E.I.
JASON ANDREWS

PART ONE
WE CAN BE HEROES
JOY FLED LIKE A WHISPER ON THE WIND when the midwife slipped the warbling newborn into Ana's hands.
It was a boy.
"Take it," Ana said, offering up the pink, squirming baby as though he was rotten venison to be sent back to the kitchen.
Sorcha's elated expression dissolved into worry. Birthing a healthy child was a rare accomplishment in the village, something to be celebrated. Especially when it was a male.
"But milady, the bairn needs your milk," she protested, hesitant to take the newborn back into her arms so soon after delivering him to his mother's breast.
Ana glared at Sorcha, shifting her body on the thatch mat to push her child toward Sorcha's seven year-old daughter who knelt at the half-barrel wash basin rinsing afterbirth from her little hands.
"Take it, Ciar," Ana urged. "Pannie just delivered several kids. Let her feed this one as well."
Ciar looked to her mother with uncertainty before accepting the baby and wrapping it in fresh linens. Her eyes were downcast as she made her way to the goat pens.
Sorcha named him Alroy for the reddish curls that sprang to life across his scalp during his first few years. She claimed him as her own after the sickness took Ciar. Alroy learned to assist Sorcha in midwifery as Ciar had, much to the pleasure of the cruel village boys who taunted him when they weren't busy learning to hunt and herd livestock under the tutelage of the adult males.
Ana stayed close, keeping one eye on her daily tasks and the other on the boy. She didn't have to leave him yet, but the time was fast approaching. It always snuck up on her. Five years in the village had passed like a single cycle of the sun. It was getting harder to move on now. Where Ana had once been welcomed into nomadic groups following the herds and the changing weather patterns, she now found that people in ever-growing permanent settlements tended to be suspicious of newcomers.
Ana plunged the home-spun shawl into the creek and scrubbed it with a horsehair brush, then wrung the water from the garment and repeated the process. Alroy tumbled about with the hound's new pups at the top of a nearby grassy embankment, mimicking their yips and growls and gnashing his teeth. The boy's father wouldn't have approved of such games, arguing that Alroy should have been busy with archery or tracking lessons, but Alroy's father no longer had a say in the matter. Cailleach's Kiss had taken him as swiftly as it had taken Ciar. Ana thought it ironic that Alroy now frolicked with the same type of animals that guarded the gates to the underworld, where his own father now spent eternity.
A strange sound issued from the pack of pups, a high-pitched whine that resolved into a throaty growl. Ana stood, dropping the clean shawl into the mud and hiking her skirts to mount the embankment with all haste. She crested the rise to find that the energetic puppies had ceased their play.
It had happened again.
Alroy knelt on all fours, too young to understand that the animals had become confused and frightened. The bridge of his nose had elongated and straightened into a whiskered snout tipped with a wet, black nose. His ears had lengthened to furry, red points, and his emerald eyes had taken on the shape of almonds. Sharp, white canines peeked from beneath dark lips in a taunting snarl as he dared the pups to engage him again. They had other ideas, and retreated from him with wagging tails now still and tucked safely away between their hind legs.
*Stop that! I shan't tell you again!*
Alroy's eyes widened when he found his mother trudging toward him. A whimper of protest escaped his mouth, an utterance that lived somewhere between human and beast.
*Mind me, boy!*
Muscles slithered beneath his pale skin. Bones shifted and reorganized as his features morphed into their natural state. His expression was that of defeat as he looked down at his filthy, bare feet.
"I'm sorry, Ana."
Ana spun around to make sure no one had seen his transformation. The meadow was clear. She knelt and took his hand in hers.
"Be mindful, lad. My warnings grow tiresome even in mine own ears. If the druids learn of this we'll both be flayed alive and cursed to—"
Something dark at the collar of his muslin tunic caught her eye. She pulled the garment lower for a closer look. An angry, purple weal was revealed, split down the middle by an oozing, blood-red crack. The mark resembled the imprint of lips. A kiss. Ana stood and backed away.
"Go to Sorcha, boy. Now. As fast as your stunted legs will take you. Not as a dog or a deer or a billy goat. Remain Alroy and run to her. Go!"
Ana watched him through a watery film as he disappeared over the ridge. She left the village that night, when the moon was at it's zenith.
Cailleach claimed her son before the week was out.
Chapter One
STELLA COULDN'T FEEL HER ARMS. They were limp and useless, vestigial appendages from an earlier period in human evolution. Elongated, multi-jointed tailbones that had grown from her shoulder sockets. They would succumb to millions of needle pricks when she was finally able to adjust the position of her cramped body and let the blood flow resume. Until then, she resigned herself to concentrating on the wad of sour, gritty fabric that had been shoved into her mouth and attempted to summon enough moisture to swallow.
The whimpers of young women were dampened by the churning combustion of a heavy engine and the continual, even hum of tires on the road beneath them. The hum would change pitch every so often as the engine downshifted to accommodate an unseen bend in the road. That was when the tight press of bodies would shift in the darkness, smothering whomever was unlucky enough to be positioned against the unyielding walls. Like Stella, their extremities had also gone dormant from disuse, leaving the human cargo with no means to brace itself.
Stella hadn't seen the women since clawing her way out of the drug-fueled haze, and the introduction to her new traveling companions had consisted of a single snapshot of their misery before she joined them. Her narrow, murky perception had revealed dozens of filthy, half-naked girls bound hand and foot, staring at her with pity as she was tossed inside the trailer with casual viciousness. The doors had closed with frightening finality followed by the sputtering coughs of an engine igniting—a semi truck, from the sound of it. Tiny cracks at the unions of the floor and walls permitted just enough light to present ghostly images of the women, and Stella wasn't sure if the details she had gleaned were real or just figments of her imagination. Did the girl whose bony skull nudged uncomfortably against Stella's hip have light or dark hair?
Their features didn't matter. She knew they were every bit as miserable as she was. The stench of unwashed bodies permeated the stifling air that clutched at them with hot, dense fingers. Swirling among that stench was the palpable scent of fear, and worse, despair. Never in a million years could Stella have imagined that she would end up here, tied and gagged in a semi trailer, one among a throng of young women bound for an uncertain future. She couldn't fathom it.
Until it happened to her.
To call the roadside tavern a dive would have been too generous. It was without a doubt a biker bar, but biker bars got a bad rap, especially in movies and television shows where they were depicted as dingy, rough-and-tumble haunts where violence was commonplace. To loyal patrons of such establishments, biker bars were simply places where no one would bother you if you didn't bother them. Places where two-wheeled nomads could wash the road dust from their throats with cheap beer before moving on. The Clutch deserved the bad rap, however. It was a "wretched hive of scum and villainy," as one of Stella's old friends might have put it.
The looks that greeted Stella when she darkened the door of The Clutch stopped her cold. She expected to hear a needle scratching across vinyl, halting the rendition of Johnny Cash's A Boy Named Sue that bounced from walls covered with rusty, vintage motorcycle parts and neon beer signs. But the country classic radiated from a jukebox packed with digitally-encoded audio files instead of analog discs, and Sue continued the tale of his unfortunate moniker.
"You lost, chica?"
The bartender's rolling Spanish accent rose above Cash's melody to capture Stella's attention. She forced her legs to move, careful to keep her heels from catching in the worn floorboards that had separated through time and neglect. The strings of lights, which hung in a lattice work of tiny, plastic beer cans overhead, did little to illuminate the tavern and served to impede her progress further. The scent of stale, dried beer rose from the floor with the sound of her footsteps, mingling with cigarette smoke and old motor oil to create a unique bouquet of testosterone by the time it reached her nostrils.
"No, not lost. I'm just waiting for triple A. They said it would be a couple of hours for..."
She got a closer look at the bartender, now noticing the glass orb that bulged from his right eye socket. A crimson head was painted where the pupil and iris should have been, replete with pointed horns and a severe smile that completed the devilish totem. His good eye wasn't focused on her face. Stella followed it down to her canary yellow sundress and unconsciously pulled at the hem as she broke the uncomfortable silence.
"I was headed to Laredo when my engine stared smoking. I think it's the radiator. Do you know anything about radiators?"
He didn't answer. His eye had moved from her curves to something behind her. Stella slipped onto a black-and-white, checkered bar stool and swiveled around to follow his gaze. A bald man with a long, forked goatee was pulling a phone from his pocket as he exited the tavern. The same devil's head symbol was plastered across the back of his black vest, surrounded by the words LOS BRUJOS above, and the words DUVAL COUNTY below. Her eyes traveled to the table where he had been sitting and found his mug half full. She returned her attention to the bar when she sensed the bartender waiting expectantly.
"What're you drinkin'?"
"Do you have a pinot?" she said. "Or maybe a nice shiraz?"
His functional eye pivoted to a pair of pull handles, their logos indicating that her choices were Lone Star or Pabst Blue Ribbon. The demonic eye remained fixed on her.
"Beer makes me pee," she said with a wrinkle of her freckled nose. "I'll just sip on a whiskey. Neat. Whatever you have."
What she received was akin to Wild Turkey, but much harsher and twice as expensive. Stella took her time with it, trying not to meet Devil Eye's startling stare. It continued to ogle her while he poured watery beer for the patrons that had started to stream in with the setting sun like vampires awakening to quench their thirst after a day-long hibernation.
She nodded when Devil Eye's dirty finger extended towards her almost-empty snifter, and spun on the stool to survey the tavern's increased occupancy. More members of the Los Brujos gang now drank, smoked and laughed with each other, including the bearded man who had left to make a call. Fork Beard caught her looking and raised his mug to her, a gesture which was mimicked by the trio of men at his table. Stella turned back to the bar, careful not to give them any indications of receptive interest, and pulled the refueled whiskey glass closer. Her elbow brushed against someone as she did so, and she found a man standing too close for comfort at the otherwise sparsely-occupied bar. She put some distance between them by slipping into the empty bar stool next to her.
"I don't bite, Sweetie," he said.
Greasy black hair pulled into a loose ponytail framed a craggy face with sunken eyes that twinkled in amusement from their recessed sockets. His vest was faded black denim, frayed at the shoulders and smudged with oil and ash. He snatched up the shot glass as soon as Devil Eye set it before him and emptied the contents in a single gulp, then nodded at the bartender and turned away. Stella didn't miss the leering smile he left as a parting gift before exiting the bar. She sipped at her sour whiskey and brushed a lock of chestnut hair over her shoulder, trying her best to sink into the barstool.
She wondered if these men had families, perhaps wives at home wondering where their spouses went every night. Or maybe their wives had their own gang, Las Brujas, and were raising hell in a bar across the county as their men congregated in The Clutch. Her Spanish was very poor, but the word Bruja sounded familiar. Maybe she'd heard it in a movie or read it in a book.
Stella forced down another swallow and checked her phone. It was after nine. Shouldn't be too much longer. She caught Devil Eye as he passed.
"Restroom?"
He nodded across the tavern to a tight hallway tucked into the corner of the establishment. The azure glow of a Miller Lite sign that had been mounted over it did little to ward away the shadows that filled the corridor.
"Another?" he said as Stella stood and straightened her dress.
"Hmm, probably not. I'll decide when I come back."
The journey from the bar to the restroom didn't quite go as planned. Stella thought she had broken a heel in the floor cracks, but a quick inspection found her shoes intact. Perhaps there was a pitch in the floor, the product of shoddy construction. Her balance worsened with each step, forcing her to steady herself by clutching at the backs of chairs or the corners of tables. A melodramatic ballad issued from the jukebox. The Spanish lyrics stretched and contracted in her ears, as though someone were changing the playback speeds on an old record player. What was happening? She'd only had two whiskeys.
"...Miii cooooraaaazón pertenece a oooootroooo..."
Stella's sense of equilibrium had all but abandoned her by the time she reached the hallway. She became fixated on reaching the restroom where she hoped a splash of cold water would rinse away the vertigo. The corridor stretched away from her like a sinister, sentient accordion as she searched for the restroom door. Was that a door at the end of the hallway? The dim light from the neon sign behind her refused to confirm this. She pressed her weight against the wall, hands spread flat against the faux wood grain paneling as she lurched forward. The corridor expanded and snapped back like a slingshot, delivering a payload of nausea directly into her befuddled head. She fell against the opposite wall before sliding to the floor and expelling the whiskey from her stomach in a series of violent spasms. A shifting veil of darkness dropped over her eyes, but was shattered when a blinding light burned into her retinas. Shadows danced against the light, growing larger as they approached. She smelled nicotine and tar, booze and axle grease. Vomit and whiskey. Strong hands gripped her hair, her upper arms, lifting her.
She became weightless and floated away.
Voices swelled from weak murmurs to feverish, plaintive cries, snatching Stella from her reverie. The truck was slowing now, agitating the young women by making turns that caused bodies to roll and shift with more frequency. A bare foot pressed against Stella's nose. A sharp elbow dug into her ribs.
She wondered if the leering Devil Eye had spiked her whiskey, or if it had been Jean Jacket, the personal space invader with the greasy pony tail. Perhaps one of them was behind the wheel even now, transporting his precious cargo into the Mexican desert to be sold like cattle at auction. No, like slaves at auction.
An eerie silence fell over the trailer when the truck came to a stop. The young women—Stella included—held their breath and strained their ears, hoping against all odds that their abductors had been found out. But there were no screaming sirens, no authoritative orders for compliance in the name of the law. There were only heavy, booted footsteps on crunching gravel, followed by the clanking of chains outside of the double doors that formed the rear wall of their prison. Stella closed her eyes and waited.
Groans of pain erupted around her as sunlight burst into the hold. The blackness behind Stella's eyelids turned a blood red. The whimpers resumed, quickly turning into heated, muffled protests as the women were dragged from the trailer one by one.
"Let's go, Stella."
Her eyes opened at the sound of her name, and were stung by the penetrating brightness. A figure loomed over her, an indistinct blur until her eyes adjusted enough to recognize Jean Jacket. His familiar grin revealed yellowed, crooked teeth as he hooked his forearm into her armpit and dragged her bodily toward the yawning rear doors.
"That's right, Stella," he cackled. "I know who you are. I got your ID."
He pitched her through the open doors the like a bale of hay before jumping down beside her. She landed hard, her shoulder smashing against one of the multitude of rocks decorating the desolate desert landscape that stretched away in every direction. Jean Jacket squatted and filled his hand with her breast. His yellowed smile widened as she shrank away from his touch.
"Too bad there are rules, you little piece of ass," he said, shaking his head in genuine remorse. "But maybe they'll make an exception since you're bonus inventory. I'll peel you out of that banana skin. See what's beneath. I won't tell if you won't."
His tongue slipped from between his ruined teeth with an obscene flicker before he rose to shout orders at the other Brujos who were busy arranging the young women on their knees in a neat row along the dirt road. Stella was marched before her unfortunate travel companions and placed at the head of the line, providing her with a clear look at them. They were in their early-to-mid twenties like Stella, and most appeared to have ethnic backgrounds from the border region and points beyond. Several were clad in sleepwear, as though they had been snatched from their beds in the middle of the night, and more than a few of them were dressed provocatively, leading Stella to wonder if they were dancers or perhaps prostitutes. Three of the young women from the latter category bore needle tracks that followed the veins of their arms, while two from the former group had sullied their nightclothes. Turning her novice detective work upon herself, Stella found her sundress smudged and stained with sweat but intact. Her shoes were gone however, leaving her feet dirty and bare like the others.
A quick count revealed six Brujos. Four of them emerged from a rusted van the dun color of primer to join Jean Jacket and Fork Beard—the man who had stepped outside to make the phone call that had alerted these lecherous abductors to the petite, brown-haired asset in the yellow dress. Jean Jacket pulled a stack of plastic cards from his faded vest pocket and moved to the end of the line. Beyond him, Stella spied a distant plume of dust rising into the spacious blue sky. It grew larger with each passing second.
"Angelita Perez," Jean Jacket said, sliding a card from the stack with a swipe of his thumb and holding it next to the girl's tear-streaked face. He nodded and held up a new card as he moved to the next young woman. "Martina Cordoba."
Stella watched him move down the line, comparing each woman's face to her stolen identification card. They had been targeted. Jean Jacket was just taking inventory, making sure his order was complete with the same detachment as a farmer counting his livestock. She leaned forward and craned her neck to look past him. The billowing dust cloud was very close now, and from it emerged a large box truck, white and unmarked. She assumed this was the buyer coming to inspect the wares. Her muscles tensed, but she drew herself up straight and exhaled, forcing herself to calm down.
"Serena De Herrera," continued their pony-tailed abductor.
He reached the other end of the line where Stella knelt in her bonds.
"And finally, poor Stella Kowalski. I guess you picked the wrong bar, honey."
She lowered her eyes to study the array of pebbles strewn about the desert roadside. She could hear the rumbling of the box truck, feel the vibrations of its approach through her shins. It was almost here.
It was almost time.
Jean Jacket shoved the stack of cards back into his vest pocket while signaling to the box truck with an upraised hand, then pointed to the area next to the semi trailer. He nodded to Fork Beard as the truck applied brakes that screamed for maintenance. Fork Beard walked to the back of the truck as Jean Jacket greeted the driver with a forearm clasp and an avaricious smile.
Stella didn't recognize the newcomer. He hadn't been at the Clutch. The man had scraggly, salt and pepper hair that fell over his face when he bowed his head to light a brown, hand-rolled cigarette with a Zippo of tarnished brass. He handed something to Jean Jacket, who in turn tossed the object to Fork Beard who watched from the rear of the newly-arrived box truck. Stella heard the jingle of keys as the object landed in Fork Beard's palm. He put one of the keys to work opening the padlock, then removed the chains from the vertical sliding door's locking mechanism.
Stella turned her attention to the four Brujos that congregated near the van, cracking open cans of beer and laughing at a joke she hadn't heard but imagined was both crude and misogynistic. She found it odd that they didn't seem to care about monitoring the business transaction. Shouldn't they be watching out for their business partners? Wasn't that their purpose here? To provide security? Maybe that only happened in the movies. Stella's musings were interrupted when the rear door of the box truck slid open with a grating wail. Shrill cries issued from within. Human cries.
The script flipped on Stella. This wasn't the buyer. This was another delivery.
The four Brujos joined the others at the back of the truck, finally making themselves useful. Stella hoped with every fiber of her being that what emerged from within wouldn't be what she thought it was, but the high pitch of the cries had set her nape hairs standing on end. She had to blink several times to be sure that her eyes weren't deceiving her as more human cargo was yanked from the truck and forced to kneel along the roadside as she had been.
Stella thought she knew anger. They had become old friends as a result of the evils that had already been perpetrated against her in her short life. She knew what consuming, murderous rage felt like, and yet, as the helpless prisoners were lifted from the hold and huddled together in horrified shock, Stella became intimately familiar with a new friend—a close relative of anger—that burned with more ferocity than she thought possible. It flared up her spine to scorch her brain, distorting her surroundings through a film of bleeding fury.
The tallest one couldn't have been older than nine, and the youngest perhaps five. The children knelt with eyes squinted against the desert sun, a dozen boys and girls purloined from their loved ones and smuggled across the border to begin a life of servitude. Stella didn't, couldn't, notice her muscles standing out in tight cords where her skin was exposed, ready to snap. She was too busy forcing down the bile that had risen in her throat as her rational mind tried to placate her. She was here for a reason.
Jean Jacket performed a head count on the new arrivals, then pulled a phone from his back pocket and tapped it with his thumb several times before bringing it to his ear. Zippo followed Fork Beard's pointing finger to Stella. The bald man's body language was submissive to Zippo, as though he were asking for a raise from a superior. Fork Beard said something and they chuckled. He seemed pleased. She detected the exchange in her peripheral vision but let it go. Her eyes were locked onto the children.
Stella's breathing quickened. A thought tried to form, tried to tell her to remain calm, but it crystallized and shattered, turned to dust and blew away from her consciousness. Another thought took its place—no, an emotion. It was her new friend, burning bright and dangerous, and expanding with each breath she took.
One of the younger children wore foot pajamas plastered with the likenesses of Elsa and Anna from the Disney movie Frozen. Stella remembered when she was that age. Her feet jammies had depicted Jasmine soaring over Agrabah on the magic carpet. She and her brother had put on non-stop productions of A Whole New World for weeks after seeing Aladdin for the first time, giving their father no recourse but to take them for a second viewing in the hopes of curing them of their newfound obsession. Her brother had been a much better singer than she could ever hope to be. She missed him terribly.
Stella embraced the fury.
The zip ties around her wrists and ankles parted of their own accord, snapping as though they had lost all interest in binding her. The gag followed suit, joining the zip ties on the dry, cracked earth. She rose to her feet in a smooth, deliberate motion, her face devoid of expression. Her gaze cycled through the Brujos with cold detachment.
Zippo was the first to spot her escape. His leering eyes had returned to her many times since Fork Beard had made her existence known to him.
"We got a loose one!" he said, drawing the attention of Fork Beard and the foursome whom had arrived in the van.
Jean Jacket was unaware of the commotion, having moved to the front of the box truck to make his phone call.
"Goddamnit!" Fork Beard said, motioning to his Brujos brethren. "How did she get free? Get her back in line, you lazy fucks!"
One of the four bikers, a willowy man wearing a red bandana above reflective sunglasses that were too wide for his narrow face, intercepted Stella as she moved toward the frightened children. He opened his mouth to relay Fork Beard's orders, but his intended, expletive-filled directive transformed into a porcine squeal. His eyes rolled back into his head as his hands went to his denim-covered crotch. Knobby knees wobbled and gave out as he collapsed, clutching at his manhood, his face a pale sheet of pain. Stella stepped over him as he passed out.
Zippo watched with amusement, lighting another cigarette as Bandana's companions exchanged concerned glances and rushed Stella. The trio descended upon her as one, all three of them amazed at the woman's audacity while at the same time wondering how she had conjured that awful sound from their friend's mouth. They cried out in confusion as their mad dash to apprehend the young woman became an uncontrolled, headlong flight. Their boots left the ground as though they had been intercepted by an impossible tornado that ripped them from the earth. The trio flew into the semi-trailer and crashed into the front wall. Meaty thuds resounded from the within, accompanied by the sounds of snapping of bones that gave way to groans of agony.
The fresh cigarette fell from Zippo's bottom lip. A wisp of smoke followed it to the dirt as he snatched the keys from a stunned Fork Beard and darted for the cab of the box truck. Fork Beard hesitated as his fight-or-flight response took over, then reached behind his waist and produced a handgun.
"Crazy bitch!"
He squeezed off a round as the box truck's engine roared to life and its transmission slammed into gear. The bullet slowed as it reached Stella, its trajectory true yet hindered by something unseen that soaked up its inertia. It hovered mere inches from her left eye, a leaden hummingbird deciding which flower to visit. That flower turned out to be a very surprised Fork Beard. The bullet reversed its course, firing from a silent, invisible gun. It found its home in his right kneecap, shattering the patella and embedding itself deep in the cartilage beneath. The sound that issued from his lips had both women and children recoiling in horror. His falling form revealed the box truck tearing away from the scene, escaping in a roiling cloud of dust. Jean Jacket, whose important phone call had no doubt been interrupted by the commotion, was nowhere to be found.
Stella reached the group of children and crouched in front of the little girl in the Frozen foot pajamas.
"Hi there!" she said, suppressing her rage and painting a smile across her lips. "What's your name?"
The girl's big mocha eyes dropped to her little hands which were busy pulling at the fabric of her pajamas.
"Jayla," she said finally.
"Pleased to meet you, Jayla. I have to leave for just a minute, but I'll be right back. Can you do me a huge favor? Can you watch over your friends here until I come back?"
Jayla's mouth pursed, one corner curling up in indecision.
"I'm thirsty," she said.
Stella stole a quick glance at the retreating box truck, then nodded to Jayla.
"Yeah, I know. Me too. But if you can be a brave girl for me, I'll make sure you get the biggest, coldest glass of ice water you've ever had. Okay?"
"Can I have a juice box instead?"
Stella nodded again. The box truck grew smaller in her peripheral vision.
"Anything you want, I promise. So do we have a deal?"
Jayla nodded emphatically. Stella returned the nod, then stood up to address the group of children.
"Okay, little people, Jayla here is now your captain. Everyone stay seated and listen to her. Jayla, I want you to make sure everyone here knows their home phone number by the time I get back. You can tell Jayla your phone numbers, right?"
Most of the children nodded, their eyes locked onto Stella. Again she tracked the progress of the box truck, and spotted a trail of dust near the horizon. It was far enough away now. The children wouldn't hear the screams.
"Cool," she said. "Don't be scared, okay? You have nothing to be afraid of anymore."
Stella looked at the line of women, none of whom had moved from their kneeling positions on the roadside. They watched her in return, their expressions ranging from fear to relief. She held up an index finger in their direction, then she was simply gone, a scattering of pebbles the only evidence she had ever been there.
The wheels of the box truck left the axles in a unified explosion, lug nuts firing on all sides like shrapnel from a grenade. The truck dropped to its rusted underbelly, its momentum sending it skipping across the terrain for a moment before the front end caught on a depression in the road. It careened end over end and came to a rest on its left side, a crumpled husk of its former self. The bumper, which had taken flight upon impact, descended to the desert thirty yards away and swayed back and forth like a childless cradle before finally coming to a rest.
Stella knelt atop the passenger door and peered through the window—which had somehow remained intact—at the stunned Jean Jacket who had fled the scene with the panicked Zippo.
"Click it or ticket!" she said, looking past Jean Jacket to confirm that neither he nor Zippo had been seriously injured.
They hadn't. She would remedy that.
Jean Jacket found the bravery—or stupidity—to roll down the window. "Stella, wait! I—"
"You touched me. Now I get to touch you back. I won't tell if you won't."
She stood and extended a widespread hand over the window. Jean Jacket's face planted itself against her palm, his nose flattening with a sickening crunch as it made contact. His body lifted from the cab and followed her as she leapt to the ground, his face still adhered to her hand like a palmed basketball.
"Aaugh!" he protested in nasal agony. "Stella! Stella, no! Wait!"
His right hand, which he had raised in a desperate plea for mercy, bent backward to the breaking point. Then went beyond. The crunching of tiny bones was complemented by a howl that came from the tips of his snakeskin boots. It would never heal quite right. Jean Jacket would find it quite difficult to fondle other women with that hand.
She made her way back to the women and children, towing her whimpering, jean-jacketed prize behind her. The box truck shifted in the rocky landscape and lurched into motion, sliding through the desert as it followed them like a hulking, lost puppy made of scrap metal. Jean Jacket gripped at her wrist with his good hand in an attempt to alleviate the pressure on his ruined nose, but it was no use. He could only protest in vain through a plugged, stifled voice.
"Stella! Stop!"
"My name's not Stella, genius."
She pitched him into the dirt once they reached the former rendezvous, then turned to guide the ruined box truck into its final resting place next to the semi. Jean Jacket, Zippo, and Fork Beard joined the rest of the Brujos in the semi trailer before the double doors slammed home, imprisoning them where their former cargo had been.
Jayla rushed to her, excited to give her report.
"Kevin and Jaime won't tell me their phone numbers. They won't say anything. They keep shivering like they're cold, but it's hot. Kevin had an accident."
Jayla's rescuer slid a comforting hand around the girl's shoulder.
"They'll be okay. You all will."
She turned her attention to the women and freed them with a flick of her wrist. They hesitated, still on their knees, until the young woman in the yellow sundress motioned for them to join her and the children in the shade of the semi trailer. They accepted the invitation with cautious enthusiasm, some of them taking the youngest of the children into their arms and cooing to them with soft, comforting words. One of the older boys broke off from the group.
"You're her, aren't you?" he asked, scrunching up the right side of his face and scratching at his neck.
She looked down and kicked a pebble away with a bare toe.
"Who?"
"Her," the boy replied.
The freed women picked up on this, and moved to surround her. Their hands reached out to touch her hair, her shoulders, her arms. One of them began a mantra, three words repeated in reverent tones. The others joined in.
"La Estrella Cinética... La Estrella Cinética... La Estrella Cinética..."
She knew the English translation. It was continually plastered over a dozen news channels, always trending on social media.
The children joined in as well, worming their way closer to share in the praise. Jayla took her hand and joined the chant, looking up at her with adoration.
Samantha had never felt so uncomfortable.
Chapter Two
THE OFFICER REMOVED THE HANDCUFFS and pointed to a folding chair situated behind a metal table in the center of the small room.
"Sit."
Roger eased himself down and rubbed his chafed, reddened wrists, taking note of the Park Police officer's bushy mustache that clung beneath his pug nose like a salt-and-pepper inchworm.
"Harkins from New Orleans," said the officer, consulting Roger's driver's license. "As in the Harkins from New Orleans? The famous artist?"
Roger toyed with the idea of wrapping the metal table around the man's head and squeezing until the rest of his inane questions burst forth like fetid pulp from a rotten orange, but he thought better of it. Roger nodded instead, his gaze drifting to a blank wall. The officer turned to leave.
"Hnh. I'll be damned. The old lady loves your stuff."
"Lawyer," said Roger just before the door closed.
He figured they would try to charge him with something like failure to obey or endangering an officer of the law, but neither of those would stick. All he had to do was make sure the right amount of money found its way into the right hands. Easy. They'd find Ian's business card in his wallet, and he would take care of everything. His attorney friend had seen him through legal scrapes before; public intoxication, sexual harassment, misdemeanor assault, and on and on.... Ian might suggest that Roger issue a profound, public apology to the National Park Service, accompanied by a humble plea that he had simply been awestruck by the appearance of the terrifying creature. Paralyzed, unable to obey orders to move out of harm's way. Roger knew he would never do that. His ego wouldn't allow it. He'd let Ian handle it. That was his job, and Roger paid him well for it. Roger had other things on his mind anyway.
He flattened his hands against the cool surface of the table, absorbing the pleasant sensation into skin. He felt the iron in it, along with trace amounts of nickel and tin, but it was made primarily of steel. The iron had been carbonized and infused with other elements. They interfered with his connection to it like an old, black-and-white television that refused to resolve the broadcast signals into a clear image and instead displayed snow squalls interspersed with repeated flashes of utter nonsense. His connection with steel was detached, dissonant. He had never found success sculpting in that medium. His fingers came together and spread again as his body heat seeped into the table, creating warm spots where he'd had the longest contact.
Her hands had been warm as well.
He leaned back and raked at his hair in frustration. It had all gone so wrong so quickly. The plan had been simple: save the innocent bystanders from the Incredible Rocky Beastie-Thing and make the front page of every newspaper in the world. He should have been hailed as a hero, eclipsing the beloved bitch whom the media outlets were now calling their telekinetic star, or simply Kinetic Star in the character-limiting parlance of social media.
"And I would have gotten away with it, too, if it hadn't been for you meddling kids," he murmured to no one in particular.
A chuckle escaped his lips. Had he become a Scooby-Doo villain?
No, he wasn't the villain in this story. All he wanted was a little media attention. A little boost to his stardom. Was that too much to ask? He deserved the spotlight, not her. After all, he was more powerful than her. Or so he had thought. That conviction had wavered upon meeting her. Roger had learned a new and valuable lesson about his powers when she spirited his construct away. There was a range limit. He'd never had reason to test the theory before. Hell, it had never actually been a theory. Nor a hypothesis, nor anything resembling the slightest notion that if he couldn't see his creations he couldn't bend them to his will. The non-existent theory had become a painful truth that couldn't be forgotten.
Roger leaned forward and inspected his palms before returning them to the steel table. This Kinetic Star—the mere thought of her sensational, media-inflated title summoned bile in the back of his throat—had come from nowhere, snatching him up as though he were a child chasing his ball into the street, unaware of the teenage girl texting and putting on her makeup in the oncoming SUV. Everything had been ruined in one fell swoop. A literal swoop, at that. It was that instant, that moment when their skin had touched and they had been transported into the absence of everything, her expression of surprise a mirror to his own; it was that instant that chilled him to the core. He remembered looking into those young, emerald eyes and seeing something swirling there, something he couldn't put his finger on. It was a familiar something, and that is what had set him back on his heels. Then the strange moment had melted away and Roger had come to his senses. He had recovered faster than her. She hadn't heard his animated weapon coming up behind her.
His fingertips drummed a delightful cadence on the table at the memory of his golem knocking her senseless.
"You enjoying yourself in here?"
Roger hadn't heard the door open. The mustachioed Park Police officer stood watching him. Roger's smile faded.
