There was a chance they would walk past Danny, but Danny Messer was from the streets above and, in the tunnels below, he knew better. They were only a few feet from him now.

Danny felt something- not fear, but something he hadn't felt in years. The feeling mixed with the flashing images of crawling maggots, a little black girl in a Dumpster covered in dried blood and maggots, Cole Thane convincing himself he deserved mercy.

The two young men stopped in front of Danny. The lean one took a knife out of a sheath in his pocket. The stocky one had a short lead pipe in his hand.

Danny's backpack was jammed with heavy books. He swung it at the stocky man as he rose. He swung it hard, with an animal grunt.

At six in the morning, Mac Taylor sat alone at a table in Stephan's Deli on Columbus, a copy of The New York Times in front of him. He had taken his usual three-mile morning run in Central Park at dawn before the sun gathered strength.

It was scheduled to get up to a humid 100 degrees by noon. Mac had finished his eggs over easy, wheat toast and small orange juice and was working on his second cup of coffee while he read.

Stephan's wasn't crowded; there were about a dozen people at the counter and the six tables. He wouldn't be bothered at Stephan's. The waitresses respected his faraway look. They knew he was a cop who saw things they prayed they would never have to see.

Connie, approaching sixty, with an ever-present weary smile, came to fill Mac's cup. He nodded his thanks.

"Gonna be a hot one," Connie said.

Mac nodded as he lifted his cup to drink.

"Got a busy day today?" she asked.

Mac met her lonely eyes and smiled.

"Not yet," he said.

His cell phone rang. Mac took it out of his pocket and said, "Taylor."

He listened and Connie stood nearby, hoping to keep contact with the soulful policeman, who said, "On the way."