Ghosts of War Read Free Page A

back public confidence in the police department. The newspapers continued to erode that confidence, however, and the numbers spoke for themselves—fifty people reported missing since the start of the festive season, and many more, Gabriel suspected, who hadn't even been noticed yet. Homeless people, waifs, strays, people who hadn't yet returned from their holidays, tourists and foreigners—just some of the people who might not have been noticed as missing. He suspected the number was at least double that being reported in the press, and he knew Donovan thought the same.
    For a while the police had been able to keep a lid on the affair, playing down the near-identical circumstances in which the victims had been abducted. Soon, though, eyewitness reports began to filter out regarding the raptors, and it was clear the police and politicians were not going to be able to keep the matter buried for long. All the while they were waiting for the perpetrator to make his demands, or for one of the many pressure groups of terrorist regimes to assume responsibility for the kidnappings. No one had come forward, however, and all attempts to talk to those who might be responsible had been met by a wall of silence. Even now, appealing to the people of the city through the media, no one had come forward, and the police were just as in the dark as Gabriel as to who—or what—was responsible.
    Of course, given the current political climate, it hadn't been long before extremists were publishing pamphlets blaming the British, denouncing them as murderers who came in the night to steal away your loved ones. Gabriel knew this was only so much garbage, but was surprised by the strength of feeling and support that had swelled among the population of the city. There had been rallies calling for the president to declare war on the British Empire, with those desperate people who had lost their loved ones to the raptors held up as figureheads and martyrs for the cause. Anxious to feel like they were doing something to bring their missing loved ones back, many of them had been swept up in the waves of anti-British feeling, adding their names to the petitions and the calls for action.
    The president, of course, was avoiding the issue, and Gabriel suspected he saw the demonstrations for what they really were—the last attempt by a scared population to rationalize what was happening to them, to find an enemy they could blame for the abduction of the people they loved.
    The sooner the real power behind the threat was uncovered, the better.
    Gabriel ducked left to avoid a swinging fist, but misread the feint and took a glancing blow to the face from Carmichael's other fist. He staggered back, shaking his head from side to side in an attempt to clear the dancing lights before his eyes. Carmichael wasn't waiting for him, however, and came on again, striking him twice again before Gabriel was able to get his arms up in defense and the referee stepped in to break them up.
    Gabriel flexed his neck and shoulder muscles. He was desperate for a cigarette. He looked up to see Jimmy smiling at him from across the ring, leaning on the ropes, catching his breath. He was clearly enjoying himself. Rather too much, Gabriel thought, wryly.
    The gym was a downtown establishment, out of the way, a place where he could escape without fear of being accosted by the press or harangued by any of his usual gang of followers. He'd been spending more and more time there of late, and he wondered for a moment if there was actually some glimmer of truth in all the rumors—if he had, indeed, developed a taste for brawling. Just not in the sense that people thought. He much preferred his brawling to be refereed, with padded gloves.
    Nevertheless, he'd certainly been spending less and less time at his Long Island mansion, where the scent of Celeste still clung resolutely to the bedclothes, and where the memories were still all too raw.
    In the darkness, when he closed his eyes, unable