"A guy from your lawyer's office is here," said the officer as he stepped aside to admit a tall, fit man in a black suit.
The newcomer extended his right hand to Roger, a manila business card trapped between his index and middle fingers. Roger accepted it while the suited man waved his escort away.
"We're good here. Thanks."
The officer closed the door. The man turned back to Roger.
"I'm a partner of Ian's. He asked me to consult with you until he can get a flight."
"Ian doesn't work with partn—"
A quick head nod to the card in Roger's hand silenced him. He inspected the rectangular piece of cardstock. It was blank except for two words scrawled in blue ink.
Play along.
"Phillip Westling," said the man as he offered his hand. "Phil is fine."
He waited for Roger to shake before continuing. Roger was hesitant, but complied with a firm grip.
"I've got good news and bad news, Mr. Harkins. The bad news is that they've got you on criminal disobedience. Willfully disregarding a federal officer's direct order to vacate the National Mall during an emergency."
Roger blinked.
"What does that mean?" Phil said. "Glad you asked. It means you endangered federal officers through non-compliance with a lawful order, endangered civilians through negligence. Basically, you acted like a complete dumbass on federal premises. Okay, I made that last one up, but you're still looking at a hefty fine and possible jail time."
Roger flicked the card at the man who claimed he was Ian's partner. It flattened against Phil's pressed, white shirt and fell to the table.
"And the good news?"
The corner of Phil's mouth curled upward.
"I've arranged for all charges to be dropped."
Roger stared ahead, silent and stone faced. Did this man really expect him to be intimidated by a fine and incarceration? Roger was filthy rich. No prison could hold him. Did this "Phil" expect him to be grateful? Roger didn't need to be saved. Not by him, not by her, not by anyone. Roger decided to ask the only question that really mattered.
"What do you want?"
"I said you're free to go."
Phil's eyes flicked to the corner-mounted surveillance camera as he retrieved the business card and slipped it inside his starched shirt pocket.
"They have some paperwork for you, then I'll give you a ride back to your hotel so you can get cleaned up. After that, I'm buying you a drink. Ian's orders. You must be shaken up."
Roger felt the slimy remnants of nervous sweat in his armpits, under his pectorals, in his underwear. To describe the day as stressful would have been woefully inadequate, and a hot shower in his expensive hotel suite sounded glorious. He acquiesced and rose from the folding chair.
The black sport utility vehicle parked in front of the U.S. Park Police Central District Station was straight out of a political thriller novel, as evidenced by the opaque tint over the windows and the imposing man in the dark suit and darker shades who opened the rear door for them as they descended the steps. Roger hesitated when Phil motioned him inside, the clear plastic bag containing his belongings crinkling in his anxious grasp.
"Who are you?" said Roger.
Phil turned his head to smile at a pair of Park Police officers exiting the station behind them. His casual demeanor gave way to impatience as he regarded Roger.
"I'll explain everything," he said. "Get in."
Roger considered several different ways to end the charade. The sandstone blocks of the retaining wall holding back the manicured landscaping that spanned the length of the station property. The wrought iron fence across the street. The black SUV. It would be so easy.
"Come on," Phil said, studying Roger's uncertainty. "I have something you'll want to hear. I promise."
Roger couldn't help but notice that the tip of Phil's left pinky finger was missing as the mysterious man reached for the car door to open it wider, and that somehow made it easier for Roger to make his decision. Thinking back on it later, he still had no idea why that had convinced him to duck into the SUV. Maybe it showed vulnerability in the man's self-assured demeanor. A crack in his armor.
Roger slid across the grey leather seats to make room for Phil. The driver closed the door behind them and slipped behind the steering wheel. The vehicle sank under his weight. Roger could feel measuring eyes on him as the driver adjusted the rear-view mirror, the dark sunglasses doing little to mask his surveillance. The idle hum of the engine quieted as the SUV shifted into gear and pulled into traffic, their chauffer embarking on a course with no direction from Phil. Roger repositioned himself in the seat, still unnerved at the premeditated nature of the situation.
"If you're going to try to kill me, now's the time," Roger said. "Notice that I said 'try'."
Phil's chuckle was barely audible over the whistling friction of the tires against the pavement. He reached into the map pocket of the seat in front of him. Roger stiffened. Phil withdrew a metal flask, its brushed surface engraved with the logo of a cartoonish tap handle above the words Tapio's Tavern in flowing script. Roger had never heard of it. Phil unscrewed the cap and offered the flask to his guest. Roger shook his head. Phil raised it to his lips with a shrug.
"Now we both know that's not what this is about," said Phil after a swallow. "Why spring you if I was just going to kill you? I could have pulled some strings to ensure that they put you away, then hired any of your cellmates to...."
Phil pulled a finger across his throat. Roger smelled scotch.
"No, this is about you not ruining things by running your mouth when the detectives decide to get into that head of yours."
Phil tapped the flask against his temple before taking another drink. He offered the flask to Roger one last time before replacing the cap and slipping the vessel into his suit pocket.
"Have you been to the Martin Luther King memorial yet?"
The question caught Roger off guard. He shook his head.
"It's impressive," Phil said. "Beautifully carved from solid granite. A sight to behold. You like granite, right? I mean, I know that you tend to sculpt from metal and glass, but granite is in your wheelhouse too, no?"
Roger's eyes narrowed as he answered.
"If you want to commission a piece, we have a website."
Phil shook his head.
"No, although I'm sure your prices are reasonable."
Phil straightened his suit jacket and picked at the corner of his eye with the nub of his left pinky.
"But I got off topic," he said. "As a white guy growing up in the South you probably didn't follow Dr. King's career much, but he was a wise man. He said, 'Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man's character, give him power.' Wise, right?"
"Sure," said Roger, turning his head to watch the tinted city roll by outside. "Whatever you say."
"So, taking those words of wisdom into account, let's consider for a moment your decision to come to D.C. and use your power to terrorize people at the Washington Monument. What does that say about your character, Roger?"
Roger's stomach tightened. His breathing quickened as his nervous system sparked into an immediate, unexpected panic response. He was vaguely aware that the driver had exited the George Washington Parkway and was pulling into a tree-lined parking lot which overlooked a nature area. Roger tried to keep his face impassive as he met Phil's eyes. He clenched his fists to conceal his clammy palms.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
Phil kept going, ignoring Roger's question.
"Were you going to put on a show for everyone? Save the innocent people from the abominable stone man? What was the plan, Roger?"
Phil waited until Roger's lips parted to issue a protest, then cut back in with expert timing.
"Once you used your powers to vanquish the creature that you created, what then? Did you expect the crowd to surge forward, to lift you into the air and shower you with rose petals?"
Blood rushed in Roger's ears. His knuckles whitened. He couldn't speak.
"More likely, the military would have arrived—oh yes, they were on their way—and snatched you up to throw you in a dark hole until they figured out what the hell you were, a guy who took on something out of a Ray Harryhausen movie with his bare hands. Real inconspicuous, Slick."
The driver placed the transmission in park and rested his elbow on the top of the passenger seat. A sawed-off shotgun appeared in the crook of his arm. The barrel was molded from a dun-colored material. Roger sucked in a breath.
"Yeah, that shotgun's not metal," Phil said, reading Roger's face. "Or glass, or marble, or anything else that makes your balls tingle with glee. It's a unique composite made of oil-based polymers. Plastic, I guess you could say. But it works. Doesn't it, Reb?"
Reb nodded. Roger stiffened again.
"It's just insurance against you doing anything stupid while we talk," said Phil. "Like, I don't know, caving in this SUV or sucking the iron from my blood and strangling me with it."
Roger had tried the latter on a cat when he was a boy. It hadn't worked. The Durand family had posted flyers around the neighborhood with promises of a reward, but Taffy the Tabby's corpse was safely tucked away in a storm drain at the border of the Harkins estate. The Durand's beloved pet hadn't bent to Roger's will. Roger's little hands were more than strong enough to snap Taffy's neck.
"Then we'll all go out together," Roger replied.
He sensed the playground of metals in the machinery under the hood and in the undercarriage of the SUV. The elements would answer his call with voracious enthusiasm.
"I just want to talk," Phil said. "Frankly and honestly. So relax, huh?"
Reb pointed the shotgun at the ceiling after a brief nod from Phil, but his eyes remained locked on Roger like a Rottweiler studying a rabbit through a chain-link fence. Phil retrieved the flask.
Roger drank this time. The rich liquid painted his throat and stomach with a smooth burn. He returned the flask to Phil after a second and final pull. He didn't miss the look of relief that passed between Phil and Reb.
"That's good stuff."
Phil nodded.
"Gift from a friend of mine. I make him buy me expensive scotch whenever I do a favor for him. It's a fair arrangement, and keeps my liquor cabinet full."
Roger had nothing to say to that.
"So do we have a truce?"
"For now," said Roger. "How much do you know? And how?"
"Everything. When I got intel about a rich guy in New Orleans who became a phenom in the art world because he could produce unparalleled sculptures in exquisite detail virtually overnight using difficult mediums, well.... Let me put it this way: you weren't exactly subtle, were you?"
Roger shifted and crossed his arms.
"All we had to do was run a standard background check on you and trace your footsteps back through the years. Once we had that information, we could build a psychological profile. See if this sounds familiar. Abandoned by your mother. Father who only paid attention to you when he was bailing you out of trouble with his money and influence. Childhood friends that told stories of your 'superpower.' None of my guys believed that last one. I do."
"You don't know shit, Phil, or whoever you are," Roger growled.
"Don't I? Are you talking about the mysterious car accident that killed the star quarterback and his pretty little date on prom night? Hey, I get it. We all have to get our hands dirty sometimes. Don't we, Roger? That was exceptionally brutal stuff, though. Damn."
The expression on Roger's face had Reb pointing the shotgun at him again, but Phil held up a restraining hand as he continued.
"I actually do know shit. A lot of shit. Even shit that can help you. So I'm going to forget the fact that I'm sitting in a car with an alien or a mutant or a science experiment or whatever the hell you are, and attempt to help you with this shit that I know. Tell me about the girl."
Roger uncrossed his arms and smoothed midnight blue trousers over his knees. The memories of that night were distant, fleeting images of red and blue flashing lights and grief-stricken faces. The feelings were still strong, however. Humiliation and anger. Revenge. He'd always wondered if what he did to Mercy would ever catch up with him. He didn't have to wonder anymore.
"It was a long time ago. And I didn't do what you think I did. Is that what this is about?"
Phil cocked his head, searching Roger's face as he tried to follow. Then Roger's denial fell into place.
"No, I mean the girl today. The flying girl," he said. "Did you see her on the news? Is that what brought you to D.C.?"
Roger's cheeks burned. He didn't respond.
"I see," said Phil. "You could have put on your little dog-and-pony show down in Louisiana, but you didn't. It was about more than being noticed. It was about her."
"And why shouldn't I put her in her place?" Roger exploded. "So what? So she shows up at the monument and saves a few people from a storm, and all of the sudden the media gets a hard on for her and calls her a hero? Fuck her! She's nothing! She's a nobody! A goddamn freak!"
Reb adjusted his grip on the shotgun and scanned the parking lot to see if Roger's outburst had drawn attention.
"What is this?" Roger said, spreading his hands. "Why isn't that smug bitch sitting in this car with you instead of me? You know so much, right? What do you know about her?"
Roger noted Phil's amused, mocking expression—no, not mocking. Satisfied, as though Roger had just given him what he wanted.
"She's an unknown quantity," Phil said. "A wild card hidden in the deck. No one knew she existed until recently. There were...efforts to bring her in, but they failed. She's powerful, Roger. More than you know. Hell, more than she knows."
Roger picked through Phil's words with care, comforted by the fact that Phil had admitted he didn't know something.
"You don't know who she is?"
"Not yet," Phil said.
"And that's why you need me."
"The world has changed, Roger. It changed the second that girl flew in front of those cameras during the hurricane. Things will never be the same. Today didn't help, and that was your fault. But I'm going to give you the chance to finish what you started. You'll get your fame, and I'll get the girl."
Roger scoffed.
"I don't need your help, Phil. You can't even figure out the identity of a girl who covers her face with a fucking napkin!"
Phil's face darkened.
"You know what, Harkins? You're right. I bail you out of trouble like your dearly departed daddy used to do, feed into your psychotic, irrational women issues by offering to help you bring down the girl—a plan on which you spent time and money and still botched miserably, I might add—and you still can't get it through that thick skull of yours that I'm on your side? Fine. Let's end it all right here. Reb, blow his face through the tailgate."
The shotgun pumped in Reb's hands, sliding a shell into place. Roger's heart thundered against his ribs. The SUV's component parts called out to him. The chassis and axels, wheels and wires. The springs in the seats. The engine block. They begged him to put them to use, to transform them and wield them as instruments of death. They would burst through the dash as Reb pulled the trigger, explode through the floor and the doors with murderous intent, crushing and slashing with gruesome furor that would pale in comparison to Roger's bloody production on that prom night so long ago. None of them would make it out alive.
But that was just it. Roger wanted to live. Was his pride worth dying for?
"Okay. Talk."
Phil let loose an powerful exhale when Roger's soft utterance broke the tension. His voice quavered when he gave his final instructions to the volatile, troubled man sitting next to him.
Roger Harkins leaned against the balustrade of the second-floor terrace that overlooked his infinity pool. The pool's edge bled into the calm, lapping waves of the Gulf of Mexico not far beyond. Dottie and Jolene sipped mojitos, reclining in poolside lounge chairs as the mid-day sun baked their gleaming, lotion-laden skin. They didn't have to be at work until later that evening, leaving plenty of time to relax at their favorite millionaire's estate before getting dressed, going to the club and getting undressed again. This time for money. Roger liked having them around, even more so when they brought friends.
"Will your guests be staying for dinner, sir?"
Roger hadn't heard Woodley approach. The manservant was clad in his maroon formal coat as he always was when on duty. It was replete with polished silver buttons and tails that hung to the knee. The impeccable white collar was a sharp contrast to his coffee skin, as were the alabaster gloves that covered his hands. Woodley insisted on wearing the uniform despite Roger's protests that it wasn't necessary, but the aging servant was the product of a bygone era, and had carried his traditions with him when Roger had moved from the family plantation to his new residence on the Gulf. Woodley's stubborn devotion to duty bordered on irascibility, and the costume came with it. He reminded Roger of Miss June.
"Not tonight, Mister Woodley," Roger said, holding up his glass as the servant refilled it from an ornate decanter.
Roger sniffed the liquid, taking in the aromas of wood and malted barley before drinking. The scents transported him to the backseat of Phil's sport utility vehicle as it pulled into Dulles airport. Phil's last words to him had left no room for misinterpretation; Roger was to get on his jet, fly home and lay low until he was contacted. Roger had done as instructed, but that had been weeks ago. Or had it been a month already? Either way, the twenty-four hour news cycle had filled the intervening days with endless, annoying stories about Roger's defeat at the monument or, as it was more commonly known, Kinetic Star's victory against a mysterious rock creature. No one knew what the creature was, and the government had been unable to sweep the encounter under the rug—not when a dozen witnesses had circulated amateur videos through social media and video websites. Roger hadn't been able to get through even a single video, but he couldn't escape the short clips that ran on the news channels.
Anger rose like a gorge in his throat every time the news footage showed the interfering little cunt tackling his construct and carrying it out of frame, never to be seen again. Crystal, one of Dottie's stripper friends, had referred to a specific video that depicted Roger being carted away in handcuffs and asked him if he had been frightened. Roger had banished Crystal from the premises despite her god-given talent for blowjobs.
"Sir?"
Roger lowered the glass and found Woodley waiting for him. Had he said something?
"Shall I bring it up?" said Woodley. "The package that arrived for you?"
Roger nodded and waved him off, returning his attention to the scotch in his hand. A commotion erupted inside the house as the last drops slid down his throat. Roger opened the French doors to find Woodley halfway up the staircase, locked in mortal combat with a handcart. Strapped to the cart was a crate that rose taller than the cursing servant who was busy trying to manhandle it. Roger rolled his eyes.
"Back it down," he said. "Why are you trying to bulldog it up the st...just go back down, Woodley."
Roger assisted his employee in returning the cargo to the ground floor. He inspected the crate, but found no labels or shipping documentation.
"Who delivered this? FedEx? UPS?"
Woodley shook his head, erasing a bead of sweat from his brow with a gloved hand.
"No sir. A rather husky man wearing a black Hugo Boss and driving a nondescript van. This is for you."
Roger accepted a portfolio of soft, brown leather from his manservant. A white card fluttered to the floor when he unwound the rawhide tie and opened the front cover. Woodley was quick to retrieve the card, and offered it to his employer. A phone number was written there, the area code from Washington D.C. Roger flipped the card over and grinned at the two words written in blue ink:
Play along.
His grin grew into a grand smile as he flipped through the pages of the portfolio.
"Woodley," he said, "get me a crowbar. Now."
Chapter Three
"YOU DIDN'T TELL ME THEY WERE GOING TO DRUG ME."
Samantha spied David from the corner of her eye, lingering in the bathroom doorway with his arms crossed over his chest. She braced herself for the admonishing reply, pictured the words forming in his mind before they issued from his lips a second later.
"You were supposed to wait for the buyer, Sam."
Samantha winced as Marissa opened the hot water tap a touch too much. The overpowering chemical odor was bad enough, she didn't need to be scalded as well.
"Easy, girl!" Samantha said, raising her head from the sink to cool her scalp. The white porcelain was now a rich caramel hue.
I hope this shit doesn't stain.
Marissa inhaled through her teeth.
"Sorry!"
"This special shampoo really stinks. Maybe I should just do the brunette thing from now on."
"No way," Marissa said. "Your natural color is much prettier."
David shifted his weight and recrossed his arms.
"Did you hear me? This wasn't easy to pull together. The fake identity alone was—"
"You weren't there, David," Samantha said as she eased her head back into the stream of water.
The temperature was much more manageable now.
"They were trafficking children. Children!"
David said nothing. She didn't need to look up at him to know that his accusatory expression hadn't changed.
"Besides, one of them grabbed my boob," she added as an afterthought.
"Right, and you maimed him for it," David said.
Marissa withdrew her plastic-covered hands from Samantha's scalp and held them up like a doctor preparing for surgery as she turned to David.
"I would have done the same thing."
David shook his head and rolled his eyes.
"You're not helping, Miss Sanchez."
Marissa shrugged and went back to work. David stepped into the crowded bathroom and bent to Samantha's eye level.
"Sam, you almost killed them. Heat exhaustion, severe dehydration, broken bones, sprained muscles, head trauma. Oh yeah, and testicular trauma. Nice one, there. That man will never have children now."
Samantha recalled the way the Brujo clutched at his crotch when she had applied vise-like pressure to his scrotum. She would have smiled, but was afraid that the foul dye would discolor her teeth.
He got in my way. He deserved it. They all did.
"Children, David," she said. "And you don't know what it was like in the back of that truck. It's a shame the Federales found them before they could spend all night in that hell hole like we did."
"Hold still," Marissa said as she wrung murky water from a thick lock of hair. "Almost done."
"But the mission failed," David said. "The whole idea was to find out who was masterminding the operation and take them down. Follow the buyer to his buyer. Work our way up the pyramid. This is a global trafficking operation we're talking about, Sam. It's a big deal. I told you that in the briefing. All we got were little fish that will be thrown back once the right people are paid off. I want the shark."
Samantha jerked upward, splashing water everywhere. Tiny brown droplets stained David's blue oxford as he straightened and retreated from the shower. Marissa shielded her face with her hands, lips pursed and eyes shut tight.
"'Little fish'? They were monsters that deserved everything they got! They're lucky I didn't let the women have them. Now that would have been justice! It's easy for you to judge when you're sitting in a comfy desk chair while your assistant fetches you mocha lattes or whatever the hell it is that you drink—no offense Marissa, you know I love you–"
Marissa smiled in approval and urged her to go on.
"—but try spending the night ass to elbow with a truck load of victimized human beings in the back of a semi trailer that is hotter than a Cambodian jungle and stinks like piss, sweat and fear. You were the eye in the sky while I was the boots on the ground, David. You don't know what that...."
Oh. Damn.
"Oh my god. I'm so sorry," she said.
David expression was devoid of emotion.
"Your hair looks like shit," he said, eyes lowering to his ruined button down. "Marissa, I'm going to need a new shirt. You know my size."
He withdrew from the doorframe and disappeared. Samantha heard his footsteps descending the staircase of her Bethesda townhouse.
"David, hold on! I—"
His voice cut her off from the first floor.
"I'll text you later. We have some things to discuss."
The front door opened and closed. Marissa stood by the sink with dripping hands, unsure of what to do next.
Sweet Marissa.
Samantha ducked her head under the running water and let her friend continue stripping the dye. For some reason, Melissa by the Allman Brothers leapt to mind.
"So what are you up to today?"
Marissa's question was meant to diffuse the tension, but it came out as awkward. Samantha smiled. Marissa had been David's assistant for a long time, and he had chosen wisely. She was a good woman, at peace with herself. She knew when to stay neutral and when to speak up during those rare times when Samantha and David butted heads. The three of them had been through so much together. Samantha loved Marissa like a sister.
"Therapy appointment," Samantha said.
Marissa squeezed the last vestiges of dye from Samantha's considerable length of hair and pressed a fluffy towel into her hands.
"We're all done. Your beautiful strawberry-blonde mane is as good as new. I'm so jealous."
Samantha formed the towel into a makeshift turban.
"Oh stop. I'm jealous of you."
Marissa became busy wiping at the sink with a fresh cloth.
"Me? Why?"
"Because you're really great at fishing for compliments."
Marissa spun, rolling the cloth into an oblong weapon and snapping it at Samantha.
"Towel snapping?" Samantha said through a grin. "Is this where we strip down to our underwear and start a pillow fight?"
"You wish."
Samantha suppressed her laughter long enough to seize control of the cloth in Marissa's hand. It reared up like a viper and leapt from Marissa's grasp to continue its work cleaning the sink free of human interference. Marissa watched it for a time, then turned to Samantha as their mirth faded.
"Do they help?" she said. "Your appointments?"
Samantha unraveled the plush blue turban, then bent at the waist and tilted her neck to let her hair hang in a wet curtain. She summoned a plastic brush into her hand and drew it through her damp tresses while she considered her answer.
"They're starting to," she said. "It's hard as hell, Marissa. It's like ripping open a gut wound every time I walk through the door. It heals better after each session, but then there you are sitting in that waiting room a week later."
Galina and Braithwaite really did a number on me, didn't they?
"I don't know if I'll ever be the same, but I have to try. It's all I can do. The alternative is to try to ignore the trauma, but then it will just fester and find its way out another way. I can't afford that, considering what I'm capable of."
Samantha righted herself and turned to the mirror to pluck at her hair. She noticed that Marissa's reflection had frozen, her expression pensive, lips tightened.
"What is it?"
Marissa's features relaxed with visible effort.
"I was just going to suggest that we go shopping after your appointment. David needs a new shirt and you need a new summer dress, from the sound of it."
"I thought this was your day off," Samantha said.
Marissa smirked and rubbed at her shoulder. It had become an unconscious habit since the bullet wound had healed.
"No such thing for me."
Janine's office was almost utilitarian in comparison to Doctor Rothstein's, which confused Samantha. She assumed the opposite would be true considering that there was a Doctor in front of Rothstein's name. Janine was licensed and well respected among her peers, but didn't have a doctorate—not that Samantha could tell the difference during her sessions. While Doctor Rothstein's office had been decorated in bright pastels, her small-yet-modern desk of glass and steel covered with family photos in cheery frames, Janine's office bordered on, well, boring. Her desk was far from modern. It was a ponderous, antique monstrosity that took up half the office, the heavy mahogany having been refinished many times over the years. The walls were wooden panels stained a deep walnut, bare except for her framed Master of Sciences diploma and a winter landscape painted in cool blues and greys. Samantha was pretty sure it was an original Bob Ross, the first clue being the word "Ross" painted in flowing red in the lower left corner, but maybe it was a reproduction.
Their demeanors were a reversal of their environment, however. Doctor Rothstein's stoic, professional temperament was not at all reflective of her buoyant decor, while Janine was warm and inviting—despite the fact that her office looked like the smoking room of a gentlemen's supper club from the 1920s. Samantha had stopped trying to figure it out. She liked that Janine had insisted that Samantha call her "Janine" and that was good enough for her.
Janine reclined in her high-backed leather chair across from Samantha, her body language as neutral as always.
"You said you were getting out of town for a few days. How was it?"
Right away, Samantha was backed into that tight, familiar corner. She couldn't tell Janine the truth, just like she hadn't been able to tell Doctor Rothstein the truth. Samantha knew that both of them were well aware of her lies. Rothstein had even gone so far as to call Samantha out, telling her that she was prolonging the healing process by being dishonest.
But I can't be honest.
"Yeah, I went to Texas for work," Samantha said. "Really hot and dry where I was, even this time of year."
Janine smiled and nodded, her eyes never leaving Samantha's.
"So you were near the border?"
Samantha returned the nod, unwilling to provide further details. The silence that followed was unbearable. It was Janine's tactic of leaving room for Samantha to either continue with her charade or come clean. Or was it genuine interest? Samantha could never tell.
"Was your employer with you?" Janine said as she searched the notepad in her lap. "Um...David?"
"No. He was back here in D.C."
"So he sent you out of state by yourself. Does David know your history? From what you've told me, he hired you pretty quickly after your ordeal."
That's an understatement.
"He knows a little bit," Samantha lied. "We don't share everything. Our relationship isn't like that. He's my boss. So I guess we both have our secrets."
Janine's head moved up and down. Samantha averted her eyes, taking in the snow-capped peaks that descended into a misty tree line of towering evergreens. Majesty trapped in a lacquered frame.
Happy little trees.
"Okay, Samantha," said Janine. "Let's go back to your imprisonment. Tell me about the woman again, but I want you to dig a little deeper today. Take your time. Remember that this is a process."
Samantha's inhale was long and deep. She extended her fingers and ran them over the burgundy leather of the armrests, tracing the circumference of the brass nail heads that dotted the trim.
"She wore business suits," Samantha said as she emptied her lungs. "Expensive ones. White, black and red suits. All tailored to her stocky frame. Expensive perfume, too. And heels. I could always hear her coming, even through the thick, metal door."
Tik-tak. Tik-tak.
Samantha tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. Janine's eyes followed the motion.
"Go on," Janine urged. "Deeper than that."
"She said that she dragged herself from the brothels to become a powerful woman. But she said I was weak."
"Why do you think she kidnapped you, Samantha?"
Again, the oil painting entered Samantha's line of sight. A narrow creek emerged from a stand of birch trees in the foreground.
Samantha remembered padding into the family room just before bedtime to ask for something sweet to eat, a practice she tended to repeat on a nightly basis. Her father rarely heard her first request. His drooping eyelids and lolling head told her that he had once again fallen under the spell cast through the soothing tones of the man on the television screen. Samantha was always fascinated by the man's perfectly round hairdo.
Okay, my friends, now take your brush and just beat the devil out of it!
Leather creaked beneath Samantha as she adjusted her weight. She sank deeper into that familiar corner, that counterproductive trap.
Well, Janine, the woman—Galina was her name—actually worked for an insane military commander bent on the domination of America's enemies by using me as a weapon of mass destruction. See, Janine, it's a funny story. I have superpowers and, well, this guy found out because someone I loved and trusted betrayed me to him. So the megalomaniac hires a team of Russian mercenaries and a professional torturer—who used to be a whore, apparently, but now wears great pant suits...or used to, anyway—to break me down and brainwash me into a supervillain. Only I escaped and electrocuted the shit out of Galina using the same instrument of torture she used against me. Why? Because I felt like it, mostly.
Then things got really crazy!
I fought Braithwaite—did I say his name was Braithwaite? Well, it is—who almost killed me with a giant missile because he still thought he could recondition me. He did kill my only brother, though. My dad barely escaped with his life, along with a new friend who got shot by a sniper and another friend who also got fucked up really bad—that's David, my boss, by the way—and I had to decide whether I should seek revenge or stop whining and do something good for once in my pitiful, selfish life. There's a lot more to the story, but that's the gist.
And that's why I'm sitting here. Crazy, huh? Do I pay your secretary or do you bill me?
"I don't know," said Samantha.
Happy little creek.
Janine read her expression with expert precision. She placed her notepad on the table next to her chair and adjusted her glasses higher on her nose, then folded her hands in her lap to complete a series of motions that said to Samantha, let's try this a different way.
"Samantha, if you were in the room with this woman right now, what would you say to her?"
It was a fair question, but a very difficult one. Janine knew that Samantha's abductors had never been brought to justice. Samantha had been sure to explain that she hadn't gone to the police because she couldn't bear the thought of facing them in the courtroom. Another lie.
Braithwaite bled out on a dusty Mexican street, and Galina....
"Remember that nothing you say leaves this room," Janine said, mistaking Samantha's sudden reticence for discomfort.
"I remember."
Samantha planted an elbow on her knee and rested her chin on her palm, her eyes riveted to the tops of her navy Chuck Taylor All-stars.
"I guess...I guess I'd say...."
How could you do that to me?
"Think about your answer before you say it," Janine said.
The daylight streaming into the rustic office became a lens flare as Samantha's eyes misted over.
"I'd say...."
Why are you still alive instead of my brother?
Samantha covered her face with her hands. Her shoulders trembled. Janine's hand reached out to comfort her.
"Let's pick this up next time, Samantha. I think you know what your homework is."
Marissa tucked a second package into the crook of her arm, the cellophane crinkling against the one she already carried. This shirt was lemon yellow with a thin stripe pattern, a loud counterpoint to the conservative blue button down she had selected as a replacement for the one Samantha had splattered with brown dye.
"Will he wear that?" Samantha said.
Marissa's shrug was indignant.
"If not, he's returning it. Not me."
Samantha sipped at her caramel macchiato to conceal her grin. A shot of caffeine always made her feel better after therapy. She'd made sure that the barista had added a shot of espresso to counterbalance the weight of the session earlier that afternoon. Samantha took the packages from Marissa and deposited them into the shopping basket slung over her forearm.
"These are on me," she said. "I ruined his shirt. On purpose, I think."
Marissa frowned.
"No, it's okay. I have David's credit card," she said.
"No, I said these are on me. I insist."
"Sam, really. It's no big—"
"What?" Samantha said, putting on a stern tone. "You gonna fight me for them?"
It was Marissa's turn to grin.
"Super-powered bully."
"No-powered wuss," Samantha replied. "But I'm going to tell him that the yellow shirt was your idea, not mine."
Their laughter had played itself out by the time they exited the men's clothing store and joined the bustling shoppers in the broad corridors of the mall complex. An instrumental version of Never Gonna Let You Go by Sergio Mendes competed with the buzz of voices from the crowds. A pair of children pushed past them in an impromptu game of tag, the exasperated protest from their mother following close behind. Samantha sensed Marissa's eyes on her, and turned to meet them. Her bespectacled friend looked away and shouldered her brown leather handbag.
Okay....
"How was the date?" Samantha said.
"Good! We saw that new Tarantino movie."
"How was it?"
"You know, lots of dialogue and then an extremely violent scene set to obscure seventies music."
"Sounds about right," Samantha said. "I love his movies."
"Me too."
Samantha veered away to discard her empty coffee cup into a trash can, then fell in beside Marissa again without missing a step.
"Where to now?"
Marissa didn't answer. Her attention was fixed on the upper level.
"Someone's checking you out, lady."
Samantha flicked her eyes upward. A man stood with his elbows planted on the balcony railing in casual nonchalance. A black baseball cap was set low on his brow, casting his upper features in shadow against the sunlight that streamed through the latticed atrium high above. She had no doubt he was looking at her. She could sense his eyes on her. There was no nod, no friendly wave. No smile spread across the thin lips that perched above the cleft of his strong chin, no flirtatious acknowledgement that he had been found out. The man simply straightened and walked away, vanishing into the crowd of shoppers as if he had never been there.
Huh.
Despite that brief encounter, it wasn't the capped man's image that followed Samantha from the mall into the subway station below. It was a snapshot memory of brown droplets splashing across a blue oxford button down, beneath which lean muscles played.
Happy little pecs.
Chapter Four
SAMANTHA DROPPED FROM ABOVE and wrapped her arms around Harkins to remove him from harm's way. She lost her grip once he was safe, and they skipped across the grassy turf before Samantha found her center of balance and rose to assist him to his feet. Their hands touched and the pair froze, staring into each other's wide eyes. The lumbering beast also paused as though it, too, had become absorbed in their strange, shared moment. Then its pillar-sized arm knocked her senseless. Warning shouts from the police crackled through several nearby megaphones, but Harkins didn't seem to care.
