor. His eyes were wide open, but they didn’t blink or move, and it was too late for them to shed tears. A long knife lay on the table next to his shoulder.

A man in a hoodie stood behind the table. Trevor McAuley. He held a gun and motioned to Father Ted with the muzzle. “Now you see I’m not playing around.”

Stella touched Hagen’s shoulder, signaling she’d go left when they entered, but her touch itself was reassuring.

He watched as McAuley motioned again, waving the gun harder.

“No, no.” The priest’s pleas were hard to listen to. “Please don’t do this. You don’t have to do this.”

Behind him, one of the shelter’s guests jabbed a finger. “You’re a coward, man. You put that gun down for one second, and you’re a dead man. You’re crazy. That’s what you are. Crazy.”

The figure in the hood shrugged. “Yeah, I might be. Might just be crazy enough to kill all of you. You can thank me when the time comes.” He pointed at the body. “Turn him over.”

Father Ted placed his hands on the dead man’s shoulders. He looked as though he were blessing him or reassuring him that all would be well and his life would soon improve. His lips moved. Some quiet prayer for the dead, Hagen assumed, though a prayer when he’d been alive might’ve been more helpful.

The priest lifted one shoulder and pushed with the other.

The body turned easily enough, the movement lubricated by the blood on the table and the thinness of the torso.

Father Ted stepped back, his bloody hands held out in front of him. “Please. Just put the gun down. We can talk. It’s not too late.”

“Back. Farther.” McAuley waved Father Ted away.

Hagen glanced at the door that opened onto the parking lot. From his vantage point, he could tell that the blinds on the window were down but the moon glowed through the slats.

The FBI SUVs shouldn’t be visible from that vantage point. Hagen held his breath.

McAuley didn’t know he had company yet.

“More. It’s not too late. Still got a little time. Now sit down with the others.”

When Father Ted was back among his guests, McAuley approached the table. He shifted his gun to his left hand, lifted the blade, and began carving into the victim’s back.

Hagen adjusted his mic. “We’ve got one armed suspect, at least one casualty, and eleven hostages. SWAT’s still minutes out. We need to contain this.”

Ander signaled he’d take the back exit, and Hagen nodded.

He turned to Anja and kept his voice low. “You’re with us. We go in hard and fast, understood?”