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running dry. He was almost ready to snatch the asshole by the collar and rub that smirk right off his face when the kid added. “Word is he stays at the old mall.
    Talon frowned. The kid had to be talking about the Regional National Mall where the final showdown between the Reaper and the police had taken place. The mall had closed shortly after the shooting and had stood abandoned ever since. It had been scheduled for demolition at one point, but the developers ran out of money. Just another victim of the recession.  
    “Be careful. If he doesn’t like you, he won’t let you walk out of that place.”
    Talon waited for the kid to add something more, but apparently the conversation was now officially over, the kid preoccupied with filling his lungs with carcinogens.  
    Talon shrugged and left the park, sensing this was as much as he would get today. The hostile glares of the other skaters trailed him, but no one actually followed.  
    As he climbed into his rental car and drove off, Talon kept reviewing what the skater had shared with him. This Lightwalker character apparently was a near death survivor. The weird detail sounded too crazy to just be a story the punk had made up.
    Lightwalker saw the light and now speaks to the dead. Something about the punk’s words sent a shiver down Talon’s spine.
    He drove back to his hotel and hit his computer. He Googled the mall, and a number of photographs flashed onscreen. A series of monolithic, weathered structures grew from a vast vacant parking lot. A fading JC Penney sign with two letters missing loomed forebodingly over a graffiti-besmirched exterior. This was an urban explorer’s wet dream. It would be Mecca to any freak who thought the Reaper had been some sort of hero fighting a corrupt system.
    Talon inspected the images of the dead mall more closely. The desolate shopping center had a post-apocalyptic quality. The large, empty parking lots coupled with the many signs of nature reclaiming the area—trees and vegetation bursting from the stretches of asphalt—stirred an uneasy feeling inside Talon. The place sure seemed like he perfect place for a nomadic band of killers to set up shop.  
    What might be waiting for him inside the Reaper’s old stomping grounds?
    He planned to find out.

C HAPTER S IX

    OFFICER ROBERT BENSON and his partner, Glenn Durham, were the first officers to receive the call about the shooting at the Regional National mall.  
    Benson swallowed the last bite of his tuna sandwich, drained his cup of Diet Coke, and surged toward their cruiser. Less than a minute later, their police car screamed down the road, sirens flashing. Within fifteen minutes, he was making his way through the deadly still mall, Glenn on his side, burning up with adrenaline as he tried to maintain a steady grip on his firearm.  
    The moment he spotted the first bodies, his heart sank.  
    We are too late, he thought.  
    Victim after victim, legs and arms akimbo like broken marionettes, resting in widening pools of scarlet. Their empty, accusatory eyes fixed on him, blaming him for not showing up on time and failing to protect them, to keep them safe from the madmen in the mall. The acrid smell of gunpowder wafted through the air. Benson flinched as the pitiful screams from the wounded mixed with staccato bursts of gunfire. And then, finally, the band of murderers grew visible. Hooded skater-kids, bony hands clutching guns and knives.  
    Benson lost it. There was zero hesitation as he squeezed the trigger. The punks went down, joining their victims on the floor.  
    Benson rushed past their broken forms, blocking out the sight while following the desperate cries of a woman. The dead were gone but there was still a chance to save the living. The woman’s shrill voice was laced with mortal fear.
    He rounded the corner of the concourse and came face to face with the monster at the heart of the massacre. Schiller, AKA the Reaper, stood in the center of the food court,