He wasn't afraid of it.
The behemoth had just struck Samantha with enough force to smash a normal person's bones to jelly, but Harkins wasn't frightened. He didn't run to safety or crumple into a fetal position and beg for his life, despite the fact that the stone creature was much closer to him than to Samantha. Yet the thing chose to lurch toward Samantha with lumbering steps, ignoring the convenient target to instead strike at the dazed young woman with both arms. Harkins simply stood in place, clenching and unclenching his fists while watching an inexplicable man-thing that shouldn't exist attack the woman who had just saved his life.
David paused the video and pulled the progress slider back for what seemed like the thousandth time. It was one of the many videos that had appeared online in the weeks that followed the incident, but this one in particular provided the best perspective on the man who had been arrested by U.S. Park Police at the scene. The man David now knew to be Roger Harkins. He'd learned that Harkins had been taken to the District One station over on Ohio Drive, but released shortly thereafter. David's inquiries as to whom had brokered the release and why had been answered with half-hearted promises to look into the matter and get back to him. David had been to that rodeo before, and knew when he was being blown off.
David's repeated viewings of the video now bordered on obsession. Although the footage was shaky and inconsistent, it allowed David to scrutinize the man's behavior in fine detail. He was thankful that most everyone carried video recorders in the form of smartphones these days, as he'd been unable to get a clear view of the events from behind the police barricade when he had finally arrived on the scene that October day.
His finger tapped the video into motion. Samantha's invisible barrier frustrated the creature. It reared back and beat at its chest like a silverback, an indication of sentience. But how was that possible? According to reports, no one had seen the monstrosity scale the broken monument before it had leapt from the precipice. A visiting couple from Belgium whom had been interviewed by the local news after the attack said that the creature had simply appeared at the top of the obelisk. It had come out of nowhere. David had experienced the impossible during the course of the past year—she had reddish hair and big green eyes—but he couldn't accept that this creature had just come into being out of thin air. Not yet, at least.
So what then?
That ape-like mannerism had to have been learned. Was the thing a fan of King Kong? Donkey Kong? A loyal fanboy of primatologist Dian Fossey, who had studied gorillas in the Congo? The behavior would have required the ability to recall a memory and, despite David's extensive questioning about the events of her victory over the creature, Samantha had insisted that it was made of stone. She had forced her will into its cracks and imperfections and expanded her power with explosive force, shattering it into thousands of fragments before dumping it into the Chesapeake bay. There had been no sign of blood, muscle or internal organs. It was animated rock. Nothing more.
The video footage continued, replaying Samantha's collision with the monument at the hands of the beast. Scaffolding had given way, toppling like a tower of toothpicks, and tons of marble had collapsed on top of her. Every camera had been focused on the combatants, of course, and Harkins was no longer in frame. David wondered what he had been doing in those brief seconds before Samantha burst from the rubble to bull rush the creature and abscond with it into the heavens. His next glimpse of Harkins had been in person on that day as David watched from behind the cordon. Unable to see their heroine or her dangerous foe, the crowd—David included—had turned its attention to Harkins, who was being tackled to the ground by S.W.A.T. officers. The man's expression was crystal clear. Harkins had been angry.
David clicked the tablet into sleep mode and folded the leather case over the screen. As before, his hypotheses funneled into a single theory: Harkins was in league with the stone creature. It made no sense, but neither did a flying, near-invulnerable twenty-something woman who could move things with a thought. The world was losing its mind, and David was along for the ride.
He recalled his visit to a shaken Samantha after the encounter. She had answered the door bruised and aching, still clad in the low-cut V-neck sweater she had worn to their meeting at the Occidental that day. It was ruined, smudged and torn from her battle with the creature; no surprise considering she had been buried under a mountain of broken stone blocks. David ushered her inside her townhouse before a nosy neighbor could see her and put two and two together. Their conversation was brief. David promised to study the video footage that would no doubt make its way online in the coming days. In the meantime, he had begun planning several missions for her. A trip to the Texas border, for one. Samantha needed something to distract her while he searched for answers.
Answers. Harkins. He wasn't afraid of it. That minute detail from the video clutched at David and wouldn't let go.
He picked up his coffee mug and stood before the broad double window that looked out over the city from his tenth-floor apartment in Dupont Circle. A twenty-four hour news channel played in low volume on his flat-screen television where four talking heads debated the topic of the hour. Three words flashed into frame across the bottom of the screen, styled in bold urgency.
Are We Safe?
David chuckled and sipped at the stale coffee.
"Of course not," he muttered, making his way to the kitchen to brew a fresh pot.
His eyes fell over the unfinished project strewn across his kitchen table in haphazard fashion. Spools of low-gauge wiring, soldering tools, pliers, wire strippers and audio-visual equipment had overtaken the surface, forcing David to take his meals on the couch or standing at the kitchen counter. One component caught his eye. He found the action camera online after an hour of searching, but the result had been well worth the time investment. It had to be small and light, and the Endura-Eye 600 was the size of a triple-A battery with a weight of five grams. Perfect. He'd tested it many times to make sure the feed was clear and reliable, now it was just a matter of crafting a secure mount for it.
David filled the glass decanter from the tap and placed it into the coffee maker, then peeled the lid from a can of Folger's Colombian. Less than three spoonfuls of aromatic grounds lay in the bottom of the plastic container, not enough for a strong brew. He was tempted to pull the Keurig from the corner cupboard. It was a small, one-shot style that Samantha had gotten him for his birthday, along with a variety of teas and cocoas that he would never touch. David wondered if those were meant for her, so he kept them in a plastic grocery bag next to the Keurig. No, David preferred the traditional coffee maker. One could brew a pot and leave it to sit all day until the coffee condensed into a thick tar that was harsh on the throat. The scent of that caffeinated sludge reminded him of his days in the service.
You were the eye in the sky while I was the boots on the ground, David. You don't know what that....
Samantha's words from earlier that day drowned out the useless political posturing coming from his television. He knew that she hadn't meant it. The stress of her mission, of witnessing the cruelty of mankind firsthand, had spoken for her. David recalled the sensation of his jaw firming up, the feeling of his fingers pressing indentations into the molding above her bathroom door.
You don't know what that's like! she was going to say.
David shook his head and tried to let it go, but failed miserably. He had only ten years or so on her but it felt like far more than that, like he had already lived three lifetimes. He had faced the specter of death on a daily basis for months on end in foreign countries where he and his brothers were cursed and reviled. If she had the slightest inkling of what he and his men had been ordered to do....
At least she had come to her senses before finishing the sentence.
"I know what it's like," he murmured.
He resigned himself to a weak pot of coffee and dumped the last vestiges of the Folger's into the filter basket, then flipped the switch to the brew position before returning to his project.
Audio communication had been figured out early on. The in-ear transmitter was a separate piece of equipment, and would be placed in her ear before she put on the cowl. David slid the garish mask over his fist and held it up to the light. He hadn't been aware of its existence until Samantha had let it slip during their last tactical discussion, or "business meeting" as she liked to call it. They had agreed that a napkin just wasn't going to cut it moving forward, and that there had to be other options for concealing her identity. David had suggested a full hood like those used for black ops missions in the SEALs. It would cover everything but her eyes, and was built for added protection in extreme climates.
"Don't think so," Samantha said. "I don't want to look like the military. No offense."
"What then?" David said. "They sell Batgirl outfits at the adult party store. I'm sure you could find a mask there."
"Oh, you frequent those places, do you?"
"You should see my Aquaman costume. I wear it when I protest sushi restaurants."
Samantha revealed her perfect, white teeth and shook her head.
"Evan tried to fit me into one of his fetishes once," she said, her smile fading. "The mask even matches my motorcycle outfit."
"Where is it?"
"No. No fucking way I'm going to wear that thing."
"Come on," David said. "It can't be that bad, can it? What are you going to do? Dye your hair every time a rock monster appears on a national monument?"
"Not gonna happen, David. Let's figure out something else."
She had finally relented after days of artful persuasion and subtle urging (and an expensive dinner in Georgetown).
He extended a forefinger inside of the cowl and balanced it there, admiring its quality. He had to admit that it was perfect, despite having been engineered by the traitorous Evan Douglas; the man who had made the cowl for Samantha even as he was plotting her capture. The man who had broken her heart as a final act of cowardice before he had perished. What had Douglas been thinking? Did he really think that Braithwaite was going to release Samantha? That she would willingly don the cowl he had made for her to pay tribute to his treachery? The pain that surfaced in Samantha's eyes every time Douglas's name came up made David wish he had been the one to pull the trigger instead of Braithwaite.
David spun the cowl on the axis of his finger.
The lenses had been seated into the eyeholes with expert craftsmanship for a sniveling turncoat, and appeared to be polarized and treated with an anti-reflective coating that would reduce the penetration of ultra-violet rays. The leather was thicker around the borders of the lenses, and would provide enough support for the camera mount. David plugged the soldering iron into the outlet and went to work with a tiny awl while the iron heated to working temperature. He punched several holes in the leather and affixed thin support braces both inside and out before cutting a length of wire and feeding it through one of the cowl's seams. The meticulous work left his left forearm aching, and he rubbed at the puckered scar that rose from his skin in a topographic map of bad memories.
He didn't know if the tendons would ever fully heal. The doctors had been unable to give him any certainty that they would, having never treated such a violent wound. A complete skewering of the meat between the radius and ulna by a serrated combat knife designed to cause damage was in no way routine for them, but three surgeries had restored the limb to some semblance of normalcy. David didn't complain. It was better than a serrated combat knife in the eye.
"In other news, an unexpected announcement from the White House today has NATO and the greater international community scrambling for answers. We now take you to correspondent Cav Hill, live in Washington."
David rose and reached for the remote control to punch up the television volume. The news anchor's attractive face dissolved into the dapper countenance of Cav Hill.
"Thank you, Denise," Cav said, the wind breathing through his microphone and ruffling his striped neck tie. "President Dietrich's stance on Middle East arms control has taken a one-eighty today as his press secretary announced that the U.S. would be withdrawing from the Oman Accords as early as January. "
David sat down heavily on the armrest of his couch. The crisis had worsened over the past year, and now the leader of the free world, a steadfast opponent of nuclear proliferation in the region and a man who David himself had voted for, was backpedaling. Images flashed on the screen beneath Hill's voice overlay, depicting men parading through the streets of Tehran showing their support for Dietrich.
"...sources also report unrest in the administration, which some say may open the door to a shake up that has been brewing since President Dietrich was sworn in," said Hill. "From the White House, I'm Cav Hill. Back to you, Denise."
"Thank you, Cav. In our nation's capital, reconstruction of the Washington Monument continues as the city reels from the unexplained...."
David couldn't find the mute button fast enough. Stills from Samantha's battle with the stone monster reappeared on the television with a new banner graphic that zoomed into frame with animated flourish.
Who Is Kinetic Star?
The remote control dropped to the sofa and bounced twice before coming to a rest in the crack of two cushions. David turned back to the kitchen.
A major international event had just occurred, and the news cycle had given it less than three minutes of coverage before reverting to the sexy story of the day—probably of the millennium. David was tired of hearing about it. He poured a mug of watery coffee and returned to work on Samantha's mask.
David was thankful when his smartphone rang an hour later. His forearm felt like someone had slipped a hot coal between the bones when he wasn't looking. He retrieved the phone from the table and stood, arching his back into a deep stretch as he answered.
"Hey boss man."
Marissa was out of breath.
"Hey yourself. Did you see the news?" David said.
"The news? No, I just finished Zumba. Why?"
"We can discuss it later," he said, turning his head to regard the news channel which now broadcast another panel of so-called experts. "What's up?"
He heard Marissa bid someone goodnight. The background was filled with passing cars and distant sirens.
"I found her."
David paced through the kitchen.
"Wait, wait," he said. "Who?"
He could picture Marissa making her way to the metro station, gym bag slung over her shoulder and thin, sweaty strands of brown hair plastered to her neck.
"Her," came the reply. "Remember the thing you wanted me to talk to the guy about?"
"Right, yeah. You sure?"
"As sure as I can be. The locations came from your guy. From there, it was a matter of narrowing down the possibilities using a bit of detective work and a polite-yet-authoritative telephone demeanor. He wants to meet with you, by the way. Your guy."
"You're absolutely sure it's her. You're sure."
"Is this some sort of weird word game? The word 'sure' is starting to sound funny now. Sure... sure... Laverne and Sure-ly... Sure Lancelot..."
The last iteration was spoken in Marissa's approximation of a British accent.
"Okay," David said. "If he gave you the intel, it's solid. Good job."
"Alrighty, boss. Anything else? I'm about to go into the station."
"Grab a drink later?"
"Can't, sorry."
"Hot date tonight?"
"I think that question violates the privacy stipulations of our employer-employee agreement, doesn't it?"
"Sure," David said, choosing the word with impish intention. "So who's the lucky guy?"
"Sorry, you're breaking up. Gotta go!"
David set down his phone with a smile, savoring the knowledge that their relationship had evolved since Samantha had come into their lives. Marissa had been a quiet, introverted assistant with nervous, bumbling mannerisms before she had unwittingly taken a bullet for him. She had almost lost her life. Everything had changed after that.
He went back to work on the cowl, but his gaze kept drifting to the military-issue gear belt that was draped across the back of the chair opposite him. He'd purchased the smallest belt he could find, and knew it would sag on Samantha's slim hips despite that fact. The weight of the pouch attachments wouldn't help either, even less so when they were filled with the various kits and tools he had acquired to help her adapt to changing situations. He could already hear her utility belt jokes, no doubt drawn from some obscure pop culture reference. It was going to take some effort to convince her to wear the cowl, and she wasn't going to like the belt at all.
"Too bad," he whispered.
David didn't like being in the dark about her exact whereabouts, and the communications tech would help him to help her. Every mission needed an Ops Center, an information feed to guide it to success, and right now Samantha was flying blind. Perhaps he could have placated her if he had been in her ear down in Mexico, seen what she was seeing in real time. Maybe he could have prevented her from giving in to her emotions and veering away from the mission objective.
David had faith in Samantha's abilities and intelligence, but she still had a lot to learn.
Chapter Five
SAMANTHA WAS ON THE TOILET playing Angry Birds Star Wars through sleepy eyes when the text pinged onto the screen, interrupting her gleeful flinging of irate avian missiles into their snorting enemies.
David 7:45 a.m.
Watching the news?
He had encouraged her to add that to her daily routine, even though it meant continually monitoring headlines as she went about her business at home. Samantha had resisted for two reasons, the first of which was the fact that she was often the lead story. Why would anyone want an endless stream of conjecture about themselves streaming through their house all day? The second reason, and perhaps the most important one, was that she chose not to own a television. Sure, she caught the occasional headline while checking her social media accounts, but a constant dump of half-baked theories about her origins and intent delivered in the guise of responsible news reporting turned her off.
Seems pretty narcissistic. Sorry David. That's not me. At least I hope not.
She swiped Angry Birds from the screen and thumbed out a reply, deciding to sidestep social convention and text while pooping.
Nope.
She fired a Han Solo bird at a Boba Fett pig. It was a direct hit, but the satisfying audio confirmation of Fett's demise was muted when David's reply pinged from the tiny speaker in her phone.
David 7:45 a.m.
Jumper at the new building in Rosslyn.
Samantha knew the building. It had eclipsed the Rosslyn Twin Towers in size several years ago. Her thumbs danced across the screen and she hit send.
Oh shit.
Samantha reached for the toilet paper.
David 7:46 a.m.
Yeah. I hope she gets there in time.
The toilet flushed behind her as she drew up her sweatpants.
Me too.
Samantha rushed to the sink. Her phone chimed as she was drying her hands.
David 7:47 a.m.
The news choppers are already there. Maybe we'll get a good look at her this time.
She ran into the bedroom, not bothering to reply as she extended her will to the window and commanded it to open. She had one foot on the sill and was preparing to launch herself into the clear morning sky when it struck her that her foot was bare. More importantly perhaps, it came to her attention that she was wearing threadbare sweatpants and was braless beneath a tank top still decorated with orange Cheetos dust from the night before.
Dammit.
Samantha threw open her closet door and withdrew a plastic bin from the bottom of a tall stack. Tossing the lid aside, Samantha pulled out the neatly folded motorcycle outfit of black and red leather. David had asked to borrow the cowl for reasons he wouldn't say, and Samantha had a feeling that she hadn't seen the last of it.
Gonna have to use something else.
Her arm brushed the Nike gym bag that hung from a hook on the back of the closet door.
Hmm... That might work.
Two helicopters met Samantha when she arrived, both drifting dangerously close to nearby buildings as they jockeyed for position. Samantha surmised that their strategy was simple and direct; whoever got the best footage would get the best ratings, and to hell with safety.
She decided that they would get neither.
A quick flyby revealed a spherical camera housing mounted to the front of each chopper, most likely being controlled by cameramen in the co-pilot seat.
Easy enough.
Samantha removed the soft leather gloves she had purchased to complement the riding leathers and swooped beneath the closest chopper. Careful to stay out of frame, she slipped the first glove over the wide, cylindrical lens and tightened the velcro as far as it would go. She imagined the embarrassed news anchor sitting in the studio, touching his or her earpiece as a harried producer relayed that video had been lost. The process was repeated on the second chopper, and soon both of them left the airspace to find a safe place to land and troubleshoot the issue. That should give Samantha more than enough time. She rotated her body in midair and got her first look at the subject of the thwarted camera footage.
The woman was balanced on the protective railing that lined the perimeter of a broad, spacious balcony. A pyramidal structure rose above her to form the peak of the tall building. Not a good place to jump unless you wanted to land on the flat veranda a couple of storeys below. No, the woman had picked a prime spot to end her life. The cuffs of her pants suit fluttered in the wind as her legs dangled into open air. She was in her thirties maybe, a comely woman with a black pixie cut that showcased her sharp features and long, slender neck. A semi-automatic pistol was clutched in her right hand, and dropped into her lap when she spotted the masked woman levitating toward her.
Perhaps masked wasn't the best word for the comical disguise that Samantha had thrown together in her haste. She had tied a mildewed gym towel around her nose and mouth and slipped blue-tinted swimming goggles over her eyes.
She's not laughing at me, so that's a good start.
Samantha halted her approach twenty feet from the woman so as not to crowd her. Not that Samantha needed to be close to save her. It would be a simple matter to seize the gun and pluck her from the ledge at this distance, even if she tried to shoot herself while jumping.
That's just ridiculous. Complete overkill.
Samantha could see police officers gathered just inside the plate glass access doors behind the woman, ready to burst forth and grab her. They buzzed like bees in a shaken jar when they spied Samantha.
Say something.
"Hi," said Samantha.
The woman's eyes were wide with awe, but she forced herself to snap out of the wonder of seeing a flying woman and pressed the barrel of the gun to her temple with a trembling hand.
"Y-y-you...can't...stop me," the woman said.
Samantha spread her hands wide in a display of surrender.
Actually, yes I can. Pretty easily.
"I just want to talk."
The jumper's eyes flicked to the street below, where authorities had already blocked off a wide swath. Over a hundred morning commuters were gathered just outside the drop zone, their phones pointed upward.
The woman didn't respond. Samantha pulled her long braid over her shoulder and inspected the frayed tip for split ends.
"Tough morning, huh?" she said.
Again, there was no reply.
Think of something. You don't want to traumatize her further by taking control.
"May I sit? Maybe I can help."
The woman raised her eyes to meet Samantha's. They were bloodshot and puffy from crying. She raised her arm to wipe at them. A reluctant, almost imperceptible nod followed the motion. Taking great care not to alarm the woman, Samantha floated forward and rotated her body into a sitting position. She perched on the railing well out of arm's reach and leaned forward to peer over the edge.
"Are you gonna do it? What is that? Three hundred feet?"
The woman blinked in surprise at the blunt line of questioning, and turned to regard Samantha with burgeoning agitation.
"Three ninety from the top of the antenna spire," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
She's talking. Good.
"That would certainly do it," Samantha said.
An idea occurred to her then, risky but necessary. She reached up and pulled the musty gym towel down around her neck.
"God damn, this thing stinks," she said, crinkling her nose. "I didn't have time to dress for a proper rescue, sorry. My mask is at the dry cleaner."
Once more, the woman's eyelids peeled back with surprise. Her gun hand relaxed and lowered, an unconscious movement.
"You're...you're the one from the monument."
Samantha nodded and pushed the goggles onto her forehead.
"That's me. Wait, there are other flying ladies? I sure hope so. Maybe they can give me some pointers. I'm pretty new at this, and you're my first cat stuck in a tree."
The woman's look was incredulous. Samantha grinned, turning her head just enough to present her eyes to the woman while preventing the policemen behind them from getting a good look at her.
"I'm...Stella," Samantha said. "Nice to meet you."
The woman didn't return Samantha's reassuring smile. Instead, her lips pressed together in indecision.
"Rhea," she said after a time.
Samantha seized the opportunity.
"What happened, Rhea?"
Rhea's expression grew mournful, and Samantha thought she would finally learn why this woman was sitting on a steel railing hundreds of feet in the air with a gun in her hand, but the DCPD chose that moment to issue a bullhorn-enhanced order from behind the glass doors. It was muffled and watery, but no less jarring.
"You are instructed to move away from Miss Fine. Leave the premises now!"
Rhea bolted upright and slipped from the railing. Samantha tensed, ready to catch her, but the woman righted herself and clutched at the railing with white knuckles. She sat down and became very still, concentrating on her breathing which came in ragged gasps.
"Don't worry," Samantha said, "I won't leave unless you want me to."
The warning was repeated, a muddy burst of sound that fell on deaf ears.
"Rhea, tell me why you're up here."
Rhea's eyes brimmed with tears. She didn't answer at first, but was helpless to stem the flow of emotion that erupted from within.
"Leukemia," she said. "My little Warren is gone. Gone forever."
Samantha slid closer.
"I'm so sorry."
"He was my everything," Rhea managed through a round of sniffles. "My sweet boy was only five."
Her eyes were far away, as though reliving her son's first birthday party, watching him walk for the first time.
Samantha slid closer.
"How long has it been?"
"A month," Rhea said, "and I've wanted to die every day."
The sudden calm in Rhea's voice unnerved Samantha. It became clear that Rhea had thought long and hard about killing herself. Today was the day she had chosen. At the top of a building, of all places.
"That's not very long, Rhea," Samantha said. "It gets better. You have to believe that."
Rhea's eyes shot up to glare at Samantha. She pressed the barrel against the underside of her chin.
"What do you know about it?"
Samantha focused on the trigger and summoned her will to lock it in place before she noticed that the safety was still engaged. She relaxed somewhat and remained silent, letting the question hang in the air.
"You couldn't possibly know what this feels like!"
Rhea stood up and leaned forward, one hand gripping the railing, the other holding the pistol in place. Her eyes slammed shut. Her entire body shivered in anticipation of the final moment.
"His name was Cole," Samantha said.
Rhea's left eye cracked open.
"He was murdered right in front of me. Abducted and then crushed and burned alive in a helicopter crash."
Samantha took a deep breath and raised her eyes to the sky as she continued.
"An evil man murdered my little brother, Rhea, and almost did the same to my father. I wanted to kill that man. The pain was so real, so intense that I would have taken the death penalty just to feel that man's throat collapse beneath my fingers."
"What...what did you do?" Rhea said.
Samantha noticed she was sitting on the railing again, the gun hanging at her side.
"I had a choice. I could hunt him down and kill him or help my friend who was dying from a gunshot wound. I wanted so much to go after him, Rhea. I was hurting that bad."
Samantha felt a comforting hand on her shoulder.
"Then someone said something to me that I'll never forget."
Samantha's voice quieted and slowed.
"Six simple words, one simple question."
Rhea leaned in, her brows furrowed in concern. Samantha locked eyes with her and held them fast.
"He said 'Who are you going to be?'"
Samantha's hand rose to cover Rhea's.
"You're not alone in your grief, Rhea. So who are you going to be?"
A dark veil lifted from Rhea's face to reveal self-aware comprehension. Her features melted into sorrow and shame. Samantha embraced the grieving woman as she let loose, bracing her against the shuddering sobs that overtook her. The gun fell from her fingers. Samantha reached out with her mind, intercepting it before it could hit the street below and guiding it back up to the terrace. Rhea's emotional storm eventually blew itself out. Samantha replaced the goggles and gym towel and stepped from the ledge.
"If you want to jump, I won't stop you. It's your life. Your choice. Good luck, Rhea."
Samantha turned and shot into the sky, welcoming the smile that creased her face. The rushing wind pressed the malodorous towel against her nose, but this time she didn't care.
The Mount Vernon trail stretched ahead, the asphalt absorbing the atypical warmth of the November day. Twin pony tails bounced in perfect unison with the rubbery footfalls of sneakers, one short and squirrel brown, the other long and golden.
"How fast do you think you can run?"
Marissa's question squeezed through the rapid rhythm of her breathing.
"I mean, like, if you really put your mind to it."
Samantha nodded to a passing jogger.
"I don't know, why?"
Her answer flowed as easily as if they were sitting in Pitango Gelato eating ice cream, despite the fact that they had already covered a full mile without stopping.
"Asking for a friend."
Samantha thought back to the time she had tried to answer that question for herself on this very same path.
God, that seems like so long ago.
"I don't know," she repeated. "Fast."
"How fast?"
"Really fast."
Marissa pressed a hand against the stitch in her side.
"Yeah, but how fast do you think?"
Samantha glanced at her friend. All but a few of the perspiration droplets that dotted Marissa's face had developed into tributaries that now merged at her narrow chin to splash against the neck of her black concert tee.
"Really, really fast," said Samantha. "I'm also good at stopping, too. Wanna see?"
Marissa nodded, and the pair moved off the trail into the shade of a young oak. Marissa collapsed onto a park bench and wiped at her face with a moist forearm while sucking in breaths. Samantha hiked a leg over the back of the bench and leaned into a stretch.
"Do you really need to stretch?" Marissa said.
"I doubt it, but it's good for appearances."
A quartet of cyclists passed by in single file, greeting the young women with curt nods as they coasted by in fluorescent spandex jerseys. Marissa waited for her lungs to relax before continuing her interrogation.
"Faster than a jet?"
Samantha switched legs.
"I hope I never have to find out. Faster than an Apache helicopter, though. I can confirm that one, Counselor."
Marissa doubled over to retie her bright blue running shoe.
"Do you ever wish you could go back to...to you know...being—"
"Normal?"
Samantha's counter question was muffled as her cheek pressed into her knee.
"I was going to say 'like us', but that's probably no better."
Samantha hopped on her toes and shook out her hands.
Good question.
"It would be nice to have the luxury of being careless sometimes. You know, to not have to worry about consequences. Slam a door without taking out the dry wall, for example."
Marissa nodded.
"So it's about control."
"Totally. I had to learn control. I'm still learning. I scared the shit out of Mal the other day when I shattered a jar of pickles. Did you know that cats have a really impressive vertical?"
Marissa snickered.
"Poor little guy."
Their footfalls drummed on the path as they began the return journey.
"What you did for that woman, that was amazing," Marissa managed between huffs and puffs. "As if the media didn't love you before!"
Samantha didn't reply right away.
What do I say? Thanks?
She decided on: "You would have done the same thing."
Marissa pinched her T-shirt at the center of her chest and pumped it several times to increase the air flow.
"I don't know. I think I would have telekin...telekinesed...how would you even say that?"
"Levitated her to the ground?"
"Exactly."
Samantha shook her head, interrupting the synchronicity of their pony tails.
"Then what's to stop her from practicing her Olympic diving from the top of another building tomorrow or the next day?"
Marissa's Adidas scuffed against the pavement. Her eyes drifted to the Potomac which ran alongside them.
"Sorry," Samantha said, "that was a shitty thing to say. What I meant was... Well, I'm not sure what I meant but I hope she gets the help she needs. Depression is no joke."
Samantha braced herself for the therapy-related line of questioning that she assumed would follow in short order. It didn't, but she could almost hear the gears cranking in Marissa's sharp mind as she plodded along beside her. The next quarter mile was spent listening to the staccato of their feet.
"Samantha?"
"Yeah?"
"I have to tell you something."
At Marissa's urging, they veered off the path onto a shady knoll that provided a stunning view of the city across the river. Samantha checked her fitness band, her chest rising and falling with the same frequency as someone who had risen from their couch to get a fresh soft drink. Marissa revolved around her, hands planted on hips as she tried to lower her heart rate enough to speak. Samantha rebound her hair, silent as she watched her friend's pacing batten down the sod in the beginnings of what would be a very deep trench if she didn't stop to tell Samantha what it was she had stopped to tell her. Samantha had an inkling of what it might be.
"Listen, Samantha," Marissa said without slowing her circuitous route. "I don't think I can hold this in anymore but you have a right to know and maybe I shouldn't say anything but it's really important and I wouldn't feel right if—"
"You're gay."
Marissa slammed into an imaginary brick wall, her nervous inertia halted in the span of one of her frantic heartbeats. Her face dropped, jaw slack and eyes the diameter of doorknobs.
"No!"
Samantha cocked her head and let the smirk come.
"Well, yes, but that's not what I wanted to... Holy shit! Really, Samantha?"
"Look, Marissa, I may be into guys but I have pretty good gaydar. I'm family of family, remember? By the way, do people still say 'gaydar'? It's hard to keep up with that stuff these days."
Samantha had never seen Marissa make the sign of the cross before.
"Mary Mother of God, Samantha! What was it? The towel snapping incident?"
"Are we qualifying that as an incident? I thought we were just fucking around. No, I'd say it was the obscure, genderless references to this mystery person you're seeing."
Marissa planted her palms over her scalp before shooting her arms out to the sides in exasperation.
"You do you, sister," Samantha said. "Now can we finish our run? There is some leftover goulash at home with my name on it. It's starting to smell funny and I can't wait another day to put it out of its misery."
"No! Samantha, that's not what I—wow, okay—let me start over. Samantha, we found her."
Now it was Samantha's turn to react. Her smooth facade faltered as faces of people—female people—who were lost and needed to be found flickered through her mental rolodex. The search was over in an instant, and Samantha felt sweat break out for the first time since stepping foot on the Mount Vernon Trail that afternoon. The inevitable question escaped from her mouth in a viscous sludge.
"You found who?"
Marissa's eyes left the ground and traveled in slow motion as they made their way to Samantha's. Her dry lips parted. The three syllables took forever to form, and sounded as if they had been uttered from the bottom of a well.
"Galina."
PART TWO
MEAN OLD LEVEE
THE BOUNTY OF SIR RALEIGH'S first chartered expedition had been two savages whom were brought before the Queen herself, much to the delight of the court. As a lady-in-waiting, Ana was close to the throne when the heathens were presented amid trumpeted fanfare. She didn't think they looked so barbaric. They reminded her of the men from her childhood, torsos wrapped in skins for warmth during the long hunt. Women weren't permitted to be part of the second expedition, but Ana was very adept at persuasion and was among the first in line for the third voyage which encouraged families to help colonize the new land.
Ana experienced a new kind of terror as she watched the coastline disappear. She spent the first days retching over the port side of the small vessel, unable to cope with the disorienting sensation of being surrounded by nothing but open water. Reassuring words from the crew helped her through the initial leg of the journey, but one man took it upon himself to care for her when she was at her worst. Thomas Claybrook was a skilled carpenter whose wife had succumbed to the bloody flux mere weeks before the Lyon set sail. He was both forthright and kind, stern yet supportive. The clergyman joined them in holy matrimony when she had finally found her sea legs and was able to stand beside Thomas. Ana became aware of her pregnancy the day she took her first step into the New World.
Eleanor gave birth to little Virginia soon after they arrived, bringing a welcome joy to the colonists, a momentary respite from the hardship of their new lives. Ana hated her for it. Though she had given birth many times in her long life, a daughter continued to elude her.
Edmund came into the world early the following year, and Ana took to calling her son Croatoan after the friendly Croatan tribe that lived nearby and sometimes emerged from the woods carrying venison to ease their plight. The colonists didn't care for the nickname, Thomas in particular, but Ana insisted that it was representative of Edmund's wild nature. He found his way into everything the moment he learned to crawl, and had just taken his first steps when his gift revealed itself.
