Read New York Nights [Virex 01] for Free Online Page A

other, like spoons. To get an angle on Halliday’s dish, the gunman would be forced to come close . . . close enough, perhaps, for Halliday to leap out and surprise him.
     
    He readied himself, took the automatic from his pocket to use as a cudgel. The Latino halved the first dish of the three with a protracted squeal of torn metal and moved on to the next. He was perhaps two metres away. If Halliday waited until he was about to slice his own dish, it might be too late to act. He’d dive out when he was slicing the second dish, try to catch him off guard.
     
    The Latino raised his cutter, fired. The line of silver light lanced out, cleaving the dish through its diameter. As soon as he ceased firing and was lowering the weapon, Halliday dived.
     
    He touched the ground once and leapt, hitting the Latino in the midriff and sending him sprawling. He dived again, falling across the guy’s chest, and pinioned his cutter hand to the floor. He smashed at the hand with the butt of his automatic, breaking bones, until the fingers released their grip and the cutter fell away. Halliday dashed it across the rooftop, only now feeling a heady elation surge through him at the thought that, after all, he might survive. He reached for the guy’s belt, found the revolver and flung it as far as he could. His captive was struggling, attempting to reach Halliday’s face and gouge with his undamaged hand.
     
    Halliday raised his automatic high above his head and brought it down with force, smashing the guy’s cheekbone.
     
    Nothing, Halliday told himself later, nothing at all could have prepared him for what he saw then. At first he thought he was hallucinating, that the adrenalin of the chase and fight had affected his vision.
     
    The Latino’s face underwent a rapid transformation. The very flesh seemed to flicker, lose its definition and shape. For a fraction of a second the face became one completely different, an almost subliminal flash of someone else, too rapid for Halliday to say whether it was a man’s or woman’s, young or old. Then the face was the Latino’s again, before once more flickering and changing, and this time the change stayed for seconds. A pretty-faced blonde woman stared up at him - though the eyes, he thought, the eyes were just as cruel as the Latino’s. The sight filled Halliday with fear greater than that he had experienced at any time during the chase, a fear of the inexplicable.
     
    He cried out and rolled away, staggered to his feet and ran. He meant to head for the fire escape, but he was disoriented and got it wrong. He was heading in the opposite direction. He stopped, almost weeping now, turned. The Latino ... or whatever the hell he was . . . climbed slowly to his feet, staggering, his damaged hand cradled across his chest. He saw Halliday and lurched towards him. In appearance he was the Latino again, though there was something nebulous, almost undefined, about the cast of the features - as if they were attempting to return to their original guise, but could not quite make it.
     
    Halliday turned, ran, and stopped quickly. He was at the edge of the building. He turned and faced the Latino. Christ, but the euphoria he’d experienced just seconds ago tasted sour now. He knew he had to fight, but the prospect of facing again something that he could neither explain nor understand filled him with irrational fear. The Latino approached, crouched, ready for Halliday should he try to run for it.
     
    ‘Who the hell are you?’ Halliday shouted.
     
    The Latino just stared, his refusal to speak almost as eerie as his earlier metamorphosis.
     
    He caught Halliday by surprise. He had not expected the Latino to attack, dive at him. He yelled out as his assailant launched himself and hit him in the midriff.
     
    Halliday felt himself topple backwards, experienced that sudden, fraction-of-a-second apprehension that there was nothing, nothing at all he could do to stop himself.
     
    A sickening