The Diabolist (Dominic Grey 3) Read Free Page A

could claim as his own.

    Grey left the trash- and graffiti-strewn streets of Washington Heights and approached his building, an abandoned high school converted into lofts, on the edge of gentrifying Hudson Heights.
    “Hey, Teach!”
    A shirtless teen was leaning against the steps of his building.
Frankie
. Two men in gang colors sat on the steps beside him, eyeing Grey like he had just kicked their dog.
    The streets were empty, a single streetlight illuminating the concrete steps. Grey kept an eye on all three. “Frankie,” Grey said evenly as he approached. “I’d like to see you in class again, despite what happened tonight. You have real talent.”
    “I dunno, Teach. I no think I need you no more.”
    Grey noticed the other two shift ever so slightly. Dressed in tank tops and baggy pants, they had prison tats on their necks and forearms, and the hardened eyes of street thugs. One was bald; the other had a Mohawk.
    Grey kept his demeanor as relaxed as possible as he approached. Five more feet and it wouldn’t matter what they had stuck in the waistbands of those pants. It took three seconds for the average man to draw, enable, and point a gun, not to mention aim and hit. And three seconds was an eternity in close quarters.
    “Hey Teach,” Frankie said softly. “You know wha’ we do about
gente
disrespect us?”
    The two thugs rose and pulled switchblades as Frankie began to grin. Grey was on them before Frankie’s grin reached the corners of his lips. No one pulling a knife expects to be rushed, especially not when it’s three against one. Grey approached in a blur, halfway there before the blades were out, and he snapped a vicious side kick into the kneecap of the bald gang member, whose eyes told Grey he wasn’t expecting a low strike. Grey heard the crunch of a broken patella.
    The thug with the Mohawk managed to raise his knife and lunge at Grey. Again Grey did the unexpected and stepped into the amateur thrust, fluid as a snake, sliding to the side of the knife and brush blocking the arm at the elbow. Grey turned the soft block into a strike, hitting the exposed throat with the hardened web of one hand while smacking the center of the lower back,the vulnerable
ming men
point, with the other. The gang member fell to the pavement and grabbed at his throat, choking violently.
    Grey kicked the knives away and moved towards Frankie, who had backed against the door at the top of the steps, now brandishing his own knife.
    Frankie was shaking and waving the knife around. “
¿Qué hiciste, qué hiciste
? You kill him!”
    Grey stopped advancing and put his hands out, palms up. “Put the knife down, Frankie. They’ll both live. I’ll call for help as soon as you drop the weapon.”
    Frankie glanced at his two friends moaning on the ground. “
Hijo de puta madre
,” Frankie said. “You know wha’ this does to me?”
    “It doesn’t have to do anything,” Grey said. “Leave the gang and train with me. I’ll protect you.”
    Frankie’s eyes were wild, and he kept waving the knife in front of him as he lurched down the side of the steps, as far from Grey as he could get. When he reached the bottom he backed into the street.
    “What’s out there for you, Frankie? I’ve been there, right where you’re standing.”
    “You no know
shit
,” Frankie said, then turned and fled into the night.
    Grey watched him go as the adrenaline seeped away, feeling a sadness for the world descend and settle into the pockets of his bones.
    Frankie was wrong.
    Grey did know.

    After the police and ambulance left, Grey trudged to his fifth-floor loft. There had been a warrant out for the two men with Frankie. Both gang members, ex-cons, wanted for an assortment of violent crimes. Fair or not, the two older ones had chosen their path. Frankie was still young enough to decide.
    Grey’s studio loft had exposed brick walls, a stained concrete floor, and a shoji screen separating his sleeping area. The furniture consisted of a