The small family had just sat down for prayer. Thomas was reading a passage from the book of Deuteronomy when his solemnity was interrupted by Edmund fussing at Ana's breast.
"Hush the boy!"
Thomas's growled command was expected but not forgiven. The stress of maintaining the colony was a heavy yoke upon them all. Relief supplies had never arrived and they were on the verge of starvation.
"He is hungry, husband," Ana said. "Do not feign that we are not bound for perdition lest we are relieved. And soon."
Thomas's fist slammed into the table, upsetting the tallow candle that illuminated the pages of the holy book in his hand. Edmund squirmed in Ana's arms and reached for the flame that now licked at the roughshod surface of the table. The fire leapt at Thomas as he reached out to right the candle, forming into an orb that hovered above the tabletop an instant before it exploded. Ana tumbled from the chair, losing her grip on her son. Thomas leapt to his feet and backed away in terror, swatting at his beard to beat out the flames that had been born there. Edmund wailed in fear and confusion from the floor until Ana regained her senses and scooped him up.
*Be still, Croa. Be still, my son.*
Edmund stared into his mother's eyes with comprehension and quieted. Ana dared to look at Thomas. He retreated from his wife and son, whiskers smoldering and eyes wide.
"Say naught, my love," Ana said.
Thomas stormed from their modest, one-room dwelling. Ana's pleas followed him.
"Prithee! Mercy!"
They came for Edmund that night.
Ana had dozed off despite her best attempts to stay vigilant and protect her son should the need arise. She awoke to find her arms stretched behind her, coarse hemp rope digging into her wrists. Her head throbbed, the left temple a wicked knot of pain. Something dug into her back. She smelled timber. Ana didn't become fully aware of her dire situation until she spied Edmund across from her, bound to a fresh-cut sapling atop stacks of kindling. Colonists surrounded them, many bearing torches that were hoisted into the night amid calls of "Witch!" and "Demon Child!" Virginia buried her face in Eleanor's kerchief. Thomas stood still and silent at the back of the mob, eyes downcast.
Torches were thrown at Edmund's feet, their burning tips taking hold of the kindling with ravenous hunger. Ana's head swam as her child was engulfed in flames, her vision waxing and waning in a struggle to retain consciousness. The colonists had just aimed their chattering hysteria at Ana when the booming voice of Ronald Farrier drowned them out.
"By all that is holy!"
An inferno roared around Edmund, licking up the sapling at his back and illuminating his frightened expression in an angry glow. The toddler bawled and cried out for his mother. His clothes had burned away, but he was otherwise unharmed. Bloodthirsty voices faded into mute incomprehension when Edmund, his hemp restraints now casualties of the raging fire, ran to Ana and ducked beneath her skirts for protection. The boy's skin was cool against her leg. Not a single wispy hair on his head had been singed.
Ana ceased her struggles as anger fueled her, replacing bewildered helplessness with calm purpose. She didn't need her hands for what was to come next.
These people had tried to murder her child.
The colonists converged on her with caution, some brandishing knives and farming implements while others hoisted firearms. Thomas was at the vanguard, packing powder into his hunting rifle.
Their weapons wouldn't save them. Ana whispered a prayer, then reached out to touch their minds.
Chapter Six
SAMANTHA FOLLOWED THE ORDERLY through the vacant, sterile hallway. A recessed ceiling light flickered at her from a side corridor as they passed, warning her in blinking Morse code to go no further. The aromas of unwashed bodies and bleach swirled about her, palpable and cloying. A hacking, congested cough echoed from somewhere.
Maybe I should turn around. What the hell am I doing here?
"Are you family?"
The orderly's accent was African, though Samantha didn't have the linguistic aptitude to determine where on the continent he was from. His white uniform showed failed attempts at stain removal, as evidenced by faded splotches of brownish-red and pale green. Samantha couldn't help but admire his devotion to his job. It appeared that his employers couldn't find the resources to provide fresh uniforms or working lights for their employees, although she had a strong feeling that this was the least of her escort's concerns. The man spent at least forty hours a week in a lair of despair.
"No," she said. "I'm studying social work. This interview is for a project I'm working on."
The orderly nodded.
"Why did you choose her?" he said.
Um...if I told you I'd have to kill you.
"When my professor gave us the list of inmates, I thought—"
"Patients. They're our patients."
"Right, your patients. Sorry. She just piqued my interest, being an immigrant in an American institution and all."
His eyebrow arched in confusion. He shrugged away an unspoken thought.
"What?" said Samantha. "Should I pick someone else?"
Fat chance of that.
"No, it's just... Well, you'll see. You're her first visitor since she arrived, so I'm sure you'll brighten her day."
They stopped before a nondescript door next to an emergency exit. Samantha hesitated when her eyes wandered to the dusty, cobwebbed exit sign. It had been a sign just like this that had guided her to freedom during her escape from this monster. Her palms grew hot even though they had slickened with a cool, nervous sweat.
What are you afraid of? She can't hurt you now. Never again.
"Try not to excite her too much," said the orderly. "I'll be at the nurse's desk right down the hall when you're ready to leave."
"Okay, thanks."
He left Samantha alone with her trepidation. She dried her hands on her jeans and steadied herself with a deep breath.
You have the upper hand. Let's do this.
She opened the door.
The room's only light was ambient, radiating through barred windows from an alleyway just beyond that rarely saw direct sunlight. A length of cracked, translucent plastic covered empty fixtures overhead where fluorescent bulbs had once lived. Black specks were visible through the plastic, transforming the cover's purpose into an insect graveyard. An iron-framed bed filled one corner, its yellowed sheets and blankets in disarray across a striped, thin mattress. A chest of drawers hugged the opposite wall, the surface barely visible beneath the clutter of pill bottles extending into the reflection of the dressing mirror that rose from the rear of the dilapidated piece of furniture. Samantha entered and closed the door behind her with quiet care.
The woman sat in front of the window with her back to Samantha, looking through the thin bars onto the unadorned brick wall of the adjacent building. Samantha suspected that faraway memories were being projected onto the blank mortar, images of happier times. The wheelchair rotated with a mechanical whir, the sudden motion causing a colostomy bag to slap against a spoked wheel, disturbing its contents. Samantha hurried to the bed and sat down before her legs failed her. The whirring stopped when they were face to face.
What remained of the woman's mane of thick, platinum blonde hair was an unkempt nest that perched in stringy clumps on the top and right side of her head. Ripples of puffy, welted skin stretched across the left side of her scalp and continued all the way to her chin, the result of a botched grafting procedure that hadn't yet healed. The right side of her face was unmarred except for purple-brown rings below a dark, beady eye that issued unabashed hatred in Samantha's direction. To its left was a mass of angry, swollen tissue that hadn't yet reached the point of scarification. The socket was hollow, a crater of injury where shadows played. Her lips were misshapen worms that had been left in the sun too long, the left corner curled downward into a permanent frown. A strand of spittle dripped from that corner to connect with the shoulder of her filthy gown. It broke, leaving a droplet hanging from her chin like a spider on a drop line. This was the face that had inhabited Samantha's nightmares for months, but her nocturnal imaginings couldn't compete with the reality of the ruined countenance before her.
"Hello, Galina," Samantha said.
Galina's good eye searched Samantha as though trying to determine if she was an apparition, another phantom summoned to taunt her in hell. Her body was frail now, a mere afterimage of the husky frame that Samantha remembered, and it began to shake when Galina realized that her former prisoner sat before her in the flesh.
"I have to say, you look like a proper supervillain now."
Samantha painted a smug grin onto her face, despite the fact that her insides were churning.
Be strong, Sammy. Don't give her the satisfaction.
Galina didn't reply. Her shaking redoubled.
"Nothing to say? Okay, I'll do the talking. It was really—"
The creature that had once been Samantha's torturer lurched from the chair with a reedy, strangled cry. Her right arm extended with fingers curled into claws. Samantha reared back, avoiding the talons that sought her eyes, and shoved Galina back into her chair with a telekinetic thrust. The wheelchair skidded backwards, the left wheel catching on the corner of the chest of drawers and spinning Galina about. Several pill bottles overturned from the collision and clattered to the dingy floor.
She's completely lost it. Does she really think she can hurt me?
Oh. Wait....
Samantha seized the chair with her mind and dragged Galina back to face her. Her voice was low and dangerous, frightening even to her own ears.
"You want me to kill you, don't you? End your miserable, pathetic existence."
Galina heaved herself at Samantha again. Samantha restrained her former tormentor with a thought and leaned forward until she could feel Galina's fetid breath on her face. The single, beady eye went wide, darting between Samantha's eyes with surprising agility.
"You don't get off that easy," Samantha said, releasing her hold on Galina and returning to an upright sitting position.
Samantha waited for an overconfident retort, maybe an impotent threat, but Galina was silent. What followed was a grueling stare down, a contest of wills. Samantha claimed victory when Galina's only functioning eye teared up and she was forced to turn away to preserve what little dignity she had left. Galina's attempt to swallow was painful to watch. The right side of her face twisted in discomfort. A fresh filament of saliva descended from her gnarled lip.
Oh my god. How did I miss that?
"The electricity fried your vocal cords, didn't it? Paralyzed you."
Samantha's natural inclination was to show compassion, but she was all out of compassion at the moment. Her voice reached her ears through a filter of cold detachment.
"Good. I'm glad. I really am, you evil bitch. I thought I'd killed you. Too bad for you, I guess. This looks a thousand times worse."
Galina's gaze fell to the floor as Samantha continued.
"Someone very dear to me once said that I wasn't a killer, that I didn't have it in me. But you know what? It would so be easy. Right here. Right now. I could rip you apart, tear you limb from limb without batting an eye. Finish it. I could reach into that withered chest of yours and squeeze your black heart without ever breaking your skin. The autopsy would never show that there was foul play. You'd be free of this prison. Free of that chair. Free of me."
The paralyzed woman's head jerked up at that. A gleam was born in her eye, and grew brighter as the right side of her mouth managed a twisted rendition of a smile.
She thinks that's funny? Is she begging me to do it, or...? No, that's not amusement. That's victory.
"Oh no, Galina. I said 'could'. But I won't. And do you know why?"
Samantha rested her elbows on her knees and tented her fingers.
"Because you are the monster. Not me. You tricked me into becoming my own captor, held by the very fact that I am a good person and not someone who would let a poor family from Louisiana die so that I could save myself. So I let you torture me. Let you try to brainwash me. But know this, Galina. It was always my choice. You were never truly in control."
I wish that sounded more convincing.
Galina's able hand moved to the control stick mounted on the chair's arm and tried to turn it away, but Samantha held her fast.
"You were good at what you did. I'll give you that. A true sculptor, as Braithwaite put it. Making me believe that you were holding a family as hostages against my cooperation was inspired. I didn't want to believe it when I found the speakers. I still don't want to believe that I could be that foolish, that gullible. How many hours did I hang in chains listening to recorded screams? You even...you even made me believe there was a child! Where did those screams come from, Galina? Were they real people once upon a time? Previous projects of yours? Previous sculptures?"
Samantha rose from the bed and put her back to Galina, refusing to show the tears of anger that threatened to blur her vision. Raindrops pattered against the window, growing in size and frequency. She gathered herself and spun back around.
"Did you know that Braithwaite was going after my family? All that time that you kept me in those chains, freezing and starving, muscles cramped from the water and the electrocutions, did you know that he was abducting my father and brother?"
Galina's face was impassive. Samantha hands balled into fists.
"Did you?"
Of course she did.
"How did you even end up here? Did your flunkies recover from the thrashing I gave them and get you out of that abandoned power station? Try to smuggle you out of the country? I guess you didn't get very far, huh?"
Why does that even matter? What are you doing, Sammy? Shit or get off the pot.
"I don't even know why I'm here, Galina. My therapist asked me—yeah, I'm in therapy now. I appreciate that, thanks. She asked me what I'd say to you if I had the chance. Now that I'm here, I just don't know. Not really. I feel like I haven't said it yet, despite my...."
Samantha threw her head back and laughed.
"For fuck's sake! I'm monologuing! Just like you used to do!"
Samantha slipped her hand into her back pocket and moved to the chest of drawers. She unfolded a piece of card stock and tucked it into the corner of the mirror's frame.
"Okay, I'll let you get back to staring at a brick wall. I'll be back though, so I need to you stay alive a while longer."
Samantha went to the door but paused there, her hand resting on the doorknob. She spoke over her shoulder.
"I'm either going to forgive you or I'm going to end you, Galina, and I'm just not ready to do either one."
When she had gone, Galina rolled to the mirror and investigated what Samantha had left there. It was a postcard with bright, blocky letters printed amid a swirl of blues, yellows and reds.
Greetings from Louisiana!
She would have ripped it from the mirror and torn it to pieces if she'd had the strength and motor control to do so. She instead stared at the postcard in mute fascination, the only splash of color in her drab existence.
Alan was already there, ignoring the cold rain that saturated his black derby cap as he knelt in the young grass. His lips were moving, forming words that Samantha couldn't hear until she was almost upon him, but he fell silent and rose to greet her when she drew near.
"There's my girl," he said, kissing the top of her wet Cincinnati Reds ball cap as he slipped his arm around her shoulders.
"Hi Daddy."
She never missed Sundays with her father. Sometimes that meant a video call if he was on assignment out of state or overseas, but both of them kept the date like clockwork.
"How's that boy?" Alan said.
She thought her father had been joking when he said that he refused to refer to David by name until he had "passed muster," despite her constant reassurances that their relationship was professional only. He hadn't been kidding, apparently. It was no secret that her father had picked up on her attraction to David, the man who had a tendency to scold Samantha when she made mistakes such as losing her cool and beating up human traffickers before their buyer showed up.
But also the man with the rock-hard buns.
"That boy is just fine, thank you very much," she elbowed him gently in the ribs. "He's a good boss and a good man."
"Boss. Right."
Samantha bent over to straighten a white rose that had strayed from the arrangement.
"Still going to your sessions?"
"Yes, Daddy."
I went to see Galina.
"And?"
"We're making progress."
I crippled her.
"Good," he said. "It'll take time, but you need to keep working at it."
"I know. It's just so damn hard."
I want to kill her, Daddy.
"Harder than taking on two Apache war helicopters?"
"Touché, sir," Samantha said. "I'm a mess every time I leave Janine's office. I swear I'm going to buy stock in Kleenex. Who makes Kleenex, anyway?"
"Kleenex, I think."
She elbowed him again.
"You're stronger than anyone I know. You're going to be fine," he said.
No, I'm not. She almost broke me.
"Daddy, things are going to get harder now that I've...now that I've decided to, well, you know."
"I know. But you made the right choice. The world needs you. Perhaps now more than ever."
He cleared his throat and shoved his hands in his coat pockets.
"What does that mean?" she said.
"Nothing. I shouldn't have said that. Listen, so how is—"
"No, Daddy. Don't change the subject. What did you mean by that?"
Alan's hand covered her shoulder and gave it a comforting squeeze.
"Sammy, I hear things at work. Being a diplomat gives you access to a lot of classified information, but with that comes hearsay and rumor. Part of my job is to pick through those rumors and figure out what is viable information so that I can pass it along to my superiors. I have a knack for filtering out the bullshit."
"You've been doing it a long time."
He nodded and continued.
"Things are happening at the highest levels of government, decisions being made that are ill-informed and out of character. Not just here at home, but among the most powerful nations. The repercussions are small right now, but have the potential for a major crisis. This thing with the Oman Accords was just the beginning."
Holy shit.
She could sense that he wanted to say more, but didn't press him. His oath to the country included not sharing classified information. Even with his family.
"Maybe you could talk with David," she said. "He might know something you don't. He could help."
"I don't know, Sammy. I've already said more than I should have. I didn't mean to worry you. You have enough going on. I'm sorry."
She curled her arm around his and leaned her head on his shoulder, ignoring the cold rain on her ear. There was no more conversation as they stood side by side before the fresh gravestone. The name etched into granite tore at them, the wound still raw and oozing. It read:
Cole McAllister.
Chapter Seven
DAVID HEARD LIGHT FOOTFALLS ON THE STAIRCASE as the entry door closed. A chill draft wafted upwards, carrying Samantha's voice.
"Hello? David?"
Heavy bags and other training implements hovered like silent spectators just outside of the glow from the light fixture suspended over the boxing ring in the center of the spacious gym. David leaned against the ropes and waited for Samantha to materialize from the darkness.
"What do you think?" David said, tossing his phone atop his leather jacket which was draped over a nearby bench. "A bartender friend of mine owns it. Ex-boxer."
Samantha approached the bench, shrugging off her windbreaker and dropping it next to David's jacket. She was clad in workout clothes. Black leggings, a light sweatshirt and sneakers. Her long hair was pinned into a loose bun.
"It's...charming?"
David turned to grab the top rope with both hands and lowered himself into a deep stretch.
"Not the word I would use."
Samantha nodded at him.
"We're training tonight, right?"
David caught her meaning and looked down at his attire. He was clothed in the collared button down, dark jeans and hiking boots he had donned that morning.
"Yeah," he said. "It's never a bad idea to train in whatever you're wearing. You never know when you might get into a real situation."
Samantha climbed onto the raised platform and ducked under the ropes.
"Then I'm glad you didn't tell me we were going to the opera. It tends to be hard for ladies to move around in evening gowns."
David had been quite blunt about informing her that she didn't know how to fight. He expected the defensive arguments to come at him from a variety of angles—emotional, intellectual, and cavalier—but they hadn't. She had simply paused a tick before saying, "Okay, teach me." The convincing explanation that David had rehearsed, formulated from repeated viewings of the videos wherein she had been manhandled by the stone creature, was abandoned as a result of her unexpected compliance. It was a refreshing reprieve from her headstrong manner.
"Show me what you got," David said as he moved to the center of the ring.
Samantha followed him, her lips sliding into a sarcastic grin.
"Excuse me? Not even going to buy me dinner first?"
"Come on. Put 'em up."
She held her fists out before her.
"No, here."
David repositioned her fists close to her jaw and pressed her elbows in toward her body.
"Now tuck your chin and look at me from beneath your brow ridge."
She did so.
"That's it," David said. "Now hit me."
Samantha lowered her arms and raised her chin.
"Are you serious?"
"That's what we're here for, right? Hit me."
"But what if I—"
"You'll never get close. Go on."
Samantha fired a straight left to his nose, but David's head was no longer there. His right palm rested against the back of her fist.
"Again," he said. "This time retract your fist faster. Don't leave it out there as a target."
She fired another shot. Again, David moved his body out of the line of her attack and slapped her fist away.
"Lesson one," he said. "Redirection."
Samantha's eyes squinted in confusion.
"Here. Hold up your hand. Flat, like this."
She mimicked his motion by placing her palm out, fingers toward the ceiling as though she were pressing her hand against a wall. David pushed his fist into her palm and locked his arm for stability. He leaned forward, letting her palm take his weight. Samantha didn't budge, but a normal woman of her size would have staggered backward.
"Feel that? You're meeting force with force."
She nodded.
"This time push that incoming energy to the side instead of meeting it head on."
He leaned in with his fist. She pushed it away with a lateral, sweeping motion of her hand.
"See? Doesn't take nearly as much energy, does it?"
"No, it doesn't."
David let his arm drop to his side.
"This is the most important lesson, Samantha, especially for you. If you get into it with someone—or something—that matches your strength, you're going to have to redirect. Otherwise, any of us normal folks would be endangered by the shockwave that would be created by the collision of such devastating force. Remember the crater in Manassas?"
"Inertial dispersion or force redistribution or whatever the hell Evan called it. How could I forget such Star Trekky concepts?"
"Yeah. No need to level buildings when you can just redirect. Or better yet, don't even be there when the strike comes in. Let's drill out some basic footwork."
They spent the better part of an hour working on footwork fundamentals before moving on to more advanced drills. David would feed jab-and-cross combinations while Samantha parried, sidestepped or countered. She flowed through the movements with a grace he didn't know she possessed; either she had been a dancer at some point in her life or she was a natural fighter. Perhaps both.
"Good," David said. "Very good."
He retrieved a towel from the corner turnbuckle and mopped at his forehead, noting that Samantha showed only the slightest sheen of perspiration. She was barely even warmed up, as far as he could tell. She waited for him, hands hung on the back of her neck and eyes following the small circles drawn on the canvas by the toe of her sneaker. An errant image formed in David's mind, a bird's eye view of them lying naked on the floor of the boxing ring, him covered in sweat and trying to catch his breath while she pushed at the cuticle of her thumb with a forefinger, waiting patiently for him to be able to perform again. He realized he was focusing on the way her workout pants hugged at the curves of her hips and wrangled himself back the matter at hand.
"Do you ever watch UFC fights? You know, MMA?" David said.
"Yeah. We used to pipe in the big fights through satellite in the bar at the Bibbing Plot. The regulars loved it. Why?"
David tossed the towel onto the top rope and turned to face her.
"Most fights—street fights, I mean—end up on the ground. You can be as quick and light on your feet as Ali, but a good wrestler will jam you up and take you down. You need to learn some grappling techniques."
Samantha crossed her arms and smiled.
"I do? I'd say I did pretty well against a freak of nature made of marble."
David's right eyebrow arched in amusement.
"No, what you did was you bull rushed blindly into something three times your size. Granted, it was a good move to take that thing into the air, but you might not always have that option."
Her smile disappeared.
"Now attack me."
Samantha didn't hesitate this time. David laid her out flat on her stomach, twisting her arm behind her in a hold that put immense pressure on her elbow and shoulder joints.
"This is an arm bar," David said. "You probably don't feel the pain but everyone else will. Trust me."
He released her and stood. She followed, straightening her sweatshirt.
"Do it again, but slowly so I can see," said Samantha.
She launched her right cross at a snail's pace, watching closely as David parried, grabbed, and twisted her wrist, then pressed his opposite forearm against her elbow while pivoting his body. She was circled to the floor, her attacking arm held immobile at an unnatural angle.
"There are a lot of options from here," he said, continuing the demonstration by pressing his knee into the back of her neck and twisting her trapped arm.
David let her go and backed away as she climbed to her feet. They reversed roles, Samantha practicing the takedown several times before they moved on to similar applications.
"Let's put it all together," David said. "Closing the distance, initial striking, and then into grappling and submission."
He put her through several offensive and defensive drills, taking note of her quick comprehension of the evening's lessons and her impressive muscle memory.
"Don't forget to keep your structure stable, and mind your footwork. Those are essential," he said, beckoning her forward. "Again."
She attacked, taking him to the ground with a shoulder drag and tangling him up with a figure-four arm lock. His free hand inadvertently pressed into her breast as he fought for balance. Samantha let him go and stepped back, looking away as she readjusted her hair which had become unfurled from the loose bun.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to—"
"It's okay."
The pause that followed was pregnant with tension.
"It's just that you've been known to break hands for stuff like that."
Samantha's laugh radiated throughout the large gym.
"I'll give you a pass."
Another silence.
"Let's do some light sparring before we call it a night," David said after clearing his throat. "See what you've learned."
He circled her with his body at an angle to present as few targets as possible. She mirrored him, her hands in loose fists at her chin as she had been taught, elbows in and footsteps light and sure. He was the first to attack, a cross-hook combination that Samantha parried and slipped. She countered with an uppercut that David evaded with ease. They broke apart and settled into another mutual revolution.
"Remember your tools. Use them."
Samantha feinted a jab to his jaw then dove for his legs. David saw it coming and dropped his weight while kicking his feet out behind him, robbing her of her objective. On a whim, he seized the hood of her sweatshirt and pulled it over her face with a swift jerk. He passed behind her and took her down by the right leg, which he bent backward until the heel of her sneaker dug into the small of her back. She tapped out and stood up, pushing away the hood to reveal a freckled face painted with frustration.
"How was that even remotely fair?"
"Hey," David replied, spreading his hands as his mouth curled into a cocky grin, "you have to use every advantage."
"Oh really?"
Samantha unzipped the sweatshirt and sent it flying into a corner. David's eyes flickered over her two-toned sports bra and the smooth, flat belly below it before blinking back to her face.
Her grin was every bit as cocky.
She launched a flurry of combinations before he could recover, and had him backed him into a corner despite his calculated parries. He anticipated her elbow grab and reversed it, using the newfound leverage to force her into the center of the ring. A well-placed foot tripped her up and had her sitting on her rear end trying to grasp what had just happened.
"Again," David said, moving into a flanking position.
Her fist slammed into the floor, stopping just short of cracking it.
"Don't break my friend's boxing ring. Get up."
She rose just in time to reel back as he pressed in. She managed to deflect the cross and uppercut, but not the follow up. His arm slipped under her armpit as he stepped behind her, pulling her into him and flipping her to the canvas using his hip as a fulcrum.
"Again."
She launched herself at him from the canvas, abandoning all technique. He tripped her again, sending her left cheek skidding across the ring floor before her body came to a stop against the corner post. She muttered something too low for David to comprehend. It didn't sound pleasant.
"Don't lose control," he said. "Again."
Samantha picked herself up and spun on David, returning to the guard position and starting a clockwise movement around him.
"That's it," he said, testing her with an exploratory jab.
She responded with her own jab, followed by a cross that was really a sneaky ruse. David fell for it this time.
He slapped the jab away but, when his other arm came up to intercept the fake cross, Samantha pulled the punch and relaxed her fist to grab him instead. She rotated his arm and clamped down with her other hand, forcing him to his toes before shifting her weight. David found himself on his back. Samantha dropped her knee onto his chest and held his trapped arm against her shoulder.
"Tap out," she said.
David grimaced as she applied pressure, mindful of the fact that she could tear his arm from his torso on a whim. She was holding back. She had to. He had a counter for the hold, but didn't implement it. She needed a win after the abuse he'd handed out. Besides, he'd been in worse situations than being tied up like a pretzel by a pretty girl. He tapped out.
Samantha released his arm, but threw her legs over his torso and lowered her weight to keep him flat on his back. Her lips pressed against his, then were gone.
"Samantha...."
She splayed her hands wide and cocked her head.
"Hey. Every advantage, right?"
David felt her warmth against his stomach and decided to stay where he was.
Samantha loosened her hair and shook it free, then hovered over him with hands planted on the mat to either side of his neck. David was transfixed by the thick locks that cascaded into a golden waterfall over his head. He smelled lavender and vanilla. Her voice was a whisper.
"Isn't that right, Paperboy?"
His head left the canvas to meet her lips halfway. The skin of her back was cool against his palm as her perspiration evaporated in the drafty gym. She seemed so fragile as her body lowered to his, feminine softness that belied the raw power she commanded. Their breathing quickened, eager hands exploring each other and tugging at offending clothes that needed to be banished.
A series of digital chirps erupted from the bench outside of the ring.
David cursed as he sat up, planting one hand behind him for support while holding Samantha against him with the other, unwilling to let her go. Her lips found his neck when he turned to shoot daggers at his smartphone. It replied to the glare with another series of chirps. David groaned and pushed Samantha away with slow tenderness, smoothing her hair over her ears and planting a kiss on the hot skin of her forehead.
"Really?" she said.
"I'm sorry," he said. "It's...I have to take this."
"You're kidding me right now."
It took tremendous effort for David to extricate himself from her. He ducked between the ropes and dropped to the floor, snatching up his phone amid another string of curses. He unlocked it and checked the text message.
Rover XX
David deciphered the meaning. His sigh came all the way from his toes as he watched Samantha pulling on her sweatshirt in silence.
"I have to go," he said, checking his watch against the twenty-minute time frame he had been given.
She jumped to the floor, then placed her hands on his shoulders and rose to her toes to reach his ear.
"Go get 'em, big guy," she whispered, delivering a delicate bite to his earlobe before backing away with a mischievous wink. "Hope it's worth it."
She retrieved her windbreaker and made her way to the staircase without another word.
"This had better be good," he growled.
Franklin Delano Roosevelt watched David emerge from the darkness. Little Fala's ears were erect, his protective canine instincts preserved in the same bronze as his master. David never understood why the Scottish Terrier had been included in the design for the memorial. He had nothing against dogs, he just preferred more masculine breeds. Dogs that were big enough to wrestle around with.
"You know your codenames."
The voice came from the waterfall across the way. Tony sat on the edge of the pool, ignoring the mist that sprayed onto his coal trench coat. David crossed the distance between them.
"Rover was the First Lady's code name," David said. "Why not use FDR's?"
Tony shrugged.
"I don't think old FDR had one, did he?"
David shoved his hands into his jeans to warm them, scanning the area to make sure they were alone. Of course they were. It was almost midnight.
"Ebbitt's or Tapio's would have been warmer," David said, "and they have better scotch."
"Too many ears. Hope I didn't pull you away from anything important."
David scoffed.
"You did."
Tony's chuckle was drowned by the crashing water behind him.
"I guarantee that what I have to say eclipses whatever you were doing at eleven-thirty on a Friday night. Unless it was tail. Was it tail?"
David's face was unreadable.
"Shit, I'm sorry," Tony said.
"Come on, man," David said, pulling his jacket tighter around him. "Stop with the Deep Throat business. What do you have for me?"
"Okay, I'll get right to it. Things have changed."
David's thoughts returned to the canvas floor of the boxing ring. Soft lips. Hot breath.
"You're telling me," he said.
Tony didn't acknowledge David's opaque comment.
"They're looking for her, David. The agencies are on high alert. She's top priority now."
David took an involuntary, retreating step away from Tony.
"Which agencies?"
"All of them."
David felt his nape hairs prickle. He searched for Tony's eyes in the shadows that played beneath the felt brim of Tony's fedora. What was he really trying to say? After all, it had been Tony who had provided the dossier on Evan Douglas, and Samantha's name had been listed among Douglas's known associates. Evan Douglas, the CIA operative who also happened to be Samantha's ex-boyfriend. Evan Douglas, the man who had given her up to the government after discovering her powers. The man who had almost gotten her locked away in a deep, secret government hole for the rest of her life. David relaxed his fist, unaware that he had clenched it.
"Have you noticed that POTUS hasn't given an official statement?" Tony said. "We all saw the girl flying around over the nation's capital, and yet the White House remains silent. Why do you think that is?"
"Because he has nothing to say."
David had already worked it out. The White House doesn't know who she is, so they won't address the press until they have something concrete. Like her identity. David's mission was to make sure that it stayed that way. So why had Tony asked him here? He attempted to add it up on the fly.
Tony knew that David had worked the case last year, had been tasked with finding out who the mysterious flying girl really was. David had lied to Tony after the events that followed that tasking, saying that the case had gone cold after the death of Sharp, the NSA director that had given David the assignment in the first place. What then? There was no reason he and Tony should be having this conversation. Was Tony probing him for intel?
David turned away when Tony's immediate reply wasn't forthcoming. His fingers stroked the stubble on his chin.
Tony didn't know. That had to be it. Samantha was on David's payroll, hiding in plain sight, and Tony still hadn't put it together. Perhaps he hadn't looked closely at the dossier, at Douglas's known associates. Perhaps his mind had been on other, more important matters at the time. Just another quick favor for David and then on with his life.
"That's true for the time being," Tony said. "But we're going to get that information for the President."
"You don't say. And how do they plan on finding out who she is?"
"David, they want to bring you in."
David wheeled on him.
"They or you? The CIA has tried to recruit me before, Tony. They go after black ops guys like me the second we take our boots off and hang up our service medals. They—you—already know I'm not interested. I'm a private consultant for a reason."
Tony rose and adjusted the fedora further back on his head, making sure David could see his eyes.
"We're under a lot of pressure. Heads are on the chopping block for this one, especially after what just happened on the mall. We could use you. Now is not the time for the lone wolf act."
"Forget it."
Tony sighed and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. David knew what would come next. He'd contracted with government intelligence agencies long enough to know their persuasion tactics.
"I can make a few calls," Tony said, "get you your pick of men. Cream of the crop, not up-and-comers still wet behind the ears. We have a lot of resources for this, David. But we also have a timeline. How about it?"
David shrugged.
"No thanks."
He waited for Tony's next bribe, but was in no way prepared for it when it came.
"Not sure if you're aware," Tony said, "but there's been a lot of chatter since she appeared on the scene."
David knew who he was referring to. He pushed away the sense memory of silky golden hair tickling his neck for the moment and focused on Tony's words.
"No one has come out and said it, but when the directive came down for the agencies to work together on this, well, some doors were opened that maybe weren't meant to be."
"As cryptic as ever, Tony."
