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

He steps slowly, left hand out, and concentrates on putting his feet down silently. He realizes he got turned around in the stairway, he rushed, so he lost track of which direction he's now facing, his place within the geometry of the building. He's in a large rectangular room but unsure if he's near the long walls or the short ones.

His foot hits something, but his left hand tells him Empty space. A half wall, then. Brick up to his knees. He navigates around it.

This is a mistake.

Keeps hoping he'll hear footsteps pounding up the stairs, the cops in force. Where are they?

He hears Slade's voice.

"Get a car at the corner of 17th and Wilson, now." Talking to someone on a phone. Far enough away that he hasn't spotted Owens.

The darkness vast, impenetrable. It allows passage through it only grudgingly, and it takes more than it gives. The only thing Owens hates more than darkness is death, and of course the two are inextricably bound in his mind. The adrenaline and the chase are probably the only reason he isn't curled up in a ball, screaming.

That will come after, if he makes it that far.

* * *

Here are the things he cannot see, but will understand later, after the others reconstruct it for him:

Slade standing at a window, looking out at the scene below. Closer than Owens would have thought, his voice reflecting off the glass in a way that confuses Owens's ears. Maybe forty feet.

Slade turning and noticing Owens. Smiling at the blind cop. Aiming his gun at Owens.

Then a door opening behind Owens and to his right.

Owens turns his head at the sound but can't tell what's happening. One of Slade's goons, gun in hand. Slade puts a finger to his lips to shush the goon. The guy mouths Cops as if Slade wasn't already well fucking aware that his place was being stormed.

Slade can shoot one cop now, at least.

Except the shot that rings out doesn't come from his gun, or his associate's. The associate staggers and falls. Peterson takes his place in the doorway, gun first.

Peterson and Slade aim at each other, and fire, and miss, and duck.

* * *

Owens taking cover on the floor now, gunfire everywhere. His world darkness and deafening explosions. Mortar dust on his face and hands.

* * *

What he doesn't see:

The guy whom Peterson shot rising like a zombie. Kevlar vest. He tackles Peterson, puts him in a headlock. Peterson's gun falls.

Slade watching them, gun aimed, mentally debating how much he likes his accomplice and whether he should just fire at both of them.

Chooses leniency, for now. But creeps closer.

Peterson drives the other guy's head into a wall. The goon falls.

So Slade sneaks behind Peterson, puts an arm around his neck, a gun at his temple.

"You're my ticket out of here, cop."

* * *

Owens stands, not liking the sound of that. He points his weapon at the general area the sounds came from.

"Drop it!" Slade shouts. "I got your buddy right here! Drop it or I shoot him!"

Owens slowly steps toward them, gun first.

His POV dark gray, washed out. The pixelations have faded and now offer him the visual equivalent of white noise. Stone blind.

"Let him go. Don't be stupid."

He bumps into what might be a chair or an ironing board or a torture device and knocks it away. Listening carefully.

"I'm being stupid? You can't see, motherfucker."

"So keep talking."

Owens thinks Slade's face might look slightly nervous now. Foot scuffs. Slade is slowly moving toward a door, taking his captive with him. Another scuff, louder. Peterson probably doing that on purpose, aural bread crumbs.

Peterson says into his mike, "We're at the southwest corner—"

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.