By the time Axel Vance arrived at the alley, officers had already stretched police tape across both entrances and pushed the growing crowd of curious civilians back toward the sidewalk. The bodies of the young couple lay several yards apart where they had fallen, while another corpse in a clown costume rested deeper inside the alley. Unlike the couple, the clown’s face had been horribly mutilated, with most of the skin peeled away.
Axel stared at the scene and immediately felt a strong sense of familiarity. The clown costume, the heavy build, and the brutality involved matched something he had read only hours earlier while reviewing the maximum-security inmate files with Clarice Starling. He was suddenly very glad she had insisted they examine every prisoner instead of focusing entirely on Michael Myers.
A name gradually surfaced in Axel’s mind.
John Wayne Gacy.
Gacy had murdered at least thirty-three young men and boys before his arrest, and he had also performed publicly under clown personas such as Pogo and Patches. Axel knew the historical Gacy had not normally committed his murders while dressed as a clown, but this world had already proven it had no problem rearranging familiar details. Seeing the dead man wearing clown makeup here was simply another sign that this horror-filled reality followed its own rules.
Axel moved past the officers and headed toward Chief Woody, who stood near the bodies with both hands planted on his hips. The chief wore an annoyed expression more suited to someone dealing with a parking problem than a triple homicide. A young officer was standing beside him and giving a preliminary report.
"Chief, we’ve identified the man and woman as local residents," the officer said. "The third victim is going to take longer because of the damage to his face, but the medical examiner is already on the way."
Woody nodded grimly.
Axel stepped closer. "Chief, I think I know who the clown is."
That immediately got Woody’s attention.
Axel pointed toward the mutilated body. "He should be one of the maximum-security inmates who escaped after Holden’s prison collapsed."
Woody’s eyebrows rose. "So he’s one of those bastards?"
"John Wayne Gacy," Axel confirmed. "Serial killer. Extremely dangerous."
A strange expression of disappointment appeared on Woody’s face. "Damn. Shame I didn’t get the chance to beat him to death myself."
Axel stared at him.
Woody noticed the look and frowned. "What?"
"Nothing."
"What, you didn’t become a cop because you wanted to beat criminals?"
The young officer beside them instinctively shook his head.
Woody immediately turned on him. "That’s exactly what’s wrong with your generation! No passion!"
The officer’s face went pale.
Woody folded his arms and continued his rant. "Back when I came up through the department, cops weren’t scared of getting their hands dirty. Nowadays everybody wants paperwork, procedure, and sensitivity training."
Axel wisely chose not to ask how many lawsuits Woody’s career had probably generated.
The chief eventually remembered why they were standing beside three corpses and turned back toward Axel. "You were inside that prison longer than anybody from my department. Roughly how many inmates got away?"
Axel carefully recalled the chaos after the collapse. "I’d estimate somewhere between twenty and thirty from the maximum-security wing escaped or disappeared during the fighting. As for the ordinary population, I couldn’t give you an accurate number."
Woody’s expression became more serious. "And those maximum-security offenders. You think they’re going to keep their heads down after getting loose?"
Axel looked toward Gacy’s corpse and the murdered couple.
"Probably not for long."
That answer seemed to satisfy Woody.
"Good."
Axel frowned. "Good?"
Woody ignored the question and nodded to himself. "Sending you undercover wasn’t a complete waste after all. At least now we know what kind of animals are loose in the city."
Axel became even more suspicious.
Normally, Woody should have been screaming orders for a citywide manhunt by now. Instead, the chief simply waited until the medical examiner’s team arrived, watched them secure the bodies, and then ordered everyone back to the Miami Police Department.
Even stranger, Woody told every officer present to keep the details of the triple homicide quiet until further notice.
"No reporters," he said. "No girlfriends, no drinking buddies, no loudmouth cousins. Nobody talks about what happened here tonight."
Axel watched Woody’s expression carefully.
The chief was smiling.
Not a happy smile.
A plotting smile.
That was much worse.
Axel returned to the apartment belonging to his predecessor later that night, but the mystery continued bothering him. Everything he knew about Chief Woody suggested the man should already be leading armed officers through Miami and kicking down doors personally. Instead, he had deliberately concealed the murders and sent everyone home.
Axel could not understand why.
He finally went to sleep without finding an answer.
The answer arrived the next morning.
A phone call from the department dragged Axel out of bed and ordered him back to headquarters. When he arrived, the street outside the Miami Police Department was already packed with reporters. Television crews, newspaper photographers, radio journalists, and freelancers had gathered around a temporary podium like sharks circling fresh blood.
Camera lenses of every size pointed toward the entrance.
Axel pushed his way through several officers and found a place near the back.
Then Chief Woody stepped onto the podium.
The transformation was almost unbelievable.
The same man who regularly screamed threats inside the station now wore a perfectly adjusted tie and a solemn expression worthy of a funeral director. He stepped toward the microphones and waited until the camera flashes slowed.
"Citizens of Miami," Woody began, his voice amplified across the street. "I am Chief Woody of the Miami Police Department, and today I have the unfortunate responsibility of informing you about a serious threat to our city."