"What I'm saying is that when you have every intelligence community being tossed together like pig slop in a pail, there's bound to be some bits that slip over the edge. Small bits, but very valuable if you're willing to get your hands dirty by picking them up."
David zipped his jacket higher, a subtle sign that he was about finished with Tony's puzzles. Tony took the hint and stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"You saw where Dietrich pulled out of the Accords?"
David nodded, his eyes narrowing.
"Unlike him, right?" Tony said. "Almost as if he were being coerced into doing it by someone. Or something."
The pieces of their conversation danced around David's brain, interlocking and separating, trying to find their place in the overall puzzle; the real reason Tony had summoned him.
Samantha.
David felt heat rising in his neck despite the November chill.
"What are you saying Tony?"
It was Tony's turn to shrug.
David had Tony up on his toes before he could blink, the front of his trench coat locked in David's grip. David's tone was deceptively calm as he repeated his question.
"What are you saying, Tony?"
"I forgot what a thug you are," Tony said through a smile.
David released him but stayed close, well within Tony's personal space.
"They have another one, David. Like her."
Tony stepped back and straightened the broad lapels of his coat.
"And I can tell you where."
Chapter Eight
GRANDI VINI'S ONLINE ADVERTISEMENT wasn't kidding when the store boasted about its Wall of Wine, promising "Floor-to-ceiling savings!" The ad had popped up on Samantha's Facebook timeline, in between a video of a cat somersaulting onto the back of a Saint Bernard—who happened to be an unwilling participant in the gymnastics routine—and a link to another mindless conspiracy article about Samantha's alter ego. This one theorized that she was the spawn of inter-dimensional aliens.
She questioned the wisdom of the wine store's marketing ploy as she stared up at the top shelf that was quite out of reach of any customer. Samantha had worked as a bartender and knew all about the top shelf connotation. Apparently Grandi Vini didn't want their patrons to have the best wines. Or maybe they had placed their most expensive vintages at eye level, turning the top shelf custom on its ear. She resisted the urge to perform a telekinetic rearrangement of their stock and looked for a nice red instead.
The young man in the suede jacket continued to send exploratory glances her way. She kept him in her peripheral vision, mildly annoyed that his attempts at flirtation were interfering with her decision making.
Is it flirtation, though? Maybe he recognizes you from the news. Maybe someone finally saw through your flimsy napkin disguise.
Samantha knelt to pull a bottle from the shelf at random, letting her hair fall to provide a protective screen for her features. It was a Bordeaux. She shook her head at the coincidence. David had ordered a Bordeaux that day at the Occidental. The napkin covering her nose and mouth had been stained with it.
David.
She had been dodging him since their near miss at the boxing gym a week earlier. It was a blatant freeze out. His texts had arrived in sporadic fashion, and Samantha had made sure to open her messaging app and tap his name so he knew she had read them. They were simple and direct, things like:
Good workout.
and
Keep practicing at home.
and
Sorry about cutting out on you.
and
We good?
Samantha hadn't replied. She thought she was above such games, but wanted to prove a point.
Which means I'm not above such games. Oh well.
Samantha rose with the bottle of Bordeaux and made her way to the check out line. The young man in the suede jacket had attractive eyes the color of molasses. He smiled at her as she passed. No recognition swam in that molasses. She returned the smile and kept moving. Her thoughts returned to David as she handed the dark bottle to the cashier.
Their relationship had been professional so far—aside from a fleeting, tender moment almost a year ago, just before her world had gone to hell—but he hadn't exactly fought her off when she had dipped her toe in the waters on the boxing ring floor.
Textus interruptus.
His most recent message had come in last night, changing the topic to business. She couldn't ignore that one.
Strategy meeting tomorrow at 8p. My place.
She was unwilling to thaw completely, and let an hour pass before she replied with a simple:
K
The brown paper sack crinkled around the bottle of Bordeaux as she cradled it against her forearm and opened the door to David's apartment building. She paused just inside, detecting a slight stir in her belly.
Was that the flutter of a butterfly wing, Sammy?
The door closed behind her. She moved to the elevator and tapped the up arrow.
Don't be silly. You're not some doe-eyed groupie. It was probably the chili dog you had for dinner.
The elevator doors closed with a chime. She pressed the button for the tenth floor. Her fingertip lingered over the Braille dots embossed on the metal plate next to the button.
You're overanalyzing. Just chill.
A meeting was just a meeting, after all. Still, she had made sure to shave her legs just in case. A girl had to be prepared, of course. She used the camera on her phone to take a final look at her hair before rapping her knuckles on the apartment door.
He's probably going to send you off on some dangerous mission in Timbuktu, and you're thinking about getting laid.
The door opened to reveal David's smile.
"Come in."
"Hey. I brought wine."
She moved past him into the apartment. The door locked behind her. She felt David assisting her with her coat.
"Thanks," she said as she took in his home, noting first that the blinds were closed over both the windows and the broad balcony doors that made up the back wall of his living room.
David retrieved a hanger from the coat closet.
"Cold out?" he said, slipping her garment into the closet.
Samantha loosened her cashmere scarf and continued her visual tour of his apartment. Half a dozen framed maps hung on the walls, providing the only decoration. The furniture was black leather, somewhere between expensive and comfortable. A large telescope rested on the floor just inside the balcony blinds. She smelled expensive after shave and old coffee.
"Getting there, yeah," she said, turning back to him. "I like your place."
David took the bottle from her and set it on the kitchen counter, then picked up a white mug and leaned against the sink. The smile with which he had greeted her returned to his face. He raised the mug to acknowledge her compliment.
"No you don't. You think it's spartan and drab. But thanks for trying. How is it that you've never been here before?"
"Because you've never invited me?" she said with a shrug. "And yeah, you could use a plant. Or a cat. Aquarium, maybe."
Her gaze fell over the clutter on his kitchen table. It was as though Radio Shack had vomited its inventory across the surface. She was raising her finger to point at the mess while formulating another sarcastic remark (most likely involving the terms dork and AV club) when David interrupted her with a nod.
"Turn around," he said, his grin widening as he looked past her.
Samantha's first reaction was disappointment. She couldn't help it. She had assumed—without good reason—that they were alone. But the feeling passed before she had finished her pivot, and was succeeded by mild shock that quickly dissolved into mirth.
Marissa emerged from the hallway wearing Samantha's leather cowl. She spun in a circle, arms outspread.
"Ta da!"
Samantha giggled.
"That thing is ridiculous," she said.
David stood next to her with his phone in hand.
That goddamned phone....
David had convinced her to leave the cowl with him during her mission to the border, saying that he might be able to make some improvements to it. He had become conspicuously busy when asked to clarify what he meant by "improvements," but she didn't press him on the issue. She had made it clear to him on several occasions that she would never wear the garish thing, so why would it matter what he did to it?
"Check it out," said David, offering her a view of his phone screen.
Their images were displayed there, the two of them staring at a device in David's palm. It took Samantha a second to realize that the feed originated from Marissa's point of view. She raised her eyes to Marissa, who turned her head from left to right. The motion was reflected on the small screen. It was then that she spied the tiny black cylinder mounted to the outside rim of the mask's left eye. Samantha couldn't resist stating the obvious.
"A camera."
"Cool, huh?" Marissa said.
She pulled the cowl from her head and finger-combed her mousy hair. Samantha pointed at her friend and hopped up and down in mock excitement.
"I knew it! I knew Marissa Sanchez was Hurricangel all along! They're never in the same place at the same time!"
"You mean Kinetic Star," Marissa said, tossing the mask to Samantha with a wink.
Samantha plucked it out of the air with her mind and levitated it closer to inspect the new addition. She didn't miss David's nervous glance at the blinded windows.
"Whatever you want to call her. Me, I mean," said Samantha. "So, what's the deal with this?"
"You're going to wear it," David said.
"No, I'm not."
"Yes, you are. This, too. And that."
He tossed a small, black box to her, then pointed to a sturdy black belt laden with pouches that was slung over the back of a kitchen chair. Samantha caught the box and flipped it open with her thumb. She found a tiny, flesh-colored earpiece nestled inside.
This looks familiar. That night with Evan. The test flight, yes.
"No," Samantha's voice left no room for further argument, "I'm not."
"Two-ways," Marissa said, scooting a chair from the table and taking a seat. "We'll have full audio-visual communication. Well, only two-way audio for you, but we'll able to see what you see. So awesome!"
Samantha blinked at Marissa in amazement.
"I'm sorry, am I speaking English? Or are you two just—"
David interjected.
"The earpiece and the camera are linked up to the cloud, meaning we should be able to maintain comms as long as you don't disappear to Antarctica or Siberia. Or burrow to the center of the earth."
"Or leave earth," Marissa added.
"Or leave earth," David confirmed.
Unbelievable. It's like I'm not even here.
Samantha let the cowl drop into her hands. Her fingers ran over the black and red leather, feeling the bumpy imperfections on its surface. Evan had made it for her, had hidden it with the intent to give it to her one day, but death had taken him before he'd had the chance. She had happened upon it by accident while rescuing Mal, his Siamese, who had drawn her attention to a note included with the cowl.
Don't be afraid.
She raised her eyes to her friends. They'd been through hell together in the short time she had known them. Her shoulders dropped in resignation.
Damn you, Evan.
"I suppose you want me to put it on."
David and Marissa feigned expressions of disinterest at Samantha's accusatory glare. She sighed as she plucked the small device from the box and pressed it into her ear, then took hold of the cowl. Her long hair straightened behind her like a pennant in a gust of wind, then weaved into a braid that snaked through the topknot hole in the cowl as she pulled it over her head.
"I don't think I'll ever get used to that," Marissa said, marveling at the practical use of Samantha's telekinesis. "It takes me half an hour to blow out my hair."
Samantha tugged at the cowl in several places in an attempt to get used to the feel of it gripping at her skull, but gave up when she realized it was futile. The mask wasn't designed for comfort. It was designed to stay on her head and hide her identity. She peered at David and Marissa through tinted lenses that cast them in an amber hue. Their expressions had gone solemn, almost reverent. David gathered himself and broke the silence.
"Something wrong?"
"I expected there to be futuristic heads-up displays and a robot voice spouting off technical stats."
She raised her voice and put on a commanding tone.
"Alexa! What are the bad guys' weaknesses? Turn off the kitchen light! Order me a pizza!"
Marissa doubled over with laughter. David planted his face in his hand and shook his head.
"How does it feel?" he said.
"Like a bad superhero movie from the eighties had a baby with a bad sci-fi movie from the fifties and glued it to my head."
Marissa snorted.
They spent the next hour sharing the bottle of Bordeaux while David gave them a tour of the cowl's monitoring capabilities He demonstrated how he and Marissa could feed audio from their phones into Samantha's earpiece, pointing out the value of having a police scanner in her ear, for example, and showed them how the camera's zoom technology could detect details at a distance with more accuracy than Samantha's naked eye, which would enhance reconnaissance.
"So I'm supposed to carry this thing around in my back pocket?" Samantha said, motioning to the cowl. "Run into a phone booth or spin in a circle to put it on?"
David smirked.
"That's for you to figure out. I was thinking more along the lines of using it for specific missions. You know, when you have time to prepare. The stained napkin thing was clever but not very practical. The towel-and-goggle look was...well, it worked I guess. Use the cowl, Samantha."
"It will be your brand," Marissa said. "Instantly recognizable. You'll strike fear into the hearts of—oh shit!"
Marissa jumped to her feet and checked her phone, which vibrated with a second text.
"I can't believe it! I'm late again! Brie is going to kill me!"
Marissa froze, realizing what she had just said. Samantha bit her lip and studied her wine glass.
"Bring her something as an apology," David said. "Flowers, or whatever she likes. I don't know. A gesture."
Samantha's eyebrows rose in amusement over the rim of her glass as she took a sip.
Just when I thought I had him figured out....
He went to retrieve Marissa's coat, patting her on the shoulder as he passed.
"It helps. Trust me."
Marissa met Samantha's eyes and issued a silent sigh with puffed cheeks.
"What does she do?" said David. "Brie, was it?"
Marissa's arm got trapped in the sleeve of her coat in her haste to put it on.
"She's...um...between jobs right now, but the girl is brilliant with computers. I think she's a hacker. Not one hundred percent sure about that, though. We're not to the point where it would be appropriate to ask."
Samantha noticed that David's eyes darted to Marissa's face at this new information.
"Do me a favor and get to that point, Miss Sanchez," David said.
An awkward silence followed.
"Well, okay then," Marissa said, leaning down to kiss Samantha on the cheek. "I'll get right on that I suppose. Thanks for the wine. See ya, David. Wear the cowl, Samantha. Bye-bye!"
David closed and locked the door behind her.
"'David', huh? No more 'Mr. Daniels'?" said Samantha. "They grow up so fast, don't they?"
She levitated the wine bottle up to the light to determine whether or not she felt like sharing the meager remains with David. It was snatched from the air and slammed onto the tabletop before she knew David was there.
"Okay! Geez. I'll share it with—" Samantha started, but the rest of her words were stifled when he covered her mouth with his.
Whoa!
She kicked the chair away and stood, her palms cupping his face as she rose, unwilling to break contact. His body moved into hers, backing her until she bumped against the cloudy granite of the kitchen counter. Eager hands gripped her waist and lifted her onto it. Her fingers fumbled at the buttons of his dress shirt. He unwound her scarf and dropped it to the floor. His shirt followed. Her bra loosened beneath her sweater. Belt buckles jingled in celebration as they were unfastened. Samantha kicked off her boots. David slid her jeans over her hips. The garment became trapped on her ankles. She kicked furiously to release them. They laughed.
Wait a minute....
"Just a sec," she whispered.
She pulled his smart phone from his front pocket and silenced it, then sent it floating across the room to drop with care onto an end table beside his couch. They laughed again. He pulled her sweater over her head. She relieved him of his undershirt. The straps of her bra slid down her slender arms. David took her in, naked hunger in his eyes.
"Okay," Samantha said over the clamor of her thumping heart. "Now."
Bare feet padded down the hallway, following the trail of clothing that had been discarded in furious passion the night before. Samantha found David staring through the sliding balcony doors. Beads of melted frost clung to the glass, succumbing to the rays of the morning sun that peeked through the buildings across the way. He was already showered and dressed, the same white coffee mug back in his hand with a fresh brew.
Does he ever sleep?
Samantha wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed herself against his back.
He didn't last night.
She buried her grin into his blue oxford and inhaled the fragrance of starch and fabric softener.
Paperboy.
His free hand fell over delicate fingers that were interlocked over his belly.
"Good morning," he said. "There's coffee."
She released him just enough to let him spin to face her. He opened his mouth to say something else, but promptly forgot what it was when he discovered that she hadn't bothered to dress.
"Lost my clothes last night. I think they're around here somewhere."
She released him and took a step back, raking her fingers through her long hair and pulling it away from her chest and shoulders.
"So you running off to do super-secret government consultant stuff?"
Unfair, Sammy.
David swallowed hard before speaking, his expression tortured.
"Unfortunately. So, so unfortunately."
"You sure about that?"
His eyes lingered on her nudity. His mouth opened to say something but closed in silence.
I just defeated a Navy SEAL without lifting a finger.
"I'm just messing with you," she said, turning back toward the hallway.
And now the coup de grace.
She paused there, spinning around to lean against the wall. Her left thigh slid against her right. Her pinky toyed with her bottom lip.
"Or am I?"
The mug lowered of its own accord, followed by David's jaw. He set his coffee on an end table and shook his head. His chest rose and fell with a sigh.
Samantha screamed as he burst into motion, hurdling the sofa and closing in on her in the blink of an eye. She twirled and ran into the bedroom, clearing the distance from the doorway to the disheveled sheets and pillows in a single leap, laughing all the way.
Chapter Nine
DAVID STEPPED ASIDE AND HELD THE DOOR for a pair of officers exiting the station, acknowledging them with a nod before entering. The clerk was on the telephone when David approached the glass partition, and raised a finger as David fished inside his grey suit jacket.
"Yeah?" said the clerk, returning the receiver to its cradle.
David held up his identification.
"David Daniels. Investigative Services. I'm here to review the surveillance footage from the Roger Harkins interrogation."
The clerk scratched his cheek and hinged at the waist for a closer look at David's ID. A second police officer emerged from a back room and leaned against the doorframe, watching the exchange with crossed arms.
"Where's he from?" asked the second officer.
"Investigative Services," replied the desk officer. "May I have your ID, please?"
David deposited the leather card case into the bin in front of him. It was pulled to the other side of the window and retrieved by the clerk, who handed it off to the second officer. The officer scrutinized the identification card before disappearing into the back office.
"It will just be a moment," the clerk assured David.
The second officer leaned out of the doorway and motioned the clerk to him. They held an impromptu conference before the clerk returned to the window and pushed the card case back to David. His voice crackled through the speaker.
"I'm sorry, we're unable to accommodate your request at this time."
David noted that the second officer had resumed his position in the door jamb.
"Yeah, that's what you said every time I called to request access," said David. "This has been going on for over a month now."
Indeed, Marissa had called several times before David had been forced to take matters into his own hands. He'd also been blocked at every turn. David glanced around the small entry room, then moved closer to the window to get a good look at the clerk's badge.
"I'm afraid my vision isn't what it used to be, but doesn't your badge read United States Park Police?"
The clerk looked to the second officer for guidance. David slammed his identification card against the glass before either of them could reply.
"This also reads United States. Specifically, it reads Consultant for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Maybe you've heard of the FBI? We're on the same team, guys. I just want to see the tape."
The second officer stepped forward and relieved the clerk with a tap on the shoulder.
"Sorry, Agent Daniels. You'll have to take it up with your director."
"On what grounds are you withholding this information?"
"I'm just doing what I'm told. If you want to have your superior contact mine, I'm sure we can work out some sort of arrangement to—"
"Harkins was held here after the incident, right?" David interjected. "District One station?"
Neither of the officers answered.
"Were you working that day?" David looked past the senior officer to the desk clerk. "How about you? No? Did anyone come to represent him? Did he leave alone? Was there a court date? Was he even charged with anything?"
"Sir, I've tried to be civil with you."
"Those are simple questions. All you have to do is pull up his file. Come on. Show a little professional courtesy, for Christ's sake."
"If you'd like to have your director contact the Station Chief, we can look into this further," said the officer. "Until then, I'm going to ask you to leave."
David was through the front door before the man finished his sentence. He wanted to hear Roger Harkins explain in his own words what had transpired on the Mall during Samantha's battle, particularly his reasons for disobeying direct orders to get to safety. David's theory about Harkins was flimsy at best, and David still wasn't convinced of its validity. If it proved to be true, however, Harkins might lead David to answers about Samantha's origins. He needed strong, solid clues, but all he had were shaky video recordings.
It wasn't enough.
David had time for a quick bite before meeting Samantha at the gym. She was coming along quite well, her rapid development reinforcing the hypothesis he had formed during their first training session; Samantha had been born with an innate athleticism that lent fluidity and grace to her combat skills. She was confident in the ring, unafraid to get hit. Perhaps it was because she knew that her superhuman abilities would protect her, perhaps it was something more. Either way, Samantha McAllister had come a long way in a very short time.
He threw several slices of pastrami between pieces of rye that had expired the day before. A generous squirt of brown mustard soaked up the dryness, and he took his lunch to the couch and flipped on the news. Another surprising headline painted the lower part of the television screen as the talking heads yammered away.
Dietrich To Impose Sanctions On G7 Allies
The sandwich never made it to David's mouth. He reread the headline several times to make sure he wasn't hallucinating, then switched the channel in disgust. Another news network offered expert commentary on a similar talking point.
France, Germany, U.K. React To Surprise Sanctions
David shook his head. What in the hell was going on in the world?
A sharp rap at his front door was a welcome diversion from delusional world leaders and images of mushroom clouds over Washington. David deposited his lunch into the garbage can on his way to the door, his appetite ruined.
"David."
Tony Aldridge was the last person David expected to see standing on his welcome mat.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
Tony had warned David during their meeting at the Roosevelt Memorial that things had changed. Their mutual sharing of information over the years had been practiced in public, out in the open. Over a drink at Old Ebbitt Grill or Tapio's Tavern, more often than not. Things had changed indeed.
Tony checked the apartment corridor to his left and right before responding.
"Well, we could discuss my offer to help the CIA track down superhuman vigilantes standing right here, or we could do it in your apartment with drinks in our hands."
David stepped aside.
"It's one in the afternoon, Tony. And please don't tell me it's five o'clock somewhere."
Tony pulled off his soft leather gloves while taking in David's apartment. David moved past him into the kitchen.
"I'm out of scotch," he said, searching the small cupboard above the refrigerator. "Tequila?"
"Por favor."
Ice rattled in the shallow glass as he handed it to Tony.
"Going to make me drink alone, David?"
"Why are you here?"
Tony took his time in sipping the strong liquid. He held the glass up to his eye, swallowing as he inspected the contents.
"Patron?"
"Cabo Wabo," David said. "Why are you here?"
"Because you never gave me an answer."
David picked up the remote control and pressed a button. The television flickered to black. He crossed his arms and sat on the back of the couch.
"Yes I did, it just wasn't the answer you wanted to hear."
"I thought you'd have a change of heart, considering the highly classified piece of information I gave you."
Tony had a point. David was intrigued—and more than a little alarmed—by the knowledge that the government was holding another powered being somewhere. Tony had turned to stone when pressed for details. If David wanted to know more, he'd have to accede to Tony's wishes. That was the carrot. David was waiting for the stick.
"You teased me with the appetizer, Tony. That's all. I want the entree, with a side of stop fucking around."
Tony's lips smacked as he savored the liquor. He took his time, letting David's words hang in the air between them.
"You're one of the best investigators I've ever met, David. Do you expect me to believe that you just gave up on that case last year? They found your old CO from the Navy cut to pieces in Mexico. Then a DHS Director disappears along with the CIA loaner who you had me looking into, all three suspected to be associated with the case you were working on under the radar, and you just threw in the towel? Do you expect me to eat that? Smells rotten. So why don't you stop fucking around?"
Tony's voice had taken on an edge David hadn't heard before. Was it desperation?
"If you know who she is, and I think you do, you need to come in," Tony said. "We'll set up a nice package for you. I'll get Dietrich to pin a fucking medal on you, if that's what it takes. We need answers, dammit!"
There it was. The twitch of his right eye. The way his fingertips pressed into the tequila glass. The intonation of his words.
The government had leverage on Tony.
"We're running out of time to bring her in peacefully," Tony said, calming himself with visible effort. "No one wants the National Guard in the streets of the nation's capital. Nobody wants a curfew and house-to-house searches. The intelligence community is being given the first crack at it, but if we don't produce results soon...."
David was quite familiar with door-to-door canvassing. He had been the point man in his SEAL unit, pulling people from their beds in the middle of the night to press them for information on persons of interest. Only that had been overseas, in countries whose modern history was rife with war. The idea of war machines and personnel carriers patrolling Pennsylvania avenue was one that David couldn't fathom.
"I went to the Parks Police station," David said. "District One. That's where they took Roger Harkins, the man arrested on the Mall the day of the attack. For some reason, they wouldn't let me review the surveillance of the interrogation. Isn't that strange?"
Tony's reaction to the change in topic was curious. He didn't appear to be flustered that David had just ignored his convincing arguments for cooperation. Instead, his eyes bored into David's, searched their depths. David ignored the unsettling stare and pressed on.
"I've pored through every video of that event a hundred times at least, and I keep coming back to the same conclusion. Do you know what that is Tony? You should, because I'm sure your people have analyzed the footage, too."
"I don't know what you're talking about. The precinct probably released him because they didn't have any reason to hold him. Stupidity isn't a crime. Why? What's your theory?"
"That you should be going after a man with the power to animate giant chunks of rock into destructive killing machines instead of a young woman who puts herself at risk to save lives."
Tony scoffed.
"You're talking nonsense, David. There's no proof of that."
David fixed his stare on Tony.
"Besides," Tony said, "I don't get to make that choice. Even if it was true. The man in charge wants her brought down. Those are my orders."
"And that's why I work alone. So that I don't become a puppet for a misguided president. But there's something else you should consider, and I don't say this as a threat or a warning or anything other than a fact. People have tried to bring her down before. It didn't go well for them."
Tony turned away and moved into the kitchen. David caught a flash of color and spied Samantha's hot pink scarf draped over the back of a table chair. She had left it there after their night together. David surmised it was due to absent-mindedness, but he couldn't be sure. David was a skilled and talented detective, but a novice when it came to decoding women.
"For all I know, David, you had a hand in that mess," said Tony. "Wasn't it two destroyed Apaches that we recovered not too far from your safe house out in Montgomery county? Oh yeah. We knew about that quaint little cottage. There were some who wanted to bring you in for questioning, but I put in a good word for you. Said you were a true patriot, and that whatever had happened out there was to protect the country."
And there was the stick. It was subtle, but a threat nonetheless.
David ignored it for now and focused on Tony's last sentence. The man had no idea how close to the truth his statement was. Samantha had almost given in, had almost become a superhuman weapon for a delusional madman. After Braithwaite had his way with foreign adversaries, David had no doubt he would have used Samantha to take over the United States. He recalled the look on Braithwaite's face when David had ripped into his femoral artery. He tried not to grin.
"Somehow I don't think that pink is your color," said Tony, picking up the scarf and bringing it to his nose.
David noticed for the first time that the tip of Tony's left pinky finger was missing. Maybe it had escaped his attention because it was always wrapped around a snifter of scotch.
"It's my assistant's," David said. "But you're welcome to borrow it."
He felt a vibration in his right front pocket. Samantha was texting him, letting him know that she was leaving for the gym. She was courteous about such things.
"We need your abstract thinking, David, your experience with extranormal cases," Tony said, replacing the scarf on the chair. "I'll have your answer now."
"What you need is the identity of an innocent young woman who's trying to do some good in this godforsaken world. What you need is information on how to defeat and contain her. Let's not mince words, Tony."
"I only need to hear one word. What's it going to be?"
David's phone buzzed again. This time, the sound was obvious. Tony glanced at David's pocket then back at his face.
"Not going to answer that?"
David shrugged.
"I think this conversation takes precedence over Miss Sanchez telling me my dry cleaning is ready."
Tony waited.
"Tell you what," David said. "Bring me on as a consultant and my first case will be to find out everything you wanted to know about Harkins but were afraid to ask. In return, you take me to see this other one you mentioned. Where are they keeping him, anyway? Wright-Patterson? Area 51? That installation out in Montana?"
Tony's expression was unreadable. Samantha's third text vibrated against David's thigh, followed by a fourth a second later.
"Miss Sanchez must really want you to know your dry cleaning is ready for pickup."
He finished his drink and set the glass on David's kitchen table.
"That's not the deal, David," Tony said as he took a step toward the door. "Don't make me do something...regrettable."
David beat him there and blocked Tony's exit.
"Blatant threats, Tony?"
"You know how this works."
"You have to give me something to get something, Tony. That's how this works, and you know it. So before you send your black baggers to sweat me, let's make a new deal. One that benefits both of us. Tell me about the subject they have under lock and key. Anything. We can work out the rest later. I'll owe you."
Tony reached for the door knob. David didn't move.
"Oh, I wouldn't send any spooks after you, David. I don't work like that."
The gravity of Tony's insinuation plummeted onto David's shoulders. He moved away from the door with numb detachment. The memory of Marissa bleeding out on his cottage floor penetrated his surface thoughts and clung there like a cancer.
Tony opened the door and paused, issuing a defeated sigh before he spoke.
"Its a shame, really. You just ruined your chance to be on the right side of history when the fallout clears. You know how to reach me if you change your mind."
The door latched with a light thud. David fished for his phone and slid his thumb across the screen.
Sam 1:06 p.m.
On my way
David scrolled to the next message.
Sam 1:07 p.m.
Forgot my scarf. Can you bring it?
He scrolled further.
Sam 1:08 p.m.
Looking forward to beating your sweet ass (again)
Her final text consisted of a winking smiley face and a heart. He thumbed out a reply.
Not going to make it. Sorry.
He searched the virtual keyboard for a sad face or something similar, but gave up and hit send before dropping his phone into his pocket. He went to his desk in the spare room and pulled on the bottom drawer until it came free. He retrieved a second phone he kept secured behind the drawer, one that couldn't be traced to him, and had Marissa on the line a few seconds later.
"It's me," he said.
"Mr. Daniels?"
Her tone was professional.
"Are you at the office?"
"Yes," she said.
David darted into the bedroom and pulled an overnight bag from the top shelf of the closet.
"I need you to listen carefully. Very calmly, stop what you're doing, get on the train and go to our friend's house."
He could sense her hesitation.
"Yes, of course. I can schedule that for you. And could you be more specific about the location?"
Someone was in the room with her. Would Tony have acted that fast? No, he had come to David's apartment expecting an answer. The timing wasn't right. Unless he had readied a contingency plan in the event that David's answer was still no....
"Our friend's house," he said. "Don't go into the parking garage. Get out of the building and onto the train."
"I see. And when will you be arriving at the conference?"
David stuffed his Glock into the bag and threw a pair of socks over it.
"As soon as I can. I have to go out of town for a couple of days."
There was no answer.
"Listen, Marissa. This is probably nothing. Just a precaution."
Another pause, then:
"Okay, it's all scheduled."
"Go. Now."
David hung up and switched phones again. He summoned Samantha's string of texts and tapped out a second reply.
You're needed at home. See you soon.
He finished packing and was out the door by the time her reply buzzed into his phone.
Sam 1:16 p.m.
???
Chapter Ten
"EDWARD CAPELLI?"
The tall man removed his glove and accepted the clipboard from the steward.
"That's me."
Capelli tipped back his white hardhat and tucked the glove into the pit of his opposite arm as he reviewed the shipping manifest. Everything appeared to be in order. He withdrew a pen from his shirt pocket and scribbled his signature before returning the clipboard with a nod and setting off toward the office trailer. His belly rumbled. It had been a long, cold morning, and he craved something hot and filling to get him through the rest of the day. He let the warmth of the office wash over him and closed the door to prevent its escape. His second glove joined the first, and he bent over the electric space heater to let his bare hands thaw.
"Long time, Capo."
Capelli jumped. His gloves tumbled to the thin carpet. He spun to find a familiar face watching him from the kitchenette at the opposite end of the trailer.
"Holy shit! Footlong?"
David stood up and mocked a bow, then straightened with a smile. They met halfway across the office with a firm handshake that turned into a brief embrace.
"How long has it been? Five years now?"
"At least," David said, nodding.
"What the hell are you doing in Norfolk?"
"Buying you lunch."
"Impeccable timing as always, LT."
David grinned and motioned to the door.
The Wharfside Diner was evidence that a corporate restaurant chain didn't always gain a foothold in the heart and mind of a community. It had once been a Waffle House, but the franchise owners had been bought out by Charles Offenbach, a lifelong resident of the coastal town who knew what his neighbors liked to eat.
David sipped on a decaf while Capelli fired questions at him from around mouthfuls of an oversized hoagie bun filled with crock-pot meatballs and marinara made in house by Offenbach himself.
"I'll be damned, man. It's good to see you," Capelli said. "Where are you at these days?"
"Up in D.C. Got a place downtown. I'm knee deep in hipsters and crooked politicians."
Capelli grinned as he caught a string of smoked provolone that threatened to escape from the thick bread. He popped it into his mouth, not bothering to chew before asking his next question.
"Did you ever patch things up with...? Dammit, sorry. Help me out."
David looked through the window and brought his cup to his lips. The brew was bitter, but fresh.
"It's okay," he said. "Elyse. And no, that didn't work out."
Capelli paused mid-bite and lowered his sandwich.
"Really? She's all you talked about overseas. You said the first thing you were going to do when we got back was put a ring on her finger."
"I did. Well, I tried."
Capelli stared at him, waiting for more.
"It's complicated," David said.
"Bullshit. That's not an answer, it's a Facebook status," said Capelli, wiping a smear of marinara from his chin with the heel of his hand.
David wondered how he would react if someone else had made that comment. Someone who hadn't spent sleepless nights with him, pinned down by enemy snipers in a blown out building surrounded by people who hated them. Someone who wasn't one of a handful of men with whom David shared a familial bond.
"Yeah, I guess it is," David said, chuckling. "I was in between tours. Fucked up in the head. You know the drill. What about you? Married? Kids?"
Capelli flowed with David's topic change without missing a beat.
"Divorced. But my little Maggie turns three next month. Best thing that ever happened to me. Besides getting divorced, I mean."
"Sorry to hear that?" David said with a smile.
