Who would be next?
His first choice was an older woman in a gray tweed coat who hobbled forward like a dog with a crippled leg. She lugged her purse in the crook of her arm, its gold catch loose, the flap snapping open with each labored step. The invitation was irresistible, and for a moment he thought she might be a decoy. Police sometimes baited the station. But after a few moments of careful observation he concluded she was genuine, so he worked his way through the rush-hour commuters to where she stood.
Oxford Circus was his favorite locale. The Bakerloo, Central, and Victoria Underground lines all converged there. Every morning and evening tens of thousands of people streamed in and out, most headed to the trendy shops and stores that lined Oxford and Bond streets a hundred feet above. Many, like the dowager he now spied, were weighed down with shopping bags—easy marks for someone with the skills he’d spent five of his fifteen years of life perfecting.
It helped that few considered him a threat. He was barely five feet tall with thick blond hair that he kept trimmed with a pair of scissors stolen last year from Harrods. He was actually a fairly proficient barber and considered hairstyling as a possible career—one day, after his street time was behind him. For now, the skill allowed him to maintain an image strangers found inviting. Thankfully, the city’s charity shops offered him a varied choice in dress at little or no cost. He liked corduroy pants and buttondown shirts, a carefree look reminiscent of one of his favorite stories, Oliver Twist. An ideal image for an enterprising pickpocket.
His Scottish mother named him Ian, the only thing she gave him besides life. She disappeared when he was three months old and an English aunt took her place and bestowed him with the last name of Dunne. He’d not seen that aunt in three years, ever since he escaped out a second-story window and dissolved into the streets of London where he’d survived through a combination of charity and criminality.
The police knew him. They’d arrested him several times in other stations and once at Trafalgar Square. But never had he stayed in custody. There’d been three foster homes, attempts to stabilize him, but he’d run away from them all. His age worked in his favor, as did his plight. Pity was an easy emotion to manipulate.
He approached the old woman using the crowd for cover. His methodology was the result of much practice, a simple matter to lightly bump into her.
“Sorry,” he said, adding a quick smile.
She instantly warmed to him and returned the friendly gesture. “That’s okay, young man.”
The three seconds it took for the bump to register and for her to respond were all he needed to slip his hand into her purse and palm what he could. He immediately shielded his withdrawn hand under the flap of his jacket and slipped deeper into the crowd. A quick look back confirmed that the woman was unaware of his invasion. He threaded his way out of the gathering throng and stole a glance at what he held.
A small maroon cylinder with a black plastic cap.
He’d hoped it was a cigarette lighter, or something else he could pawn or sell. Instead, it was a canister of pepper spray. He’d managed to lift one or two in the past. He shook his head in disgust and pocketed the object.
His gaze found a second opportunity.
The man was maybe fifty, dressed in a wool jacket. The flap on the right-hand coat pocket, folded inward, offered an opportunity. He’d obtained some of his choicest loot from the pockets of smartly dressed men. This particular target was tall and gangly with a beak-like nose. He was facing away, toward the tracks, and repeatedly studied his watch, his attention alternating between that and an electronic billboard that announced the train was less than a minute away.
A billow of air puffed from the blackened cavern, followed by a rumble that steadily intensified. People massed forward toward the edge, prepared to rush into the cars once the doors opened and the electronic voice warned them to mind the gap.
His second opportunity joined the crowd and managed to place himself where he would be one of the first to enter. This was the time of maximum distraction. Everyone was tired and eager to get home. Their guard was down.
His first opportunity had garnered nothing.
He was hoping for better this time.
He made it to the smartly dressed man and, without delay, slipped his right hand into the jacket pocket. A jostle of bodies provided the perfect camouflage. His fingers wrapped around a rectangular piece of plastic and he withdrew his arm at the precise instant the train rattled into view.
Then two hands shoved the smartly dressed man from the platform into the path of the oncoming train.
Screams echoed through the chamber.
A dry screech of brakes grew to a roaring thunder.
Hydraulics hissed.
Voices rose in disbelief.
Ian suddenly realized he was standing on the platform with whatever he’d slipped from the dead man’s pocket still in his hand, exposed for all to see. Yet no one was paying him any attention—except a tall bloke, with frizzy, ash-gray hair and a matching mustache.
Then he realized.
The hands that had pushed the man off the platform might have belonged to this demon.
Their gazes locked.
Frizzy reached for what Ian held and for some reason he did not want him to have it.
He yanked his hand back and turned to flee.
Two arms instantly wrapped around him from behind. He slammed the sole of his foot onto toes, his heel crushing into thin leather.
Frizzy cried out and released his grip.
Ian raced forward, shoving people aside, heading for the way out.
No one stopped him. The crowd’s attention was on the train and the man who’d fallen onto the tracks. Doors to the cars were opening and people began to stream out onto the platform.