A light bulb falls in a subway tunnel, releasing a deadly pathogen.   Within hours, a homeless man, a cop, and then dozens more start to die.   Hospitals become morgues. El trains become rolling hearses.   Chicago is on the verge of chaos before the mayor finally acts, quarantining entire sections of the city. Meanwhile, private investigator and former cop Michael Kelly hunts for the people responsible. The search takes him into the tangled underworld of Chicago’s West Side gangs and cops on the take, and the terrifying world of black biology—an elite field operating covertly at the nation’s top labs, where scientists play God and will do anything necessary to keep their secrets safe. “Dark-hearted, intoxicating. . . .  Nerve-jangling scary.” — Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel “An utterly persuasive view of a present-day apocalyptic nightmare.” — Publishers Weekly (starred review) “Harvey does for the Windy City what Michael Connelly did for Los Angeles: He commandeers it, warts and all, and wrangles it into his fiction.” — Chicago Tribune   “[Harvey] weaves Chicago history and politics with the conventions of mystery writing to create meditations on power—how it’s used, who it helps, and the way it hurts. . . . Honest, smart and funny.” — Chicago Sun-Times   “[A] knockout thriller. . . . Harvey renders Kelly’s Chicago in crisp, tough and ironic prose.” — The Washington Post Book World “The suspense hums and the dialogue is truthfully tough, but it’s the writing that elevates Harvey to the top of the PI genre. He’s the best Chicago novelist . . . since Nelson Algren.” — The Plain Dealer   “Harvey is a budding superstar.” — The Daily News “Multiple threads come together but not before the final pages. Until then, Harvey twists the plot like a braided rope, ratcheting up tension with the ensuing pages.” — The Missourian “A major new voice.” —Michael Connelly Michael Harvey is the author of The Chicago Way, The Fifth Floor, and The Third Rail and is also a journalist and documentary producer. His work has won multiple Emmy Awards, and has received two Primetime Emmy nominations and an Academy Award nomination, among numerous other awards. He holds a law degree from Duke University, a master’s degree in journalism from Northwestern University, and a bachelor’s degree in classical languages from Holy Cross College. He lives, of course, in Chicago. CHAPTER 1 My eyes flicked open. The clock read 4:51 a.m., and I was wide awake. I’d been dreaming—-rich colors, shapes, and places—-but couldn’t remember all the details. It didn’t matter. I climbed out of bed and shuffled down the hallway. Rachel Swenson sat in an armchair by the front windows. The pup was asleep in her lap. “Hey,” I said. She turned, face paled in light from the street, eyes a glittering reflection of my grief and guilt. “Hey.” “That dog can sleep anywhere.” I pulled a chair close. Maggie slipped an eye open, yawned, stretched, and went back to sleep. “I should be staying at my place,” Rachel said. “I like you here.” She tickled two bandaged fingers across the top of the pup’s head and ran her eyes back toward the windows. Rachel was a sitting judge for the Northern District of Illinois. And one of the finest people I knew. She was also damaged. Because she was my girlfriend. Or, rather, had been. “I was going to make a cup of tea,” I said. “You want one?” She shook her head. I stayed where I was. And we sat together in the darkness. “You can’t sleep?” she said. “Dreams.” She nodded, and we sat some more. “What’s the knife for, Rach?” She looked down at the knife tucked into her left hand. “I got it from the kitchen.” “Why?” Her gaze drifted to a small table and the slab of cheese that sat on it. “You want a piece?” I shook my head. She held the blade up between us. “You thought I was going to hurt someone?” “Just wondering about the knife, Rach.” “I’m fine.” It had been almost a month since the attack. Most of the swelling in her face was gone—-the bruises reduced to faint traces of yellow. “What did you dream about?” she said. “I usually don’t remember.” “Usually?” “Sometimes I get premonitions. Twice before. I wake up and feel certain things have happened.” “If they’ve already happened, they’re not premonitions.” “You’re right.” “Are you going to make your tea?” “In a minute.” “Tell me about them,” she said, cutting off a small slice of cheese and nibbling at a corner. “The dreams?” “The premonitions.” “I got the first one when my brother died.” “Philip?” “I was seventeen. Woke up in the middle of the night and walked out to our living room.” “And?” “I sat in front of the phone and stared at it for ten minutes until it rang. The warden told me he’d killed himself. Hung himself in a cell with his bedsheet. But it wasn’t anything I didn’t already know.” “I’m sorry.” “Second time was a couple years back—-the night my father died.” I remembered my eyes opening, tasting the old man’s passing like