Capelli shrugged and flagged down their server as she passed by with a tray of burgers.
"Two pecan pies, Donna. And warm up my old Navy buddy here."
Donna nodded and continued on her way. Capelli's eyes followed her before returning to David with a mischievous twinkle.
"They have the best goddamned pecan pie on the east coast."
David hated pecan pie, but painted an impressed expression across his face.
"You ever hear from any of the boys?" said David.
Capelli tossed the last french fry into his mouth and slid his plate away. His cheeks ballooned with a silent belch as he shook his head.
"Not really. I get a Christmas card from Lange's wife. That's about it. He doesn't even sign it. He's got twin boys. Can you believe that?"
Capelli would have Lange's home address. Good. David filed that information away.
"He probably has a pair of twin models on the side too, if I know Lange," David said. "That poor wife of his."
Capelli agreed with a laugh, then added, "She's a bit of a shrew, that one. I wouldn't be surprised."
Their server appeared and refilled David's cup before setting the pot on the table to deliver their pie.
"You weren't talking about me, now were you?"
"Never you, Donna," Capelli said with a wink. "I'm afraid my chances of getting your number would drop considerably if I got on your bad side."
"Keep dreamin', dock rat," she said.
Her grin said otherwise. She slapped down their bill without asking if they wanted anything else then tittered and spun away. David dropped a twenty on top of it and leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table and tenting his fingers. His voice dropped a notch, slipping below the bustle of the diner.
"Ned, I'm putting together an operation."
Capelli stabbed a hunk of pie and replied without looking up.
"You are, are you?"
"Yes, and I want you to be part of it. I don't have all of the details yet, but—"
"Is that why you asked about the boys? You trying to get the band back together?"
David nodded, searching his old friend's face for a reaction. He found uncertainty.
"Christ, Footlong! I just told you I have a three year-old less than five minutes ago."
"I know. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important. I need you on this."
"How important? End of the world shit?"
"Maybe."
Capelli leaned back and tossed his fork among the crumbs that dotted the pie plate in front of him.
"Fuck! You serious? Man, I was just kidding!"
David held his reply until the patrons of the Wharfside returned their attention to their lunches.
"Not here."
Their eyes interlocked, Capelli's inquisitive and David's patient. Capelli threw up his hands in defeat.
"Fine. It's a five-minute drive back to the docks. That's all you get."
"That's all I need. Let's go."
David closed his car door and started the engine. He cranked up the blower and cast a sidelong glance at Capelli who was busy untwisting his seat belt.
"You've seen the news, right? About what's been happening in D.C.?"
"I still can't believe it," Capelli said. "Rock monsters and flying girls. Un-fucking-real."
David chose his next words with care. He'd spent the four-hour drive to Norfolk going back and forth about how much he could tell Capelli, how much he should reveal. He put the sedan in gear and pulled out of the diner parking lot.
"What I'm doing is related to that," he said, measuring Capelli's body language from the corner of his eye. "I can't say anything more right now. Sorry."
Capelli watched telephone poles and road signs flash by. His silence seemed to drag on forever, but ended with an abrupt turn of his head.
"I'm going need more than that."
David was afraid of this. He sighed and gripped the steering wheel with both hands, locking out his elbows.
"The flying girl?" David said.
"Yeah?"
"I know her."
Capelli burst out laughing and slammed his hands on the dash. David sat stone faced, waiting for his friend's amusement to run its course. Capelli faced him with eyes bigger than pecan pie plates when he finally realized David wasn't laughing with him.
"You're not...you're not joking."
"Nope."
Capelli blustered as he processed this information, starting and stopping sentences as he tried to make sense of what he had just learned. David kept his eyes on the road and waited for it to sink in.
"Who is she?"
"Can't say."
"How do you know her?"
"Met her on the train."
"She can fly and she takes the metro?"
David shrugged and clicked on his blinker. Capelli whistled through his teeth.
"Is she single?"
"Nope."
David leaned against the brick and mortar that made up the southeast wall of the Gloria J. Parks Community Center and pulled his pea coat tighter to ward off the evening chill. He had considered waiting in the warmth of the lobby, but didn't want to risk being pulled into the session. He'd had his fill of support groups. Quiet chatter escaped through the front doors as men filtered onto the street alone or in pairs, and varying in age and appearance. He recognized one of the loners by his loping gait.
"DJ!"
The letters stopped Ernest Acevedo in his tracks. The slightest turn of his head acknowledged the nickname, but David received no more acknowledgment than that. He tried again.
"How have you been?"
David pushed himself from the wall and took a step toward his old squad mate. Before he knew it, he was backed into the bricks with a thick forearm pressed into his throat.
"How dare you," Acevedo growled, his brow wrinkling in anger beneath a knit winter cap.
David took hold of Acevedo's elbow and pivoted his body while twisting the limb from his neck. He released the arm and faced his old friend, backing away with his hands spread wide.
"What was that for, DJ?"
"Don't fucking call me that."
"Okay, Ernie. Okay. I just want to talk for a minute."
"Yeah, I know. Slasher called me. Said you were on your way to Buffalo to sweet talk me into joining your operation."
David made a mental note that Capelli had gotten a hold of "Slasher" Lange. Two down. Two to go.
"So I guess this means it's a no-go for you?"
Acevedo didn't reply right away. The corners of his mouth dipped in disgust as he stared at David.
"You know, some things never change," he said. "Some people never change. You come here and wait outside my PTSD support group to recruit me for a fucking mission?"
David's eyes dropped to the pavement. He shook his head.
"Not my most tactful moment, I'll give you that. But this is important, and I need the best guys at my side if—"
"Fuck you, Daniels! What happened to Boom-Boom?"
David lowered his hands and struggled for a response, caught off guard by the question. Acevedo pressed him with an accusatory, pointing finger.
"What happened to Wally, David? Tell me!"
The two had been close during the intense BUDS training. David recalled Wally's tireless coaching of Acevedo during hell week, that exhausting stretch of punishment when all of them were too exhausted to see straight. Acevedo had almost quit, and would have rung the bell if not for Wally's positive attitude and moral support. It became apparent that Acevedo hadn't forgotten either.
"Not here, Ernie," David said, trying to maintain a calm tone.
"Yes, here! I spoke to Greta, David. She said you appeared out of the blue with a bag of money and news that her only child was dead. Explain that, David! What happened to him? What did you do?"
Several people had stopped to investigate the outburst. Acevedo spun on them."What the fuck are you looking at? Mind your own goddamn business!"
David nodded to them and patted the air with silent assurances, but his hackles were up. It occurred to him that Acevedo must have had an inkling that Wally had fallen in with the wrong crowd after his discharge, but whether or not he knew that Wally had become a mercenary for Braithwaite was still unclear. Acevedo and the others hadn't served under Braithwaite like he and Wally had. They hadn't been part of that maniac's atrocities. Still, if Acevedo had stayed in contact with Wally over the years, maybe Wally had tried to recruit him to Braithwaite's cause.
David decided to chance it.
"You want to know what happened to Boom-Boom?" David said, stepping closer and lowering his voice. "I'll tell you."
He risked a glance over his shoulder to find the onlookers dispersing.
"I killed him, DJ," David said. "I sliced him ear to ear with his own Ka-bar. And he deserved it."
He ducked Acevedo's left hook and circled away from the uppercut that followed, ignoring an enticing counterattack opportunity and instead putting distance between them.
"He became Braithwaite's lap dog, DJ!" David said, slipping a haymaker that put Acevedo off balance. "You know who Braithwaite was! You heard the stories!"
Acevedo faked a jab and landed a solid blow to David's gut. A follow up put him on the ground. David cursed. He was talking when he should have been fighting. He spat a glob of blood onto the sidewalk and quelled the liquid anger that filled his breast, let it spiral down the drain of reason. Acevedo was the best communications man he had ever served with. David needed him, but now he owed Acevedo a good, solid shot. Fair is fair, after all.
David rolled away from a stomp that would have cracked his ribs. He had just healed from that very same injury, and decided not have it visited upon him again. He crossed his forearms and rose to a knee to intercept a snap kick, then flexed his spine and thrust with his legs to catch Acevedo's chin with the top of his head. Teeth smashed together in hollow, porcelain protest. Acevedo stumbled away, dazed.
"Braithwaite was a fucking monster and Wally chose to throw in with him. Wally twisted the oath to serve his own needs, to line his pockets with money. It was the oath that we all took, Ernie!"
Acevedo stood before him seething, but didn't advance. The head butt had taken the fight out of him. He pressed on his jaw with his fingertips, moving his mandible side to side to assess the damage.
"Wally was involved in the kidnapping and torture of someone I care about," David said. "He got in my way, DJ."
David didn't deem it necessary to explain that he hadn't known Samantha until after those events. He didn't have time, and there were some facts that would remain secret—even to an old war buddy.
"Braithwaite tried to recruit you through Wally, didn't he?"
Acevedo turned away.
"Come on," he said.
They sat in Acevedo's kitchen ten minutes later. It wasn't that different than David's. No decorations, no unnecessary appliances, uncluttered countertops.
"Peas or Brussels sprouts?" Acevedo said, digging into his freezer.
"Peas."
David caught the bag of frozen vegetables and pressed it to his jaw. Acevedo tossed his own impromptu ice pack onto the kitchen table, then retrieved a pair of juice glasses from a cabinet before setting out a bottle of Jim Beam. He poured three fingers of amber liquor into each glass and pushed one toward David while raising his own.
"To Boom-Boom."
David echoed his toast and upended the glass. It was refilled as soon as it found the tabletop.
"Was there a funeral?"
Acevedo shook his head. He pressed the Brussels sprouts to his chin.
"No one got to hammer their trident," he said. "Greta couldn't deal with it. He's still a missing person."
David's stomach twisted into a knot. He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, at a loss for what to say next. Acevedo spoke instead.
"What happened to that piece-of-shit commander?"
"I bled him out," David said, then added, "also with his own Ka-Bar."
David hadn't seen Acevedo's smile in years. There were traces of blood on his teeth, but the smile was a welcome relief after their tussle on the street.
"You and those damn knives, Footlong" said Acevedo. "So what are we looking at?"
David adjusted the bag of peas to find a colder spot and sipped at the bourbon.
"I don't have logistics yet, but the mission is search and rescue. Think you can get Gonzales on board? Sounds like he's the last one."
Acevedo emptied his glass and poured another, then reclined in the kitchen chair. He pushed the bottle toward David.
"Yeah, I'll see if I can pull Cracker from his knitting circle. Someone has to bust down the doors for us, don't they?"
David lifted the juice glass into the air before draining it. He found it odd that Acevedo hadn't mentioned Samantha. Capelli had no doubt told Lange that the mission was somehow related to the flying girl, and David assumed that Lange would pass this information along to Acevedo, yet it hadn't been brought it up. He wondered if Acevedo simply didn't care. Maybe he didn't believe it.
"You still have your gear?" David said.
"It's around. Could use a good dusting."
"Good. I'll outfit us with everything else. I know a guy."
"Where are we getting our intel?"
David leaned forward and refilled his glass. He tipped it against his bottom lip and savored the burn in his throat before answering.
"I'm working on that."
Chapter Eleven
MARISSA RECLINED ON THE MOCHA LEATHER SOFA with her socked feet propped atop the back cushions. Mal perched next to them, his ice blue eyes following the tantalizing feather toy which Marissa maneuvered with an expertise that could only come from a fellow cat owner.
"Careful, he'll—" Samantha started.
The Siamese chose that moment to pounce, and landed hard on Marissa's belly as his paws lashed out with murderous intent. Marissa grunted and lurched upward in surprise, startling Mal, who seized his prize and absconded with it.
"—jump right on your stomach."
Samantha lay on the floor with bent legs propped comfortably on the portion of the couch left unoccupied by Marissa. A throw pillow rested beneath her head as she tapped at her iPad.
Marissa drummed her fingers on her stomach and issued a sigh of boredom.
"How do you live without a television?" she said.
Samantha lifted the tablet into the air.
"I have this. Besides, there's nothing worth watching on TV anyway."
Marissa stretched, then felt along the sofa's armrest for Samantha's phone. Samantha had insisted that Marissa keep her phone turned off until they heard from David, and offered her own in its stead. Samantha heard digital popcorn as Marissa typed out a text.
"Brie worried about you?"
Samantha took Marissa's silence as an affirmative answer.
"Invite her over."
"She'll be fine," Marissa said. "It's not like we're together together. We're just...together. Sort of."
"That's makes absolutely zero sense."
They shared a chuckle then got lost in their respective devices, neither of them addressing the elephant in the room. They had both tried to call David numerous times, but every attempt had gone straight to voicemail, which indicated that his phone was also turned off. Marissa mentioned that he had called her at the office from a number she didn't recognize, but she forgot to write it down in her haste to leave.
She knows she's safe here with me, but David could have given us more of a heads up.
Samantha had been halfway to the gym, ready for a brisk training session–and perhaps something just as brisk but more pleasurable–when her phone had chimed with David's enigmatic text message. She had returned home to find Marissa waiting on the front stoop, her face a mask of worry.
"Listen to this, Sam."
Marissa put on a professional tone as she read from Samantha's phone screen.
"@ThunderRunner138 says, 'If this #KineticStar is so powerful, why didn't she stop the Indonesian tsunami last month? Over 300 dead!' Then @SmurfMeHard665 replies, 'Good question. Here's a better one. Why don't you alt-right jackasses admit that global climate change exists so we wouldn't need #KineticStar to stop these catastrophic weather patterns?'"
Samantha issued a noncommittal snort and continued to scroll through her Instagram feed.
"Marcy and Jim are on a cruise," she said. "We should go to the Caribbean sometime. All four of us."
Marissa's thumb continued its repeated journey across the screen, searching for more gems.
"Here's one. You'll like this. It's from @GoMountainCats420. 'Hey #KineticStar if your listening,'—Yes, he used your instead of you're—'I want to take you to the prom! PM me! I have champagne!' "
"That's all I need, an under-aged boy puking on my prom dress, " Samantha said. "Again."
Marissa snickered at that and returned to her browsing. Several minutes of silence followed. It was broken by the eruption of energetic audio coming from the device's tiny speaker. Samantha heard gunshots and sirens.
"Whoa, shit...."
Samantha sat up at Marissa's subdued exclamation.
"What is that?"
"A video. Check it out."
Samantha took the phone from her friend and tapped the video player into motion. A chyron slid into the bottom of the video screen. It read:
Vigilante Exposes Opioid Ring, Eludes Police
Red and blue lights flashed across the screen. The camera panned upward to a cluster of old buildings where spotlights roamed. There was motion in the corner of the frame, a man-sized shadow against a cloudy night sky. The camera shifted its focus, centering on the subject and following closely. The shadow leapt from one building to the next with astonishing agility. One of the spotlights got lucky and captured it, revealing what appeared to be a man in a black uniform. A full mask concealed his features.
Whoa, shit...
Marissa accepted the phone from Samantha with a knowing look.
"Can you say 'copycat'?" she said.
"Where was that?"
"New York. Last night."
Samantha reclined on the floor and brought up her tablet.
"He's going to get himself killed. Or someone else," she said.
"Maybe you should go introduce yourself. Masked face to masked face."
Maybe I should.
Marissa replaced the phone on the armrest and sighed, bringing her hand up to inspect her nails.
"Want something to eat?" Samantha offered, "Or drink? I have wine."
"No, thanks."
Marissa sat up and grabbed Samantha's phone again.
"I have a better idea."
Samantha let her iPad drop to her chest and propped herself up on an elbow. Marissa held the phone out towards Samantha. The screen displayed another video window, this one with virtual control dials lined up beneath it.
"What am I looking at?" Samantha said.
Marissa's impish grin lingered for several heartbeats before she spoke, her voice tinged with excitement.
"Speaking of masks, where's yours? Let's try out the upgrades. I just downloaded the AV monitoring app onto your phone."
Is she serious?
"I don't know, Marissa. David told you to come here so I could—"
"Baby sit me? Then take me with you."
"Marissa, he probably wants you to stay out of sight. I don't think—"
"Come on! It will be fun!"
Samantha kicked her legs from the couch and swiveled into a sitting position.
It might take her mind off of things. She's going stir crazy here.
"It will be cold as hell up there," Samantha said.
Marissa shrugged it off.
"Lend me a warmer coat. And a hat."
I guess that would work.
She felt Marissa's eyes on her, waiting.
And it wouldn't hurt to get used to that hideous cowl.
"Where do you keep your important documents? You know, your will and stuff like that," Samantha said, rising to make her way to the coat closet.
Marissa's excitement melted away.
"What? Why?"
Samantha rummaged through the top shelf of the closet.
"In case I drop you."
Marissa face went slack as she caught a black and orange Cincinnati Bengals winter cap, replete with a frilly ball the color of fresh-squeezed juice.
"Go get dressed, Kinetic Star," she said, shoving the cap over her head.
Marissa clutched at Samantha as she leapt from the townhouse window and soared into the skies above Bethesda. Samantha decided it would be best to carry her passenger on her back, which would leave her hands free while providing Marissa the security of having something to hold on to. Samantha had to admit that she was a bit envious; the initial thrill of flying had long since passed for her. Marissa was experiencing it for the first time, free of the confines of an airplane cabin and loving it, as evidenced by the hoots of joy and the stranglehold she maintained around Samantha's neck.
Actually this isn't her first time flying with me, is it? But last time she was unconscious, her body in shock and bleeding out through a bullet hole.
Samantha righted herself once they reached several hundred feet, and hovered perpendicular to the ground. She pointed to the west.
"Look."
Marissa followed Samantha's finger. The sun was just below the horizon, but its brilliance still painted the clear sky with a gentle gradient of lavender and crimson.
"Oh..." Marissa said. "I want superpowers."
"No you don't."
"You can't be serious, Samantha. You can fly above the clouds and witness sunsets like this whenever you...."
Samantha remained silent as she let Marissa's memory catch up with her sentiment. The trauma and loss Samantha had suffered. Cole. The sniper that had almost killed Marissa. David's serious injuries. All because of Samantha's superpowers.
"Sorry," Marissa said.
"Let's try out that monitoring app," Samantha said, moving them into a slow drift toward the city.
"Oh yeah, right."
Marissa pulled at the velcro pocket of the parka Samantha had loaned her.
"No!"
Marissa's weight shifted with erratic motion. Something small tumbled past Samantha's right shoulder.
Gotcha.
"Lose something?"
Her phone rose into view and hung suspended before Marissa's face. Samantha wiggled the device back and forth and gave it a high-pitched, mocking voice.
"Oh no! Why did you try to drop me hundreds of feet? Mama Sammy didn't buy the protection plan!"
Marissa heaved with laughter.
"You're safe now, baby," she said to the rescued phone as she plucked it from the air. "Hang on, Sam. Have to take off my gloves."
Marissa's fingers soon tapped across the screen.
"Okay, say something."
Samantha resisted the urge to touch the device in her ear as she spoke.
Well that's how they do it in the movies....
"There once was a man from Nantucket...."
Her voice crackled through the phone's speaker.
"It's working," Marissa said. "And I have your camera up and running too. This is pretty cool! Who knew David was a techno geek?"
"He's a man of many talents."
Marissa let that pass.
"Okay, we're online. Let's go."
Samantha hesitated.
"Go where?"
"I don't know," Marissa said, "patrol some bad neighborhoods or something. Stop an armed robbery. Defeat a giant robot or a mad genius."
"You're hilarious. Hold on tight!"
Samantha increased her speed while enveloping them in a wing-shaped construct made of telekinetic force. Evan had suggested the useful tactic long ago, and Samantha had employed it ever since.
Instructing Marissa to hold on was more of a courtesy than a necessity. She placed just enough pressure on Marissa's center of gravity to counteract the force of her acceleration, which kept her friend anchored to her. Marissa might lose her grip but she would never fall. Samantha's directive had been issued to deter panic. She doubted Marissa had brought a fresh pair of underwear along for the ride.
"It actually feels warmer now."
Marissa's voice reached Samantha through the earpiece. The rushing wind would have made casual communication impossible, and Marissa knew that. Samantha guessed she was holding the phone's microphone close to her mouth for clearer transmission.
"That's because our speed is creating friction on the construct, heating it up."
"Smarty pants."
Samantha shifted their trajectory toward D.C.'s skyline, which loomed to the southeast.
"I think we should get some distance between us to see if this really works," Samantha said. "I'll drop you on top of the Basilica, then do a circuit around the city and come back to get you."
"Let's do it."
The bell tower of the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception came into view a few minutes later. The cross that adorned the tower's spire rose over three hundred feet into the air, making the Basilica the tallest habitable building in the city. Samantha surveyed the spire from above, and decided to drop Marissa on the highest tier. It was very well lit, but she figured no one would be looking for trespassers at the top of a bell tower.
"You going to be okay up here?"
Marissa released her death grip on Samantha's motorcycle jacket and stepped away. She peered over the shallow balustrade at the ground far below, then backed against the wall and sank into a sitting position.
"Just don't forget to come back and get me," she said, pulling the knit Bengals cap tighter on her head.
Samantha stepped into the air and hovered there for a moment, then issued a parting quip over her shoulder before disappearing into the night.
"I'll think about it."
She flew due east, climbing to her "safe zone" as she called it. In her mind, it was an altitude high enough to conceal her from the wandering eye of anyone on the ground yet low enough to hide her from air traffic-control radars. It was a strategy she had adopted on the fly—quite literally—during her trip to Las Vegas. The truth was that she had little idea how radars actually worked. It was her best guess, and it would have to do.
The beltway came into view, a busy interstate that wrapped the capital in bumper-to-bumper traffic more often than not. From her vantage point, it was a sparkling array of bright white headlamps and pulsating red tail lights. She decided to use the busy beltway as a guide. A sixty-four mile circuit around D.C. should be enough to give the new comms equipment a good, solid test.
"I'm following 495," she said, veering northward. "Almost to New Carrollton."
"Coming through loud and clear, Sa—" Marissa said. "I guess we should use codenames, huh?"
"Yep. Wouldn't hurt."
"I want mine to be Sonny, and you can be Cher."
"Are you kidding me?"
Samantha smiled. It figured that Marissa would pick a pair of performers from the seventies. She had an obsessive connection to things of the past, pop culture in particular. Samantha shared her love of nostalgia, but preferred more recent references.
"I'll be Maverick, and you can be Goose."
Marissa's reply crackled through Samantha's earpiece.
"'Goose'? No way!" she said. "Oh, okay, I can see a sign for Greenbelt. Camera's working. How about Captain and Tennille?"
Samantha's eyes rolled behind the cowl's tinted lenses.
"Pick something else."
"Sorry, Cap'n, you're cutting out."
"Funny."
Samantha was halfway around the beltway and crossing the river into Virginia when a single bass note rumbled through her earpiece like a crack of thunder.
"What was that?"
"Oh god...."
A second note followed Marissa's distracted reply, then there was silence. Samantha launched herself back toward downtown D.C.
"Talk to me. What do you see?"
"It's...oh man...it's the Arboretum. It's on fire."
Samantha pushed herself to go faster. She spied smoke a few seconds later, great columns lit from below by an orange glow that flickered in natural counterpoint to the synthetic, static lights of the city that surrounded it. A third explosion rocked the Arboretum as Samantha descended, its brilliance momentarily blinding her.
"Are you okay?"
Marissa's voice was shaky.
"Yeah. Are you getting this?"
Twin fires consumed the foliage that surrounded a broad meadow, now joined by a third blaze born from the explosion that Samantha had just witnessed. It began to swallow a grove of trees near the road that formed the eastern border of the meadow. Samantha remembered this area. She had been here before.
Cole used to come to D.C. with a checklist of tourist attractions. They would whittle away at it with every visit until she had shown him through the museums and monuments several times over. He had surprised her during what came to be his next to last visit with a new location that needed to be checked off his list: the National Arboretum. They had taken pictures at this very location, on the expansive patio in the meadow below her, on that stone portico surrounded by the stately Capitol Columns. She could barely see the freestanding columns through the smoke.
"Can you hear me?"
"Yep. I think the Arboretum closes at five, so there shouldn't be anyone there."
Samantha tugged on her jacket sleeve and activated the backlight on her watch.
Seven fifteen. Let's hope so.
"I'll see what I can do about the fires then."
Except I have no idea what that will be.
"Wait," Marissa said. "Stay airborne for a sec. Look at the fires."
Samantha made sure that her cowl camera was pointed at the burning trees below. The location of the explosions had formed a triangle. One of the three sides was narrower than the others.
"It almost looks like an—"
"Like an arrow," Marissa finished for her.
And it's pointing to the Capitol Columns.
Samantha floated in a lateral direction, lowering her altitude to get a closer look. An object in the center of the portico reflected the light of the angry blazes nearby. It appeared to be the size and shape of an adult man, though slightly larger. Samantha couldn't tell for sure.
"Can you zoom in on that thing?"
"Yeah, hang on."
"It looks like a statue, maybe. I'm going to check it out."
Samantha descended among the columns, dropping the last few feet and flexing at the knees as her boots struck the stones. The object was indeed shaped like a man, rough-hewn and sculpted from a reflective obsidian material that Samantha didn't recognize.
"Okay, it's just a statue," Samantha said, turning back to the burning trees.
Now what the hell am I going to do about these fires? Find water and try to douse them? Suffocate them somehow?
She wondered if she could form a construct massive enough to do the latter.
Can't just stand here and stare. Gotta try something.
There was a sudden and horrible grating sound to her left, like that of a massive boulder grinding against a quarry wall. The racket repeated to her right, setting her teeth on edge. Vibrations resonated through the soles of her boots. Samantha swiveled her head to find one of the majestic columns crumbling.
No, not crumbling. Changing.
"Get out of there!"
Marissa's scream blasted through the earpiece just as a something solid smashed into Samantha from her blind spot. She found herself laying on her side, struggling to focus through the white flares that detonated like holiday fireworks in her vision. When they dissipated, she realized she was staring at the thick feet of the strange statue. Samantha's eyes flickered up to the head as she rose to an elbow.
The head of the statue tilted down to regard her with a face devoid of features. The only expression on that shapeless landscape was the dancing of flames across its smooth reflection.
PART THREE
THE WATCHER IN THE RING
JUNE WHITE WAS A PRETTY YOUNG WOMAN with an easy smile. Her meticulous makeup and afro-style hairdo reminded Ana of the famous singer that had left The Supremes to strike out on her own the year before. She couldn't remember the woman's name, but that wasn't unusual. Ana had lived too long to pay attention to the careers of entertainers. They were just flashes in the pan.
"Thank you for coming, Miss White," Ana said, motioning for June to take a seat opposite her.
June struggled to keep her attention from straying to the impressive architecture of the parlor. She had little doubt that her ancestors had served in old plantation houses just like this one.
"You sure have a nice place, ma'am."
Ana followed her visual tour of the room and smiled. It was new to her as well.
"It's just a home, but thank you. I understand you worked for the Wilkinsons?"
June nodded.
"Yes, ma'am. Five years on. Hired right out of high school."
"I see," Ana said. "And you cook, too?"
"My mama started teaching me as soon as I could walk. She went to join the good Lord when I was ten, and I wasn't about to let Daddy and my brothers mess up my kitchen, so I learned the rest on my own. And fast."
June's grin revealed perfect rows of pearlescent teeth that added to her natural beauty. Ana was sure that Miss June White would be added to Trey's list of dalliances, as the last maid had been. She pressed on anyway.
"How are you with children?"
"Oh, I love them. The little Wilkinson twins were the apples of my eye. I could change Violet's diaper while rocking little Luann to sleep."
"And why did you leave the Wilkinsons?"
Ana already knew the answer. The gossip couldn't be ignored. Jonas Wilkinson was a successful shipping magnate who also happened to be a hopeless gambler. The downward spiral had started with a losing bet owed to the wrong people. It hadn't taken long for him to lose his business as well. His home was rumored to be next. Life's luxuries were slipping through the Wilkinson family's fingers, and the maid was one of the first to go. Ana was curious to see how June would respond, considering that the young woman had been present for Mr. Wilkinson's fall from grace.
"Well, I...uh..." June started, clutching at her purse as her gaze rose to the crystal chandelier overhead. "Mister Wilkinson was mixed up with some bad folks, that's my understanding. Missus Polly was in tears when she told me, and even snuck me one of her diamond earrings to help me on my way."
Ana approved.
"Come with me," she said, rising from her chair and beckoning June to follow her from the parlor.
They ascended the long, curving staircase to the second level and entered a room at the end of the hallway. A crib rested beside a broad bay window, bathed in silvery moonlight that played along the antique wooden bars.
Ana drew the edge of a tiny blanket away from her son's face. His leg kicked beneath the coverlet and he pressed a plump cheek deeper into the flannel sheet.
June clasped her hands together and pressed them into her chin.
"Oh, isn't he just a darling prince," she whispered. "How old is he?"
"Eleven months. He just took his first steps on Sunday."
"I'm sure Mister Harkins was thrilled," said June, "proud of his strong boy."
Ana decided not to tell Miss White that Trey had missed the milestone because he been golfing with his business partners. She also thought it best to leave out the fact that her darling boy had thrown a fit that morning when she had tried to feed him, resulting in a warped spoon. It was the third time that his tantrums had ruined her good silver because he didn't like applesauce.
They returned to the ground floor and entered the kitchen. It had been Ana's first project in her new home. The woodwork had been refinished, and the countertops, cupboards, sinks and appliances updated to the latest style. June sucked in her breath at the size of the room. The pantry alone was larger than the bedroom she had grown up in.
"It's all yours if you want it," Ana said, waving her arm across the expanse.
"Missus Harkins, I don't know what to—"
"But you have to promise me one thing."
Ana's green eyes gripped June's dark browns and didn't let go. She held June prisoner there before explaining her condition.
"You must promise to care for my son, no matter what," she said. "No matter what happens. Can you promise me that?"
Surprise flickered over June's face, followed by a hint of worry before her expression softened into sincere confidence.
"I'll treat him like he's my own."
Ana was convinced. She'd had this talk with many women over the years, asked that vital question to fishwives and scullery maids, duchesses and suffragettes. Most of them hadn't made the cut, but she had no doubt that Miss June White would step up and honor her promise when it was time for Ana to leave.
June's voice drew Ana back to the present.
"Hm?"
"His name," June repeated. "Your sweet boy. What's his name?"
"His father named him Roger."
June flashed her teeth again.
"Roger. A fine name for a fine boy. And I'm sure he'll grow into a fine man."
Chapter Twelve
THE DRIVE SOUTH FROM BUFFALO was an exercise in patience, which was in low supply for David. Construction and heavy rains impeded his progress the entire way back to D.C., almost doubling the anticipated travel time. The I-495 split loomed ahead, its signs barely visible through the downpour. It might take another hour to get to Samantha's townhouse, depending on traffic.
His passengers on the return trip had been a revolving cast of characters that spoke nonstop, recounting the events of the past few days; Ned Capelli, Ernie Acevedo, Marissa, Samantha, and Tony Aldridge. That last one wouldn't shut up. David knew, of course, that it was his mind's way of sorting everything out, his brain's tactic for processing the situation in preparation for his next move. The problem was that he didn't have a next move. He was in hour thirteen of what should have been a seven-hour journey from Buffalo, and he still hadn't worked it out. Too many voices in his ear. Too much to process.
Things were going as well as could be expected under the circumstances. He was sure that Marissa had made it to Samantha's okay, despite the fact that he had cut off communication with them. He couldn't be too careful. Phones could be tapped. Capo and DJ were on board with the mission, along with assurances that Slasher and Cracker would toe the line. Samantha's identity was safe—for now. So that left the problem of Roger Harkins and this mystery prisoner that Tony had alluded to.
No, this mystery prisoner that Tony had outright dangled before him.
"Oh, I wouldn't send any spooks after you, David. I don't work like that."
The spectral carousel in the shotgun seat had stopped on Tony.
"Fuck off," David muttered.
How dare he threaten Marissa?
"Don't make me do something...regrettable."
David glared at the empty seat next to him, but the echo of Tony's words lingered there, punctuated by raindrops smashing and sliding against the windshield. David turned the statement on himself. He had no qualms about doing whatever was necessary to get the job done, things that he hoped Samantha would never have to do. Braithwaite had been a prime example of that. He would have hunted Samantha to the ends of the earth if David hadn't killed him. Samantha had been spared that horrible task. It had to go down that way. She was the hero. There were decisions that needed to be made in the real world that a hero couldn't make without turning into the villain. Yes, David knew his role. He just wasn't sure how to play it in this new situation.