The crowd became quiet.
Woody continued, "As many of you already know, a privately operated correctional facility outside Miami suffered a catastrophic collapse under circumstances that are still being investigated. Our officers and emergency workers rescued many prisoners and staff members, but a significant number of dangerous inmates escaped during the chaos."
Several reporters immediately started taking notes faster.
Woody’s expression became heavier. "We hoped these fugitives would run, hide, and avoid further violence. Unfortunately, last night proved otherwise."
Axel finally understood where this was going.
Woody looked directly into the cameras. "A young couple was brutally murdered in an alley on the west side. Evidence indicates that one of the escaped violent offenders was involved."
Murmurs spread through the crowd.
Woody gripped the sides of the podium.
"As chief of this department, I take responsibility for protecting this city. As a Miami resident, I am furious that these criminals believe they can turn our streets into their personal hunting ground."
Axel narrowed his eyes.
The old lunatic was about to do something insane.
Woody took a slow breath.
Then he raised his voice.
"Effective immediately, the Miami Police Department is issuing an emergency citywide fugitive reward for every confirmed escaped prisoner from that facility."
Reporters immediately leaned forward.
Woody continued, "Any citizen who provides information directly leading to the verified capture of one of these fugitives will be eligible for a reward."
Axel relaxed slightly.
That actually sounded almost reasonable.
Then Woody smiled.
Axel’s stomach dropped.
"One hundred thousand dollars."
The street exploded.
Reporters started shouting questions while camera flashes erupted continuously.
Woody raised one hand for silence.
The crowd gradually settled.
Then he delivered the part Axel had been afraid of.
"And if one of these fugitives violently resists capture and ends up dead..."
He paused dramatically.
"Dead or alive."
The press conference erupted into complete chaos.
Axel closed his eyes.
There it is.
Within minutes, television stations began interrupting normal programming.
Radio hosts repeated the announcement.
Newspapers rushed emergency editions into production.
One hundred thousand dollars in the 1980s was enough money to transform someone’s life.
By lunchtime, nearly all of Miami knew about the reward.
And Miami lost its mind.
In a quiet suburban home, a mild-mannered accountant sat at his kitchen table staring at a newspaper filled with photographs of escaped convicts. He slowly opened an old lockbox he had hidden beneath his bed and removed a revolver.
"If I catch one..." he whispered.
He looked toward a stack of falsified company accounts sitting nearby.
"That fixes everything."
Several neighborhoods away, a group of gang members stopped arguing over their normal business and passed around photocopies of the fugitive list. One man pointed toward the reward figure and started laughing.
"Brothers, forget the small stuff."
He slapped the paper.
"One of these guys is worth a hundred grand."
Another gang member grinned. "We find two and take the rest of the year off."
Even high school students became interested.
A group of teenagers gathered behind their school gym with a newspaper spread across a bench. One boy pointed excitedly toward a photograph of an escaped prisoner.
"We find one before the cops do, we split the money."
His friend stared at him. "You’re seventeen."
"So?"
"So those guys are murderers."
The first boy shrugged. "Jenny from cheerleading would definitely go out with me if I had a hundred thousand dollars."
Within an hour, they had formed what they proudly called a bounty-hunting club.
Desperation brought out even stranger participants.
A homeless man dug through a trash can searching for discarded newspapers containing the wanted photographs. A recently divorced contractor studied the fugitive list while muttering about mortgage payments. Men who had never cared about law enforcement suddenly memorized faces as if preparing for an exam.
The gun stores suffered the worst of it.
By afternoon, lines stretched out onto sidewalks across the city.
Customers argued over ammunition, revolvers, hunting rifles, shotguns, and anything else still available. Store owners who had expected an ordinary weekday suddenly found themselves selling inventory faster than they could restock shelves.
Miami had become one enormous hunting ground.
And nearly everyone believed they were a hunter.
The escaped prisoners had survived a prison collapse, supernatural chanting, riots, and the destruction of their maximum-security cells. Now they faced something perhaps even more dangerous.
Thousands of ordinary Americans who believed each fugitive had a $100,000 price tag attached to his head.
Axel stood near the department entrance and watched reporters scatter toward their vehicles. Every news crew wanted the next exclusive interview, the first captured fugitive, or the first bloody confrontation. Within minutes, the area around the podium became almost empty.
Chief Woody looked extremely pleased with himself.
He adjusted his jacket and turned toward the station.
Axel stepped directly into his path.
"Chief."
Woody stopped.
Axel lowered his voice. "Why did you do that?"
The chief grinned. "You think I woke up this morning and decided to turn Miami into the Wild West because I was bored?"
Axel stared at him.
Woody’s smile faded.
For once, he looked completely serious.
"The three people who died last night changed everything."
Axel frowned.
Woody glanced toward the reporters disappearing down the street. "Before those murders, the escaped convicts were a prison problem and a police problem. Politicians could sit in offices, argue about budgets, and pretend none of this had anything to do with them."
His voice dropped even lower.
"Now civilians are dead."
Woody looked directly at Axel.
"That means everyone in this city is involved."
He paused.
"Not even politicians."
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