Excerpt from Blind Spots by Thomas Mullen, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Bureaucratic nonsense," Peterson says. "Could have closed this case weeks ago if we'd had X-ray then."

"Right to privacy's a bitch," Khouri says. Unclear if she's agreeing or not.

The good news is that the powers that be within the municipal government, given the okay from a judge, are now transmitting code to Owens's vidder to unlock, temporarily, its ability to interpret even 3D radar that normal vision wouldn't be able to access.

In other words, to see through walls.

He focuses on the brick exterior of the club down the street. With his court-approved enhancement, he can now "see" through the brick wall of the old factory building. The ability is limited to a short range, but still, every time he's used it he's felt like a superhero, a god. Adrenaline spikes as he peruses the building's secrets.

"Full house, two guards inside the door," he tells them. "They're carrying." He aims his view upstairs, peels away one wall, then another. "That's our man on the second floor. Matches his heat readout."

Peterson touches his earpiece. "Your mike's good."

Owens opens the door.

"Good luck," Khouri blesses him.

Peterson translates: "Don't fuck up."

* * *

Christ Almighty, the bass. If pop music had leaned on the crutch of bass a bit too much back in the good ol' sighted days, things have gotten down to a whole new octave of heavy since The Blinding. When you lose a sense, the others crave extra stimulus. The introduction of vidders six years ago hasn't seemed to push music on a more trebly track. Owens's feet vibrate, his chest vibrates. He could have a heart attack in here and not know it until everything went black. Again.

Dance floors are mobbed, the bars three deep. Bartenders hustle yet disappoint. Despite the cold outside, the coat check girl must be busy, as some serious flesh is on display. Owens figures maybe 10 to 25 percent of the people here are on opsin, a derivation of X that's become a scourge in recent years. A drug that can make you hear colors and see music, at a time when eyes on their own don't work at all? Yes, please. Even his wife used to take it, when she thought he wouldn't notice, insisting it helped her see correctly. Like before.

Owens misses being young. Misses not knowing what's behind the curtain. The many curtains.

He hates being in crowds like this. When he was a teenager, a fire broke out at a nearby rock club, killing dozens. People had been crushed to death trying to squeeze out of the few doors they could find. Some of his friends had been there. They'd lived, but they were emotionally scarred. So even before earning his badge, he's always carried a certain amount of near-paranoia, the need to be aware of escape routes at all times.

So goddamn loud in here, he could say into his earpiece, Abort, I'm blown, they're going to kill me, help, and Peterson and Khouri might not hear a thing. So hopefully it won't come to that.

* * *

Four clubgoers (two male, two female) move from the main floor to a second, smaller dance room. No-bullshit bouncer approaches them. He looks displeased and points to the sign, "FOUR SENSES ONLY."

His mouth moves, but who can hear him? They read lips: "No vidders in this room."

The four kids wear the grins of people trying something illicit for the first time. Practically giggling as they walk to a small window and detach their vidders by rotating them until they come free. They hand them to the heavily mascaraed, Goth-dressed vidder-check girl, who tags and files them like so many jackets.

The four now-blind clubgoers get crazy on the Four Senses dance floor, ears working overtime, touch working double overtime, hands everywhere, caressing and tapping and rubbing, no one stopping, synapses afire. Damn near everyone in this room on something.

Owens takes the merest glimpse into that borderline orgy. Feels even older. Looks back at one of the bars, spots the undercover. Eye contact for less than a second.

Excerpted from Blind Spots by Thomas Mullen. Copyright © 2023 by Thomas Mullen. Excerpted by permission of Minotaur Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.