"Where are we getting our intel?"
Acevedo replaced Tony, a bag of frozen Brussels sprouts pressed to his chin.
David couldn't help but feel that he had jumped the gun on getting the squad back together. They had the training and the means. They had an objective. They just didn't have a location.
David cursed Tony again.
A wave of the sedan's windshield wipers revealed the beltway split just ahead. One way would take him to Bethesda, where Marissa and Samantha no doubt awaited an explanation as to what the hell was going on, while veering west would lead him into Virginia. An itch manifested in the back of David's mind. It was familiar to him, the beginnings of an idea. He searched his memory for further details of Tony's visit to his apartment, pushing Tony's threats out of the way to make room for less conspicuous verbal exchanges. Tony reappeared in the passenger seat, his dark fedora dripping rainwater despite being inside the car.
"You know how to reach me if you change your mind."
There it was.
David punched a button on the LED display in the dashboard, summoning the bluetooth connection for his phone.
"Call Tony Alridge."
Tony's real voice filled the interior of the sedan.
"Now's not a good time."
David heard commotion in the background. Chatter. An over-modulated voice louder than Tony's.
"There's been a development," David said. "Let's meet."
Tony's sigh filtered through the car's speakers.
"I just said it's not a good time. You're too late, anyway."
David paused, concentrating on the background noise. It was a crowd. Were they cheering?
He stomped the brake pedal as a pair of red lights flared to life in front of him. An agile lane change turned a certain accident into a narrow miss. David craned his neck to make sure the lane was clear after the fact, and commended his luck with a forceful exhale.
"Too late? I don't think so," David said. "I'm willing to negotiate. What do you say?"
The bustle on Tony's end of the line was renewed by another cheer. The amplified voice David had heard exploded into his car once again.
"...and the Highlanders have the ball at the twenty-four yard line! This is the third interception for number forty-six this season, a new record for—"
The line went dead. David grinned and headed west.
The squalls had downgraded to a steady drizzle by the time David handed his ticket the volunteer gatekeeper and entered the stadium. His attention was drawn to the expansive scoreboard that competed with the width of the end zone above which it had been mounted. A slow motion replay was displayed there in crisp, high definition, showing a particularly brutal sack by the visiting team. Herndon didn't have a chance, however. The McLean Highlanders were up by twenty-one points in the third quarter.
David wiped rain-slick hair from his forehead and consulted the tri-fold program he had been handed upon entry. A quick scan of the last names ended with a satisfied nod of his head. A whistle blew on the field. It was an off-sides call against Herndon. McLean's cheerleading squad burst into motion, silver and red pom poms flashing in the stadium lights, moving in practiced synchronization with the marching band's brass squawking. He stuffed the program into his jacket pocket and raised his eyes to the stands.
Parents and fellow students huddled under plastic ponchos as they rooted for their teams. The bleachers were a far cry from full capacity on the soggy Friday night, making David's search much easier. He mounted the steps and made his way to the center section, issuing terse apologies and begging several pardons before reaching his destination. He gave his quarry a wide berth, but made a show of wiping rain water from the bench before taking his seat.
Spectators lurched to their feet in applause as the Highlanders scored a field goal. David felt a pair of eyes on him when the celebration died down and the crowd returned to their seats. He steadied himself and turned to meet Tony's stare head on. That could have been it, mission accomplished. David showing up at Tony's son's high school football game. Message sent. Message received. And maybe that should have been it, but Tony had issued his threats. Now it was David's turn. Besides, he hadn't come all this way just to send a message. He needed something, and planned to stay until he got it.
"Oh my god! Hey man, how are you?"
David stood and shuffled closer to Tony with his hand outstretched, mock surprise occupying his face. A handsome woman sitting next to Tony turned her attention from the game. There was no recognition in her dark eyes. It made sense. David had never met Tony's wife. He didn't even know Tony was married, didn't know he had a son until tonight.
"They let you out of the cage for once, eh?"
Tony half rose and took David's hand. The grip was too tight and too long, a clear warning that David had better be careful.
"Yep, I guess they got tired of looking at this mug for seventy hours a week. Told me to get lost," Tony said. "Haven't seen you in forever, Dutch! How've ya been?"
"Can't complain."
David let his eyes travel to Tony's wife. He waited.
Tony took the hint.
"Oh, right. Honey, meet Dutch Davison. We used to work together at the bureau. Dutch, this is Lorraine."
David exchanged brief pleasantries with Lorraine, which were interrupted by another big play on the field. Roars erupted around them. Tony leaned in with a hiss.
"What the fuck are you doing? Get out of here!"
David waited for the crowd to settle before replying.
"Lorraine, is that your boy on the field? I saw his name in the program. Number eight?"
Lorraine nodded, her expression proud.
"That's my Cory."
Tony rose and motioned to the stairs at the end of their row.
"Come on, Dutch. Let me get you a coffee."
David leaned forward, ignoring the invitation and continuing his small talk with Tony's wife.
"Program says he's a junior, right? Probably driving by now, huh?"
"Oh yes. Got his license last summer," she said. "Stay off the streets if you know what's good for you!"
They shared a laugh. Tony's face was stone.
"Yeah, new drivers," David said. "My nephew just started driving, too. He's out there on the field for Herndon. Wide receiver."
"Oh, you don't say!"
Lorraine's eyes scanned the field as though she could somehow recognize David's imaginary nephew.
"I told him to be careful behind the wheel," David said, letting his eyes lock onto Tony's. "It would be a shame if he got into an accident. That could end a young man's football career just when it's getting started."
Tony's jaw clenched. Their stare held fast.
"Coffee?" David said, breaking the tension. "Yeah, sounds great."
He motioned Tony ahead of him and said a curt goodbye to Lorraine.
David was pretty sure that the young woman behind the concessions counter was a student. Probably part of one extracurricular club or another. She giggled with another girl, pointing to a group of boys that had joined the line behind he and Tony. The courting rituals of the typical high school student hadn't changed since David was that age.
"Oh my god! He saw me!"
"Why is he wearing those jeans? Is he serious right now?"
Tony shouldered past David and tossed a ten-dollar bill onto the counter.
"Two coffees."
One of the girls came forward and snatched up the bill, her eyes never leaving the pack of potential life mates at the rear of the line. The conversation with her friend didn't end, even while filling Tony's order, nor did she offer him any change. Tony didn't ask for any. David took the small paper cup from Tony and followed him into the relative solitude of the parking lot.
"I'm getting a little bored with our clandestine meetings," Tony said. "I've said all I have to say."
"Well you paid me an unexpected visit. Thought I'd return the favor."
Tony took a sip of coffee.
"Return the favor by threatening my kid?"
David flipped back the plastic tab in the cup's lid and watched a wisp of steam escape from within.
"How did you put it? 'Don't make me do something...regrettable'?"
"My fucking kid!"
"Your wife drives too, doesn't she?"
Tony's eyes widened. He stepped away from David as his jaw slackened in shock.
"You're making a huge mis—"
"So here's what you're going to do, old buddy. You're going to call off whatever assets you have shadowing my assistant. But first, you're going to give me the coordinates of the installation holding this...this enhanced individual you tried to bait me with."
"Your assistant?" Tony said after he recovered his wits. "You think I would—"
David closed the distance between them. Any remnants of professional courtesy drained from his tone.
"Don't play games. Give me the coordinates."
"No fucking way."
"You'll never find Miss Sanchez. I saw to that. You can't bring me in because you know I'll never cooperate. You have me killed and I can't help you. Add that up and what do you get? Nothing. You have nothing, Tony. No leverage."
Tony muffled his protest when several car doors opened and closed nearby. A foursome of high school kids passed them, leaving the scent of cheap beer in their wake.
"You don't know what you're getting into, David."
David backed away and sighed, then sampled his coffee before he spoke.
"You know, Lorraine strikes me as a wine drinker. I bet she likes that place over on Whittier. Total Wine, is it? Then she heads on over to Balducci's for some nice cheese and fruit to go with her vintage of choice. Sound about right?"
Tony studied David's eyes but said nothing.
"And your boy. I'm sure you've warned young Cory not to go too far out of town seeing as how he just started driving. He and his buddies probably meet up at the park for a pick up game, or maybe he takes his sweetheart to that pizza joint on Redmond. Young love. It's something, ain't it?"
Tony remained silent, but he didn't need to speak. His countenance flipped through a playbook of emotion. Anguish. Disbelief. Worry. Defeat. Recognition fled from his gaze as he stared at David.
"I thought I knew you," he said. "I was wrong."
"You seem to have it in your head that I'm the good guy, Tony. I'm not. I'm the guy that does the things that the good guy can't. Necessary things."
Tony shook his head. His eyes dropped to the last gasps of steam that issued from his coffee cup. A unified cheer resounded within the stadium. The marching band exploded into a victory song.
"The coordinates," David said. "Now."
A sudden movement from Tony had David's hand clamped over his forearm. David's coffee hit the ground as his other hand reared back and balled into a fist next to his ear. Tony was startled by David's impressive reaction time, but he relaxed and withdrew his hand from inside his jacket with a slow, deliberate motion. A silver pen flashed in the light from the towering posts overhead.
David released him and squatted to retrieve his fallen beverage. The lid had opened, spilling the dark contents onto the darker asphalt. Tony snatched the container from David as he rose and scribbled on it before tossing it back to him.
"You go in there, David, you're never coming out."
David inspected the cup and found two strings of numbers, one labeled longitude, the other latitude. Several retorts formed in David's mind, ranging from victorious bravado to parting threats to sincere gratitude. He sucked in a breath to issue whatever quip decided to make itself heard, but it never escaped his mouth. Tony cocked his head in confusion. He had detected it as well.
It was the absence of all sound.
David flattened the paper cup and shoved it inside his jacket as he leaned into a full sprint. Tony followed him into the stadium a few steps behind. David stopped, blinking in confusion.
Half of the fans occupying the bleachers were glued to their phones. The other half stared at the massive video scoreboard above the end zone. Everyone was still and silent, including the players and the coaches on the field. David followed their eyes to the scoreboard display. All game statistics were gone, replaced by a live feed from a cable news channel.
The majestic dome of the Capitol building was visible in the background, lit up like a patriotic art exhibit against the night sky. The foreground was occupied by an army of monsters. Animated, ape-like creatures of stone. They were busy inflicting violence upon something in their midst.
No, someone.
The stadium erupted in a simultaneous exclamation of surprise when the throng of creatures exploded away from that someone in a ring of destruction and fell to the plaza in useless fragments.
Samantha was revealed, beaten and bloody. Her cowled head hung in exhaustion. Another automaton advanced on her, its shape sleeker and more refined than the others. It was made of a black mineral that David didn't recognize, and moved with more fluidity than the blocky creatures of stone. Coils of that obsidian mineral grew from its back and coiled around Samantha, lifting her into the air with little effort. She didn't resist. Her head lolled to the side. One eye was visible through the cracked lens in her cowl, her eyelid fluttering as she faded away.
David spun about, searching for Tony. He found his former friend backing away from him, the only movement in a sea of transfixed statues. His knowing smile was victorious. He disappeared into the crowd.
David turned and ran to his car, stumbling several times and cursing the weakness in his knees. He slammed the car into gear and stomped the accelerator pedal. Tires squealed in protest of the engine's demands.
David knew he would never get there in time, but he had to try.
Chapter Thirteen
SHE LOOKED DIFFERENT, ALMOST INTIMIDATING. The wine-stained napkin had been replaced by a mask that covered her head and upper face with an angular cutaway that left her nose and mouth exposed. It matched the black, red-trimmed leather of the motorcycle suit she wore. The long braid that sprouted from the top of the cowl was reddish-blonde, the same shade as that of the woman who had humiliated him on the National Mall. Roger was sure it was her, a certainty cemented by the fact that she had been flying.
Had been. Wasn't now. The twin constructs he animated from the Capitol Columns had made sure of that.
She lay at his feet, stunned, staring up at him from behind bug-like lenses that reflected the reds, yellows and oranges of the flames around them. Roger wanted to believe that her eyes were wide with helpless terror behind those lenses, that her body was frozen in disbelief at her sudden, swift defeat, but he could savor his victory later. For now, he wanted to hurt her.
Roger brought his fists down like twin sledgehammers, aiming for those ridiculous lenses, but instead connected with the stone portico. Dust and pebbles sprayed into the air with a resounding crack!
She was fast, he had to give her that.
"I've seen this movie," she said from the air above him. "It ended badly for you last time. Do you want a another one-way ticket to the Chesapeake Bay?"
It occurred to him that she was referring to the automaton he had brought to life from the ruins of the Washington Monument. Did she think he was a mindless construct? Roger's smile was hidden behind the protective carapace covering his face.
He had been surprised to find a massive chunk of the unfamiliar mineral inside the crate that Phil had sent. The accompanying playbook had designated it as wurtzite boron nitride, a substance harder than diamond and much more flexible due to its atomic structure or something like that. Roger couldn't remember the fine details. His eyes had glazed over during the scientific portion of Phil's explanation. The key takeaway was that it wasn't synthetic and contained only negligible amounts of carbon, which meant one thing to Roger: it was a weapon. The downside was that it chafed like hell.
"I can assure you that you haven't seen this movie."
The speed with which her head jerked towards him, the way her jaw slackened in surprise, confirmed his suspicion; she assumed he was another automaton.
Not anymore.
Roger used her momentary pause to send his sandstone subordinates scrambling up the columns in flanking positions.
"Who are you?"
Roger shook his head in disapproval at the question, keeping her attention on him to buy time for his offensive.
"'Who are you?' asks the girl hiding behind a mask. It's a natural question, just not very well thought out."
She sensed his constructs leaving the pillars as they leapt. They were seized before they could make contact and drag her back to the ground. Artificial limbs fluttered like dancing marionettes as the automatons hung suspended for a single heartbeat before colliding with astounding force. A strange sensation swept over Roger as his link was severed. It was fleeting, but disconcerting nonetheless. He had experienced it once before, when she had disappeared into the heavens with the monument construct. He likened it to a pleasant daydream in which he is doing a hundred and twenty in his Maserati on a gorgeous afternoon when suddenly he is awakened with an air horn to the ear; the brain still thinks it is speeding down the highway but the body hits a concrete wall.
The constructs fell to the plaza in lifeless chunks.
Roger had planned for this. His puppets were meant to be distractions, and they had served their purpose. He extended his arms and willed the mineral encasing his body to obey his whim. The substance lengthened and narrowed to serpentine tendrils that found her booted ankles and wrapped them in their sinuous coils. Roger pulled her from the air and thrashed her about, turning her surprised yelp into grunts of pain. He bludgeoned three of the columns with the foolish girl, wielding her like a ludicrous, human flail to punish the stone. The pillars cracked and buckled from the impact, sending chunks of sandstone exploding into the night.
He kept his hold on her as she slumped to the ground, dazed by the violence visited upon her but otherwise uninjured. Roger cursed her resilience and fought to reel her in. It was though he was battling a thousand-pound marlin off the coast of Oahu. She clawed at the patio stones, rending them with claw-like fissures that lengthened as he drew her closer. He could feel her power defying his own, a raw strength challenging his hold on her, but she had nothing to use as leverage, no way to anchor herself. She tried to take flight but he smashed her back to the plaza. Abandoning the unsuccessful tactics, the masked woman flipped to her back and threw her arms out wide. She snapped them taut before her, hands angled at Roger, and the rubble that had once been his animated assistants barreled into him in a hailstorm of sandstone. The deluge didn't hurt him, but it did keep his attention diverted from the toppling column that followed.
Roger cursed aloud and dove free of the massive pillar. It thundered to the ground inches away, creating a shockwave that rung his head like bell. The column's impact severed his hold on the woman, who was obscured by the ensuing cloud of dust that erupted between them. Roger beckoned the disembodied tendrils to him. They slithered from the cloud and became one with his exoskin.
"Very clever, bitch!" he said, rushing to where he had last seen her.
Roger found himself staggering backward, unaware that he had been struck until a second punch almost dropped him to his knees.
"Thanks, bitch!"
She stood before him, fists raised in front of her concealed face. Roger recovered in time to duck a left hook and shuffled backward, reveling in the fact that his exoskin had withstood her blows. Perhaps they had been glancing shots, or maybe she was pulling her punches. Either way, the young woman had made a grievous error. Why would she choose to fight him toe to toe when they had the powers of gods?
He stomped his foot into the stones as she darted forward to launch another barrage. Her tactical mistake was revealed when a ropy extension of the wurtzite mineral exploded from the stones behind her to encircle her neck. She groped blindly at the obsidian appendage. Roger wasn't sure if she was strong enough to break it, but he didn't wait to find out.
The agreement with Phil had been to subdue and deliver her with all haste, but Roger had other plans now that he saw what an amateur she was. He would humiliate her as she had humiliated him. And for that, he would need an audience.
Roger coiled the tendril and snapped it taut, flinging her from the ruins of the Capitol Columns with horrific savagery. She tumbled through the meadow beyond and came to a rest coughing and sputtering, limbs splayed about like a rag doll. Roger was on her in an instant, enhancing his movement by summoning arachnid legs to propel him forward. Several thick tendrils also sprouted from his exoskin, wrapping her from neck to knee before she could catch her breath and retaliate. Roger skittered through the trees with the young woman in tow, a spidery aberration absconding with its juicy prize. He was almost free of the National Arboretum when he discovered that his artificial limbs were no longer touching the ground. As a matter of fact, the ground was falling away at a disturbing rate.
Roger felt pressure build in his head and chest as the strain of keeping her confined in the coils increased tenfold. She thrashed like a tigress in a snare, yet somehow maintained enough concentration to levitate them through the trees. Roger fought to retain control of the situation, testing the limits of his abilities by summoning even more tentacle-like appendages to anchor himself on the boles of three large oaks. Their ascension halted, but he had overtaxed himself. The woman's cry was exultant as she broke free of Roger's hold. Obsidian particles exploded with her release, embedding themselves in trunks and branches, perforating leaves.
Roger felt his mouth hanging open. This wurtzite stuff was supposed to be harder than diamond. Phil had assured him of it.
He reformed the exoskin devoid of extraneous limbs and dropped to the ground to consider his next move. She had proven far more powerful than he had anticipated, but she was inexperienced, uninventive with her talents. It was hard to tell for sure, but Roger estimated that she was about half his age. Had a life of twenty-some years with miraculous powers taught her nothing? She acted like a blunt instrument rather than a telekinetic surgeon who could probably reach into his skull and dissect his brain if she chose to. No wonder Phil wanted her. He was probably going to give her a scholarship to his personal medical school, make her his star pupil.
She hovered in the treetops and stared down at Roger, neither engaging nor retreating. Her hacking coughs told him that she was still recovering from the neck throw that no doubt would have decapitated anyone else. They had underestimated each other, as evidenced by this momentary ceasefire.
"Was that you on the Mall that day?"
Her voice was hoarse. Roger nodded.
"Tell me something. Why aren't you turning these trees into living statues to beat the shit out of me?"
"Come down here so I can wash your mouth out with soap," Roger said. "How old are you? Like fifteen? Isn't it past your curfew?"
"I told the folks not to wait up."
Roger reached out, searching for anything he could use to distract her while at the same time remonstrating himself for choosing to set his trap in an arboretum. While the Capitol Columns had been the perfect source of raw material, the National Arboretum held little else that he could use. Now he felt like the amateur. He decided to lay off the theatrics in the future—if he had a future after this. For now, he had to keep her talking.
"You'd better put out those fires before they spread into the city."
Sirens wailed in the distance. She cocked her head to listen.
"I'll let the professionals take care of that."
There it was. Iron. Probably from the engine block or crankshaft of a nearby car. An older car. Roger ripped the raw materials from the vehicle and molded them into a quadriped.
"Why bring me here?" she said when he didn't respond. "What do you want with me?"
"I want to teach you a lesson, girl."
It was close now. Roger changed it into primate form, one that could brachiate with ease, and sent it into the canopy.
"I'm sorry," she said, "but I can't hear you very well through all of that crap on your face. How about you take off that suit so I can hear this wise, almighty lesson?"
"I'll show you mine if you show me yours."
Roger saw the flash of movement above her, heard the rustling leaves on the swaying branch as it took the weight. His little golem was ready. Roger burst into action—or tried to. In reality, he barely moved a muscle. Their brief parlay had also given the young woman time to enact measures. Roger felt a solid force restricting his every movement. He strained against it, but was rooted in place. It wasn't until his construct leapt onto her shoulders and disrupted her concentration with pumping fists that Roger was able to break free. He reformed the spider legs for faster egress and left her to deal with the barrage of iron blows from the ape-like automaton. Roger's mind raced with possibilities as the trees melted into blurs around him.
He needed an audience. One option stood out from the rest, magnificent and mineral rich.
The Capitol would be the perfect stage for her downfall.
Roger burst into the crowded street, his sudden, alien appearance eliciting terrified pedestrian screams and screeching vehicle tires. He headed southwest, weaving through the after-work rush that flowed through Maryland Avenue like blood through an artery. It was a straight shot to the Capitol. It wouldn't take long to get there with his enhanced mobility.
He almost made it.
The intersection of Maryland Avenue and H Street proved to be a problem when his entire body flattened against something immovable and unseen. A thought flickered through his mind in that instant of agony, a still image of an insect splattered against a windshield. It was bizarre yet comical, a slapstick scene from a Three Stooges film.
"Wait! I haven't heard your lesson!"
Her voice grated in his ears. She was above and behind him, probably striking an imperious pose in midair. Roger decided not to acknowledge her presence. They were in the city now, a jungle of metal and stone. This was his domain.
He issued a call to anything that would respond, anything within his realm of control. Exterior building walls broke apart and reformed, lamp posts twisted and changed. Roger grinned as a quartet of his creations scaled buildings on either side of the street and leapt at his enemy. Two more constructs seized hapless pedestrians and held them as human shields. Roger hadn't intended to involve innocent people, but he needed to buy time. He was sure that she wouldn't let the people come to harm, but to save them meant dropping her barrier. He had to keep moving. This crowd wasn't large enough. No, the plaza at the Capitol would be ideal. There would be tourists with cameras, news helicopters, government surveillance; a complete and undeniable record of his victory. His hypothesis was proven correct when he threw an armored shoulder against the wall and felt it shatter. He rose on his artificial appendages and continued on.
Roger felt his control over the constructs slipping as he left their vicinity, and spun about to direct their offense as best he could from the increased distance. He wanted her nice and tenderized before their final showdown. She moved among his animations with frightening swiftness, evading their lethargic attacks with ease as she made her way to the hostages. She thrust her palms outward toward the constructs, bending their rudimentary arms away from the terror-stricken bystanders. It was just enough for them to shake loose and flee with panicked screams. Roger commanded the four golems she had left behind to take advantage of the distraction. They tackled her to the ground and piled on, limbs rising and falling with punishing brutality. Satisfied with his delay tactics, Roger turned towards the Capitol.
He almost lost control of his bladder when he laid eyes on the city bus careening towards him.
The bus driver's belated perception of a mineral-coated man with spider legs standing in the middle of Maryland Avenue forced her to crank the steering wheel in desperation, which sent the bus tilting into an uncontrolled slide. Roger reacted without thinking—there was little time for that—planting his feet and willing his artificial extremities into action. He intercepted the massive bus and lifted, praying that the structural integrity of his exoskin would hold, that he wouldn't be smashed into obsidian pothole filler. He cried out with exertion and twisted at the hip, filtering all of his energy into his wurtzite limbs. The bus soared overhead, carried by its own momentum. That split second stretched into infinity. Roger took note of the advertisement pasted across the side of the broad vehicle. It featured a sleek, aerodynamic safety razor that looked more like a spaceship than a shaving tool. The tagline read:
AstroBlade.
No Such Thing As Too Close.
The bus cleared Roger's head by an inch.
Terrified screams from the passengers inside bounced in echoes from the surrounding buildings as the bus landed on its side and skidded to a stop in a shower of sparks. The undercarriage caught fire.
Roger took a step toward the bus, but paused in indecision. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. He had to move, had to finish it. No, those people needed help. She was supposed to suffer, not them. Not innocent people. This was her fault.
The choice was made for him when the masked woman dropped from the sky to land on the overturned bus. Her motorcycle leathers were filthy and torn in a dozen places. Blood dripped from her nose and mouth onto her chin. The right lens of her mask was shattered, revealing a green eye that shot fury at him like an emerald cannonball. The image lasted only a second, a snapshot that imprinted itself on Roger's brain, then she turned away and raised her arms. Windows shattered and passengers rose from within, escaping the belly of the burning bus as though plucked from death by giant, invisible fingers to be set down on the street a safe distance away.
Roger fled.
A police blockade waited for him at 8th Street. Their bullets couldn't penetrate his armor and he ploughed through them, tossing aside police cruisers as though they had been made from flimsy plastic model kits. He penetrated three more blockades before arriving at his destination with a cacophony of wailing sirens at his back. Roger shrugged off more gunfire as he emerged onto the great plaza that spanned the East Front of the Capitol building.
Now he would wait.
He amused himself by creating a pair of golems to toss police vehicles about, initiating an impromptu demolition derby that had officers and Capitol security personnel discarding their weapons and diving for cover. News choppers appeared right on cue, their rotors thrumming in steady rhythm as their downdraft scattered loose debris across the stones. Roger left them alone. They were his gateway to the public eye. The conduit for his personal broadcast to the world. Tonight's headline: Harkins Humbles D.C. Hero.
"Congratulations, you're on TV."
She landed behind him, placing herself between Roger and the Capitol.
"Isn't that what you wanted? An audience?" she continued. "We've already lost one monument. I won't let anything happen to this one."
Her decision to talk instead of attack once again revealed her naiveté. Roger shook his head in mock disappointment as he commanded the stone blocks at her feet to warp and reshape themselves into instruments of his will.
"You had the drop on me there," he said as artificial coils encircled her knees and thighs, preventing her from taking flight. "Should have taken me down instead of flapping your gums."
He lashed out with his arms, morphing the layers of wurtzite into cables that whipped at her with resounding cracks. They never connected. Roger was hurled from his feet as a transparent mass slammed into his chest. The world tumbled in his vision. He found himself on his stomach twenty yards away from his enemy when it finally righted itself. The mineral carapace had taken the brunt of the force, but his lungs burned for oxygen. A fastball had bruised his sternum during a pick up game in college. This felt a hundred times worse. Had she been holding back this entire time?
He raised his eyes to find her chopping at the stone restraints with rigid hands. He couldn't let her get airborne. Not again. Roger ignored the pain in his chest and lurched into motion, closing the distance between them. His arbitrary decision to face her on the plaza had been a stroke of genius. Acres of sandstone and granite were at his disposal, yearning to be given form and function.
Roger granted their wish.
Paved stones ripped from the earth and reshaped, joined together and repurposed themselves into agents of pain. Roger tested the limits of his power as never before. Six man-sized constructs swelled to a dozen, then two dozen. The masked woman shattered the restraints on her legs and tried to take flight, only to be brought down by a leaping automaton that snatched her from the air with boulder fists. Roger's self-congratulatory smile was erased by high-caliber gunfire from behind that forced him to stutter step forward. He wheeled about and dispatched a trio of golems to take care of the annoying, impotent police presence.
Roger returned his full attention to his foe. His creations had formed a perimeter around her and were closing in. One would land a telling blow from an indefensible angle while she dealt with one of its companions. She would send a construct flying into the air or force a pair to collide with devastating result, only to fall prey to others that had flanked her. Roger gathered the remnants of those that had fallen and sent them back into the fray. Reformed soldiers, fresh and battle ready. He was the general directing his troops from a safe distance, biding his time until he was ready to charge in and take the glory. The opportunity would present itself in due course.
He spied a crowd growing in his peripheral vision, gathering to watch the scene unfold with bated breath. Some of them shouted encouraging words to his adversary as they were pushed back by authorities who knew better than to get involved in an altercation of this magnitude. The people's support of this masked fool ate away at Roger. Envy boiled in his heart, threatening to bubble over and make him do something foolish. But no, he would wait. They would see who she really was soon enough. They would understand when he tore that silly cowl from her head and showed them all that she was just a weak, mewling woman. He would show them all that he was the one who deserved their affection, not her.
She ducked a lumbering swing, only to be caught flat-footed by a backhand from a second assailant which staggered her into the arms of a third construct. It palmed the back of her head and planted her face into the pavers. Roger felt the reverberation rise through his soles when her head made contact. She struggled to her hands and knees, shaking off the devastating blow.
Roger was impressed. His admiration grew when she reared back onto her heels and balled her hands into fists. She issued a guttural cry to the heavens, which conjured a second shockwave that dwarfed the first. It blasted through the cordon of constructs, exploding them into chunks of rubble that rolled to a standstill in a lifeless orbit around her.
The sensation of so many simultaneous severed connections had Roger clutching at his wurtzite-laden skull. His knees weakened and he almost succumbed to the vertigo that followed. Anger welled up within him, cremating his disorientation in a furnace of ire. He found her in that vulnerable kneeling position, head drooping and chest palpitating as she gasped for air.
The time had come. Roger seized his opportunity.
He was on her in the span of a heartbeat, reaching out with wurtzite coils to gather her up and squeeze and squeeze and squeeze....
She didn't fight back. Her head lolled to the side. Roger lifted her high above him, showing her adoring audience that she had fallen. That their precious star was beaten. Bullets pinged against his exoskin. One of them struck his prisoner in the chest, but got no further than the leather of her jacket. The lead round dropped to the plaza to join its ineffective companions.
Roger dashed her against the stones several times to take any remaining fight out of her before raising her overhead once more. News choppers closed in, their mounted cameras swiveling and focusing, hungry for the exclusive.
"Witness!"
He spun in a circle to give everyone a good look.
"She is nothing! A fraud!"
He lowered her face to his. Her exposed eye was half-lidded, fluttering as she fought for consciousness. Her lips were parted, dry and cracked and bloody.
"Watch!"
Roger peeled the layer of impenetrable mineral away from his face and hands. His smile was pernicious, gloating.
"I showed you mine...."
He reached for the cowl. Their skin made contact as his fingers slipped beneath the leather at her cheek. Her eye snapped open, locking onto his.
They gasped in unison.
A massive orb of blistering red illuminated the gasses and particles that formed the dazzling cloud around it. Roger knew there was a name for this astronomical phenomenon, but he couldn't think of it at the moment. He was too busy panicking as he floated through space. She came into view, mirroring his helpless journey through the cosmos. Her garments were the same, the red and black leathers and the stupid mask, but they were in pristine condition now, as though their fierce battle had never occurred.
"Save us!"
Roger's shout died in the womb. The dominion of space was still and silent. The fact that he could even breathe astounded him, as did the fact that his blood hadn't turned to ice. Then he realized that he wasn't breathing. For some reason, he didn't need to.
"Help me! Please!"
Her mouth moved in response, but it was useless. Beyond her, the dead star pulsated and flared.
Roger was consumed by the light.
Something thin and leathery slid between his fingers. His eyes refocused and he jerked his hand from her face as though it was a hot firebrand. Roger relaxed his obsidian tendrils and let her drop, backing away from her in horror.
He was back at the Capitol.
It had happened again. Just as it had happened on the Mall, when she had tackled him away from his own construct in a misguided attempt to rescue him. But what was it? A nebula this time? Formed from a dying star? Why? What did it mean?
"Hey Dickhead!"
Roger, still dazed from the experience, turned his head to find a young woman with mousy brown hair and thick-rimmed glasses closing the distance between them. Her arm came up, hand extended toward his exposed face. She held something dark and cylindrical in that hand. Her index finger came down on top of it. Roger heard a liquid hiss.
His eyes were replaced by red hot coals plucked from a roaring hearth. The scream that was born from that wet hiss didn't sound like him at all. He didn't think he was capable of creating a sound like that. But his throat was raw as a second howl followed, forcing him take ownership of the first one. He dug at his eyes with his knuckles in an attempt to alleviate the agony, but succeeded only in spreading the napalm fluid onto new areas of his face. An urgent plea pierced the veil of his torment.
"Get up! Come on, we gotta go!"
Roger attempted to center himself enough to deal with this insignificant intruder and complete his mission, but his vision was a blurry field of burning tears, his sinus cavity an erupting volcano. The voice sounded again.
"On your feet, goddammit!"
It was that woman again. The one who had lit his eyeballs on fire. Roger lashed out in blind frustration, but his conjured appendages found only empty air. Stars exploded before his unseeing eyes, joining the cavalcade of shadowy shapes that played there. A new sound erupted in his ears. A single, solid note; a high-pitched whine that drowned out everything else.
He felt his feet leaving the ground. He was weightless. Was it a side effect of the cloud of darkness that swallowed him, or was it...?
Roger never finished the question.
Chapter Fourteen
"WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING?"
Samantha didn't point at people very often. She considered it rude. But Marissa had been foolish to go against Roger Harkins, and would be dead right now if he hadn't been distracted. Marissa could have been crushed to a pulp or dismembered and tossed about the Capitol plaza in pieces, becoming a grisly scavenger hunt for the coroner. That was worth a finger point in Samantha's opinion.
Marissa glowered as she stepped out of her Saturn sports coupe and closed the door behind her with just enough force to punctuate her frustration.
"What was I thinking? I was thinking you shouldn't have left me stranded on a bell tower. I was thinking I saved your scrawny ass from that lunatic!"
Samantha removed her cowl and scratched at her scalp, wincing when she discovered a knot that had formed. A parting gift from Harkins's brute squad. She poked a finger through the eyehole where the lens had been.
"It's not scrawny. It's sassy."
"Your ass is sassy? As in cheeky?" Marissa mused.
Samantha's expression softened despite her best efforts to keep a stern facade in place.
"How did you get down, anyway?"
"I banged on an access door until someone let me in. Told them I got lost on a tour, then got the hell out of Dodge before they could call the cops on me. After that, it was easy to follow the path of destruction from the Arboretum to the Capitol. I tipped the cab driver handsomely."
"Well, thank you," said Samantha. "Your sidekick name will be Pepper Lass, fearsome wielder of the pepper spray."
"You're welcome, and no thank you."
"Cayenne Girl?"
"No."
"Captain Capsaicin?"
"I'll think about it."
They leaned against Marissa's car and enjoyed the fresh country air, feeling the stress drift away with each exhale. Exhaustion tugged at Samantha, but she shook it loose for the moment.
"You okay?" Marissa said.
Samantha nodded.
"I heal pretty fast. A bit banged up, but this too shall pass."
Her tongue found the split in her lip for what seemed like the thousandth time since regaining consciousness. It continued to nag at her with pulsating throbs.
That lamp post was seriously pissed off.
Did I just string those words together and mean them in a literal sense?
How ridiculous.
The towering, iron creature had been reinforced beyond its normal material strength, along with the rest of the horde that Harkins had inflicted upon her. A chill found its way up her spine, independent of the brisk November night.
His powers were off the charts.
"Where is he?" Marissa said, as though reading her mind.
Samantha pushed herself from the Saturn and nodded into the darkness of Fairfax County.
"Out in those woods," she said. "Tied up at bottom of a deep pit covered with half a dozen logs wider than your car tires."
Marissa searched the maze of dark boles.
"What manicurist do you go to?" Samantha said.
She held up her hands and wriggled her fingertips, which were caked with dirt and grime.
"Ales n' Nails," Marissa said. "They have DC Brau's IPA on tap. Serve wine, too."
Samantha cocked her head and studied Marissa's face.
"How does that work? Do they feed the wine to you while they do your nails?"
"No, they do one hand at a time," Marissa explained, then added, "I'm kidding. I've never had a manicure."
"Cool story, bro."
"Thanks," Marissa said as she opened the rear door of her Saturn. "I brought the stuff you asked for. Some water, too. Figured you'd be thirsty after your big supervillain action piece. I hope the studio keeps it in the movie. CGI can be expensive."
She retrieved a large plastic sack from the back seat and handed it to Samantha, who wasted no time in pulling out a bottle of water. She unscrewed the cap and drained it, then wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her jacket, wincing again when she rediscovered her sore lip. She examined the rest of the contents of the sack.
"Thanks, Marissa," she said. "Everything's here. You should probably go."
But not home.
Samantha dug in the pocket of her leather pants until she found her key ring. She offered the keys to Marissa, who gave her a quizzical look.
Shit. Here we go...
"You still can't go home. You know that, right? Go to my place."
Marissa's eyes narrowed in confusion, then widened as realization dawned.
"Oh my god."
Samantha placed a comforting hand on her friend's shoulder.
"Aside from David's shady reasons your laying low, your face is probably all over the news by now," she said, making sure her tone was gentle. "Not to mention on every surveillance recording at the Capitol. 'Pepper Lass Saves The Day' is probably already making its way across the screen of every cable news channel. Who's the big hero now?"
Marissa managed a smile that wasn't reflected in her eyes. She hadn't had time to think about the ramifications of her bravery. Samantha had plucked her from the Capitol plaza with Harkins in tow and airlifted her to her car, leaving her with a meeting location and a shopping list before absconding with her unconscious prisoner. Samantha hadn't given her time to let the consequences of her actions fully sink in.
"Go straight to 495 and find somewhere to leave your car. A McDonald's or whatever. Then take a cab directly to Bethesda—not an Uber that can be tracked back to you. Have the cab drop you at that crab place around the corner, then walk the rest of the way. Pay with cash. Okay? Got all that?"
Marissa nodded and climbed into the Saturn. Samantha could tell that Marissa's head was spinning by her vacant stare.
"And be careful," Samantha added.
"Guess we're going to be roomies, huh?" Marissa managed.
Samantha smiled as she closed the driver's side door.
"Couldn't think of a better one to have."
Marissa started the engine.
"Brie is going to be jealous," she said. "She might misunderstand."
"You can tell Brie that I prefer the one, not the zero. She's a computer nerd, right? She'll understand."
Marissa's face screwed up. Her hand closed over the transmission shifter.
"Binary humor," she said. "You're really weird."
She put the Saturn in gear.
"Give him hell, Samantha. He hurt a lot of people."
Samantha looked away as she patted the hood of the Saturn and stepped back to give Marissa room to maneuver. She waited until the tail lights disappeared before collapsing to the dirt road.
July humidity shrouded the sprawling parking lot in a sweltering blanket, turning Samantha's neatly combed hair into a frizzy mess before they reached the entrance.
"Funnel cakes first!"
It never mattered how recently Samantha had eaten prior to bursting through the amusement park's turnstile entryways, the aromas of fried dough, cotton candy and pizza always made her hungry.
"No! Hanna-Barbera Land first!"
Samantha scowled at her little brother. Cole didn't seem to understand that the key to enjoying this sprawling fairy tale land was the treats, not the thrills.
"Sammy, it's nine in the morning," Alan said. "Besides, you had an entire bowl of Boo Berry before we left the house."
She pulled her hand from her father's grasp and crossed her arms in protest. Cole seized his opportunity.
"Scooby's Ghoster Coaster?"
Alan tousled his son's dark hair.
"Alright, we'll do some rides first. Sammy, you can have a funnel cake for lunch if you want, but I don't want to hear you complaining about belly aches this afternoon. Come on."
Her show of defiance was to stand her ground as her father and brother melted into the crowd. She reconsidered the wisdom of her tantrum when she lost sight of them. Fear of being lost quickly replaced her despondence. She pushed into the crowd in search of her family.
A wisp of red caught her eye. It was a woman. Her hair was the color of blood. It was familiar. Samantha was jostled by a group of running boys and lost sight of her. Someone seized her upper arm.
"Stay with us, Sammy!"
Alan pulled her into step alongside Cole before releasing her arm.
Samantha sensed a strong presence while flying through air in the Viking Fury, a pendulum ride loosely based on the Norse dragon ships used for raping and pillaging in ancient days. Now it was a thrill ride for children and adults alike. Samantha's pig tails fluttered through the air like golden ribbons. Back and forth, up and down. She caught the glimpse of red again, this time from the vantage point of a particularly steep arc of the Viking boat. The woman stood out from the spectators waiting for their turn. She was crisp and clear, a sharp contrast to the washed-out appearance of those around her. She was watching Samantha. The ride went back and forth. Up and down and up again. Samantha searched for the woman when the ship began to slow, but she was gone.
"Okay, let's grab some food and then find one of those air-conditioned, indoor shows while we digest," Alan said. "Your poor dad is getting heat stroke."
Samantha saw the woman in the audience. Then again near the arcade on Coney Mall. And in the restroom outside of Rivertown. She never acknowledged Samantha, and was never there when Samantha stole a second glance.
"Water rides, Dad!"
Cole bolted for White Water Canyon. Alan called after him.
"Cole, wait!"
He took several quick steps after his fleeing son, but hesitated when he realized Samantha wasn't with him.
"Come on, Sammy."
"No. No water."
Her voice was soft, almost inaudible. She stood staring at the rushing waters of the man-made river ride. She picked at the end of her left pig tail, eyes wide and bottom lip trapped between her teeth. She didn't move.
"Stay right there!" Alan said before being swallowed by the crowd.
A geyser erupted as a raft passed by, drawing hoots of excitement from the soaked riders. A lump formed in Samantha's throat. She backed away and fell.
The heat of the summer sun was replaced by a clutching chill. A shifting green field filled Samantha's vision, pierced by faint rays of light that shimmied and danced in the current. She knew she was underwater. She knew from the pressure in her chest, the air that escaped her nostrils and fled upwards in a caravan of bubbles. Samantha had loved to play with bubbles once upon a time.
A dark mass lay below her. A car rested on the riverbed. Windshield smashed and fenders twisted. Samantha slammed her eyelids together and squeezed. This was a dream. Had to be. She screamed anyway. Water filled her mouth, her lungs. Panic blossomed and overwhelmed her.
It was happening again.
Samantha felt a firm hand take hold of her and pull her toward the light. Hot pavement kissed her skin. She smelled funnel cakes and cotton candy. Exclamations of delight sounded from somewhere, followed by the mechanical roar of a roller coaster. Samantha's world fell silent when she opened her eyes.
The woman was there, all around her. No longer just a fleeting glimpse. She had become everyone. Every man, woman and child stopped what they were doing to stare at Samantha with emerald embers that burned within a thick frame of blood-red hair. Hundreds of lips parted as one. The words were uttered in a melodic chorus of voices, young and old.
"Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star..."
...how I wonder what you are.
There was a warm touch on her forehead.
Samantha rolled to her feet and swayed, both startled and disoriented. Bright lights blinded her, adding to the confusion. A silhouette was outlined against the lights, unrecognizable in that short interval between unconsciousness and awareness. Whoever it was had her cowl in his hand.
"Rough night huh? You dropped this."
David.
She embraced him with a ferocity that left him wheezing.
"Easy," he murmured, lips pressed to her ear. "We're all made of Styrofoam to you, remember?"
She loosened her grip but didn't let go. He held her close, smoothing her mussed hair over the top of her head and delivering a tender kiss there. She let him go after a time and turned away from the headlights to wipe at her eyes.
"When did you get back?"
"Just now," said David. "Are you okay?"
She nodded.
Wait a sec....
"How did you find me out here in the middle of nowhere?"
David offered the cowl to her. She took it and tucked it into her belt, still waiting for an answer.
Or did he just answer me?
She pulled the cowl free and held it up. Light refracted through the remaining lens, creating abstract patterns that flitted across her suspicious expression.
"That's seen better days," David observed with a smile.
"You put a tracker in it?"
"Yep," he said, spinning in a slow circle as he scanned the darkness. "Where's Harkins?"
"A tracker? Christ! That's a little clingy, don't you think?"
"You know it's bad form to answer a question with a question, right? Now where is that piece of shit?"
Samantha stopped their improvisational exercise with an exasperated sigh and entered the woods, motioning for him to follow as she searched the contents of the bag Marissa had given her. She withdrew a heavy flashlight and switched it on before sending it into the air to levitate next to her head. David's boots crunched in the underbrush as he caught up to her.
"You did the best you could. Don't let it get to you."
"I'm fine, David. Really."
That sneaky bastard wore me down and overpowered me. Almost exposed me to the world. My life would have been over.
"Marissa is a force to be reckoned with, isn't she?" David said, changing the subject after her terse answer. "She told me what happened."
Samantha issued a soft chuckle.
"I've given her official sidekick status."
"Whoa! She's big time now, huh? Can't wait to see her costume."
Samantha didn't reply. Her progress through the woods was accompanied by a cluster of cloudy images that became clearer with every step. She had almost forgotten about the dream in her haste to orient herself upon waking up.
Viking Fury. That one was a real stomach tumbler. I wonder if it's still around.
King's Island had become a summer tradition once she and Cole were old enough to properly enjoy it. Her father was gifted with the patience of a saint—a character trait he put to good use as a diplomat—and kept his bickering children in line with a grace that belied the fact that he had lost two wives in the span of several years. Samantha could barely remember Cole's mother, and only recently became reacquainted with her likeness while perusing dusty photo albums in the attic of her childhood home. That was the day that Samantha had learned about her own mother's demise. That was why Samantha had been terrified of White Water Canyon as a child. That part of the dream had been quite authentic.
The red-haired woman was another matter.
Samantha had seen her before, during a feverish hallucination brought on by thirst, cold and starvation. A feverish hallucination brought on by her torture at Galina's hands. It wasn't until she and David emerged into a broad clearing that Samantha made the connection.
The hallucination then and the dream just now. She's the same woman. Has to be. I know her somehow. And she knows me.
"It was smart to fly Harkins out of there before the cops could get a hold of him. I have a lot of questions for that bastard."
Samantha snapped her attention back to the present.
"I'm sure you do," she said. "We're here."
She sent the flashlight overhead to illuminate the clearing. Massive logs were aligned in a neat row on the forest floor, deadwood columns Samantha had gathered to keep her prisoner secure. They rumbled in protest as Samantha pushed them away with a flick of her wrist. A dark opening in the earth was revealed. David stepped to the edge and peered into its depths.
"Bring him up," he said.
Samantha pulled the cowl over her head, discovering several more sore spots across her skull in the process.
"He's my responsibility. Promise me you won't—"
"I'm just going to talk to him, that's all."
"Okay, but that's all."
Samantha raised her hand, fingers curled to the sky. Harkins's appearance wasn't quite as dramatic as when he had first revealed himself in the Arboretum, covered in an impenetrable, mineral exoskin like a living statue. He was just as she had left him before meeting Marissa on the access road. Stripped to his boxer briefs. Bound, gagged and blindfolded with rags torn from his own clothing.
"I figured him for a tighty whitey kind of guy, but—"
Samantha's quip stopped short when David launched himself at her oblivious captive and bore him to the ground on the opposite side of the pit. Fists rained down on Harkins in meaty thumps, accompanied by furious shouts of "How dare you lay a hand on her!" and "You fucking piece of shit!"
Samantha let David get in a few more good shots before she intervened. She glided over the pit in the blink of an eye and seized his cocked arm before it could give Harkins an impromptu dental extraction.
"Stop!"
He fought to free his arm, but he might as well have been pulling against an aircraft carrier.
Okay, I have to admit it. That turned me on a little bit.
She pulled David to his feet with little effort.
"Chill, for fuck's sake!"
Harkins groaned and rolled to his back. Blood trickled from his nose into the thatch of dry leaves that was stuck to the side of his head. David shook out his free hand, his eyes never leaving Harkins.
"I'm calm. Let me go."
"Alright. But stop with the testosterone, 'kay?"
Samantha released his arm. David danced forward to deliver a pair of swift kicks into the bound man's ribs as new epithets flew. She darted between them, planting her hands on David's chest and shoving him away. She was careful to check her anger lest she put him through a tree. He fell to his rear end and continued to glare at Harkins.
"Goddammit! Men are such children!"
David's retort was aborted when Harkins let loose a weak laugh that disintegrated into a wet cough. David shook his head and climbed to his feet, brushing debris from his slacks as he approached Harkins again. Samantha intercepted him.
"I'm cool," he said, showing his palms in a placating manner. "Promise."
Samantha held her ground for a moment before stepping aside. David knelt beside Harkins and studied the crude restraints.
"Who the hell taught you to tie someone up?"
Samantha summoned the sack from where she had dropped it in her haste to stop David from beating Harkins senseless.
"Sorry, I'm not usually into that sort of thing. Special occasion, I guess," she said, digging into the bag. "Here. Use these."
She held out a clear plastic bag filled with heavy-duty, extra-long zip strips.
"Nice," David said.
Samantha dove back into the sack as David went to work.
She plugged a pair of earbuds into an iPod that she kept charged up in case her iPhone battery died. She pushed the headphones into Harkins's ears and cranked the volume, then slipped a black satin sleeping mask over his eyes.
"A bit much, don't you think?" David said, testing the zip strips that now decorated Harkins's arm and leg joints.
Samantha shrugged.
"Can't be too careful. We can speak freely now."
"What's he listening to?"
"New Kids on the Block."
David shot her a wry look.
"What? It's an old iPod. Don't judge," said Samantha.
David threw his hands up.
"I'm sure they're dreamy."
They fell silent. Harkins rubbed his ear against the dirt in a vain attempt to dislodge the earbud.
"What was that stuff covering him?" David said. "It looked like obsidian."
"I have no idea. It was a bitch to remove, though. Strong as hell."
"If you had trouble with it, then it definitely wasn't obsidian."
"Maybe it was dragon glass."
David furrowed his brow.
"What?"
You know nothing, David Daniels.
"Nevermind."
David scanned the edges of the clearing.
"Where is it?"
Samantha lowered her voice and leaned closer to David.
"Far away from here. At the bottom of the Potomac."
"Smart. Also smart to bring him out here. No marble or stonework to manipulate."
"Yeah, I realized that he couldn't control trees when we were in the middle of the National Arboretum and the trees didn't turn into violent, faceless murder machines."
"Okay, let's think about this. Granite, marble...and I think the Capitol Columns are made of sandstone, if I'm not mistaken."
David paused and turned his face to hers.
"He seems to have power over inorganic rock at the very least."
"And metal," Samantha said. "He controlled metal, too. I can tell you that Muppets made out of lamp posts can hit damn hard."
Alarm crept over David's expression. He felt the outside of his pants pockets, then his hand went to his belt buckle.
"Already thought of that," Samantha said, lifting her booted foot to display the heavy buckles. "Either I hit him too hard to concentrate, or there isn't enough raw material in our zippers, buttons, buckles and phones to be a threat. Hope you don't have a metal plate in your head that you haven't told me about."
"Nope," David said, rapping his knuckles against his skull. "So no cloth, wood, or plastic, apparently. They all contain organic material; cotton, cellulose, petroleum. Interesting. Did he transform any cars?"
"No, not that I remember. Just tossed them out of his way with his creepy spider legs."
"Makes sense. Steel is an alloy with carbon components, and most cars these days have fiberglass composite bodies and aluminum engine parts. It appears there are limits to what he can do."
"Easy for you to say."
She leaned close and nudged him with an elbow. Their eyes fell over Harkins in the silence that followed.
"Okay, let's give it a go," David said.
Samantha nodded. David removed the headphones and gag from Harkins, but left the sleeping mask in place. Samantha retrieved a fresh bottle of water from the sack and began to kneel, but David cupped her shoulder and pulled her back with a shake of his head.
Harkins smacked his dry lips and lifted his head from the ground. His voice was raspy and coarse.
"Did you two have a nice chat?"
David hauled Harkins to his feet and pushed him face first against the thick trunk of a towering elm. Harkins grunted and tried to wriggle away when David seized his bound left hand and bent it at the wrist. David's free hand clamped over the man's neck and held him in place.
"I have questions and you have answers," David growled. "That's all you need to know."
An uneasiness crept over Samantha. She moved to stand beside them, ready to intervene if necessary.
"I smell leather and blood," Harkins said, gritting his teeth against the pain in his wrist. "Is that you, little girl? How did it feel to lose to the more powerful—Agh!"
David applied pressure, almost dislocating the joint before easing off.
"What is the origin of your powers, Harkins?"
The question struck Samantha like a slap across the face. She found herself back in her tiny prison, dressed in the scratchy smock that smelled of her own vomit. A deep, male voice sounded in her ear, demanding the very same answer from her.
"What is the origin of your powers, Miss McAllister?"
She took an unconscious step back.
"Fuck off," Harkins said.
A well-placed punch to Harkins's kidney buckled his knees, but David held him in place against the rough bark.
"Tell me, Harkins," David persisted. "Where do your powers come from?"
"How do you know my name?"
"Figured it out. How did you get your powers?"
David applied pressure. Harkins pressed his cheek against the trunk for support as he fought against the pain in his wrist. He elicited a high-pitched whine.
Samantha looked at David. Her stomach grew queasy. Cold sweat slicked her palms.
This isn't right.
"I don't know, damn it! I've always had them!"
David slammed Harkins's head into the tree.
"Tell me!"
What is he doing? He's going to kill him.
Harkins swooned, his mouth working to form the right words, to put them into a combination that would save his life.
"I don't...I'm telling you...."
David's fist reared back for another kidney blow.
That's enough!
Samantha seized his elbow with her mind and held it fast.
"He doesn't know!" she said, stepping between them once again. "Is that really so hard to believe? Fuck!"
She ignored David's dangerous glare and released him, then unscrewed the cap from the bottle of water in her hand.
"Here," she said, resting the bottle against Harkins's cracked lower lip.
Most of the water ran down his chin, but Samantha made sure he'd had several good swallows before she took the bottle away. David watched the display of mercy with arms crossed as he fumed in silence.
"If you know, just tell us," she said. "It might help me learn where my abilities come from."
David arms unwound and flew into the air as he shot Samantha a look of disbelief. She held up a hand to stay him. Harkins scoffed and turned his face toward the sound of her voice.
"I knew you were a rookie," he said, clearing his throat and spitting on the ground. "I already told your boyfriend here. I've been able to do this all my life. I have no idea how or why."
Samantha's heart sank.
I believe him. I know he isn't lying, as much as I wish he was. I just know. But maybe....
"What happened when we touched?" Samantha said on a whim. "At the Capitol and on the Mall. What was that?"
She kept David's look of surprise safely stored away in her peripheral vision.
"Weird shit. That's what it was," said Harkins. "So that wasn't you, huh? Wasn't some trick?"
"No."
"Looks like we're in the same boat then," Harkins said. "Why don't you untie me? It's not like I'll get very far."
David shook his head. Samantha agreed.
Not taking any chances with you.
"No?" said Harkins. "Come on, sweetie. I'll get us a nice, comfortable jet and fly us to the Gulf Coast in style. Champagne, the works. You can join my friends by the pool. I'm sure they'll let you borrow a bikini, or you can just wear your birthday—"
Samantha shoved him against the elm. His feet left the ground. David arched an eyebrow in amusement.
"One of the bus passengers I pulled from that wreckage was a kid," she said. "She's probably in the burn unit because of you."
"I didn't... I... That wasn't supposed to—"
"Shut the fuck up!"
Samantha let Harkins drop to the earth and pinned him there using only her will. She loomed over him like a gathering storm, her tone was thunderous.
"And I don't know how many law enforcement officers have broken bones or concussions, or worse. And why? So you could punish me in front of the world? Prove that you're more powerful than me?"
Harkins struggled against her telekinetic grip, but it was no use.
"Pretty much, yeah," he said.
Samantha resisted the urged to bury him without bothering to dig a hole.
"So fucking what? Fine!"
She rose and shouted to the treetops.
"This man is better than me! He's a freaking god! Look at him everybody! Grovel at his feet!"
Harkins's mouth tightened below the sleeping mask. His bare chest rose and fell with quickening breaths as he seethed.
Struck a sore spot, didn't I? Good.
She dropped to a knee and lowered her voice.
"If you're such a god, why are you trussed up half naked in the dirt instead of me? Think about it."
Before he could reply, she summoned the discarded gag and forced it back into his mouth. David started forward in protest, but relented when their eyes met.
Don't test me, David.
She returned Harkins to the pit and sealed his prison once more. David approached when she was finished and slipped an arm around her shoulder. The comforting gesture alleviated her frustration somewhat.
"I had more questions for him."
"I know."
"Do you believe him?"
"Yes."
"I do, too. I'm sorry."
"I'll have to get my answers somewhere else," she said, encircling his waist with an arm and leaning her head on his shoulder. "It will just take time."
"We can't take him to the police, you know."
"I know."
"We'll figure it out. For now, this is the best place for him. Why don't you go home and get cleaned up. Get some rest. I'll watch Harkins for a little while to make sure he doesn't find a way out of that pit, then come to your place to check on you and Marissa. I need to explain what's going on. To both of you."
"Okay."
Samantha pulled away from David and rose into the air, but hesitated in the canopy before disappearing into the night. David's interrogation tactics had scared her, reopened a wound that had recently scabbed over. She was afraid of what he might do if he managed to move the logs and fish her prisoner from his cell, but as the full weight of the evening's events dropped onto her shoulders, she found herself too filthy, frustrated and exhausted to care.
Chapter Fifteen
THE OVERSIZED SLIDING WINDOWS in the townhouse's master bedroom had been a huge selling point for Samantha during her search for a new residence. She had a feeling that her new life direction would require efficient means for quick and confidential comings and goings, and the windows had served their purpose well so far. The fact that the bedroom looked out on a pair of tall pines didn't hurt either. Their needle-thick foliage obscured the windows from prying eyes.
Samantha slid the window closed and locked it behind her, then pulled the blinds before flipping on the bedroom light. Mal purred in annoyance from his splayed position on her bed, his eyelids fluttering as they adjusted to the sudden brightness. He buried his head under her pillow in protest.
"You poor thing," she said. "You have it so hard, don't you?"
She was in desperate need of a shower, but decided to make sure that Marissa was situated before making herself comfortable. She descended the staircase and pulled off her cowl, remembering to pluck the tiny communicator from her ear and slip it into her jacket pocket for safekeeping. A delicious scent wafted up from below.
Pizza. Good idea, Marissa. I'm starving.
"Hey Marissa, I'm home," she called as she turned the corner into the living room. "David's staying with Harkins for a while, then he's coming here to tell us...."
Marissa sat on the couch with Samantha's iPad in hand, one finger poised over the screen. Her jaw was on the floor, eyes open wide.
"What?" Samantha said.
"You...you didn't get my texts?"
Marissa spoke quickly, her last two words rising into squeaks.
"I didn't think to check my phone, sorry. Too much happened too soon."
Samantha pulled her phone from the inside pocket of her torn and frayed motorcycle jacket. The screen was fractured. She attempted to power it on but it remained dark and lifeless.
Thanks, Harkins. Asshole.
"Marissa, tell me what's going on. You look like—"
Marissa's gaze flickered to the kitchen. Samantha turned to find a stranger gawking at her.
She was attractive, her head decorated with young dreadlocks that hung just past her golden eyes. Those eyes appeared to be wider than Marissa's, a result of their shared surprise. The slice of pizza she had been holding fell to the linoleum floor with an audible splat, breaking the stunned silence.
Oh shit.
"I...I uh..." the woman stammered, unable to tear her gaping stare from Samantha. "I dropped pizza on your...um...oh my god...."
Samantha's head swiveled back to Marissa, whose face had gone chalky.
"Meet Brie," Marissa said, forcing herself to rise from the couch while mouthing "I'm so sorry" to Samantha. "Brie, this is, well...."
This is bad, Marissa. This is real, real bad.
"I know who you are! Wow! Just...wow!" Brie said, rushing to Samantha with an outstretched hand. "What an honor! I'm your—"
Please don't say it.
"—biggest fan!"
Damn it.
"Don't worry, Kinetic Star, I'm cool. Not a word to anyone, I promise!"
Brie forgot that she had offered her hand to Samantha and instead clutched at the sides of her head in excitement.
"Whoa! This is insane!"
That was when Samantha noticed the screen print on Brie's T-shirt. It was a photo of Samantha in an action pose, probably one of the many snapshots taken during her battle at the Washington Monument that were making their rounds online. She was crouched in front of the Monument, ready to spring, the napkin shrouding her features. The proclamation printed below the photo set Samantha back on her heels.
I'M A STARCHILD
Now it was Samantha's turn to gawk.
Her first instinct was to deny the whole thing, to twist the circumstances of Brie's discovery into a desperate, manufactured misunderstanding, but there was no getting away from the fact that Samantha was wearing the same motorcycle leathers as the woman who had no doubt been plastered all over every television and smart device screen by now. Besides, there was one additional, undeniable detail to be considered.
Samantha still held her damaged cowl.
"Oh boy," Marissa said.
Samantha turned to Brie.
"Nice to meet you, Brie," she said, trying to keep her voice even. "I've heard a lot of great things about you. Please, make yourself at home."
"Thanks!" said Brie. "So, do I call you Samantha or Kinetic Star?"
Jesus Christ.
"Marissa, can you help me with something upstairs?" Samantha said, her voice laden with honey as she pivoted back toward the staircase. "Don't leave, Brie. We'll need to chat."
"You got it," Brie said. "I'll just clean up the mess I made. Oh, I know! How about KS? Does that work? That's what we call you in the—"
Marissa cut Brie off with an admonishing shake of the head as she fell in behind Samantha. Brie returned the gesture by covering her mouth with one hand and pointing at Samantha with the other while hopping up and down in excitement.
Samantha closed the bedroom door behind Marissa.
"She runs an online fan club," Marissa said. "They have T-shirts."
"Um...wow."
"But she also brought pizza, so there's that."
"Great, let's see if Dominos will plaster my secret identity all over their pizza boxes. Make it a two-for-one deal for people who want to kidnap or kill me."
Marissa clasped her hands together and sat on the bed, saying nothing. She was greeted with Siamese purring as Mal shifted his weight.
Samantha shrugged the motorcycle jacket over her shoulders and draped it over the back of a desk chair, then pulled off her long-sleeved shirt and stepped in front of the full-length mirror that hung on one of the sliding closet doors. Purple contusions adorned her fair skin in dozens of places. She spun around and looked over her shoulder to find dozens more painted across her back.
"Oh my god, Samantha," Marissa said, sucking in a breath through her teeth. "I didn't even think you could bruise."
Samantha kicked off her boots, then unbuckled her belt and slid the leather pants over her legs with tender care. A massive welt covered the entirety of her left hip, a field of angry browns and purples interrupted only by the white elastic of her underwear.
"Those things hit harder than anything I've ever felt," she said, stepping out of the leathers and laying them atop the jacket. "Except maybe those Stinger missiles that almost killed me. Harkins must reinforce his constructs somehow. I mean, wouldn't regular iron and stone just bend or break against me? I got buried alive in a mountain of rubble at the Monument and busted through it without a scratch. I don't get it. I guess there's still a lot I don't know."
There was no response from Marissa. Mal stood and stretched, arching his back as his tail whipped the air several times, then made himself comfortable in Marissa's warm lap. Samantha loosened her braid and shook her hair free. Her eyes found Marissa's reflection in the mirror.
"We can't tell David about Brie."
They spoke the words in unison. A brief smile followed, but was erased by the gravity of the situation.
"She's in danger now, Marissa. Just like you. Just like David and my father. Anyone who knows what I can do can be used against me. I know I don't have to tell you that."
"This is my fault," Marissa said. "I'm so sorry. I was scared—I am scared—and you mentioned earlier that I should invite her over, and I...I guess I just didn't think it through."
"Well she's part of the family now."
Our happy little dysfunctional family.
"What's done is done, but don't piss her off," Samantha said. "And whatever you do, don't break up with her. That's all we need is a crazy ex-girlfriend spilling the secret of the century."
Marissa moved Mal aside and stood up, reaching for Samantha's mask. She rotated it in her hands several times then set it back down.
"I shouldn't have suggested that we test this stupid thing. None of this would have happened if we had just stayed here like you wanted. Like David told us to."
"No," Samantha said, "I would have gone to the Arboretum and left you here. Harkins would have followed through on his threat, and I'd now be exposed to the whole world instead of just your girlfriend. He had me beaten, Marissa. You're the hero tonight."
Marissa removed her glasses and rubbed at her eyes.
"I guess."
"I'd hug you right now, but I'm standing here half naked and that would just be creepy," said Samantha. "I going to get a shower, then make sweet love to what's left of that pizza."
Samantha came downstairs almost an hour later, rustling a thick terrycloth towel over her hair. The long, hot shower had helped relax her muscles, but she was still quite sore in places. Marissa and Brie stopped their conversation and exchanged a look as she entered the kitchen. Samantha could feel Brie's eyes following her, and caught Marissa's subtle elbow jab from the corner of her eye. She had just lifted the lid of the pizza box when a deep, familiar voice called out from the sofa.
"Feeling better?"
Samantha dropped the box lid and rushed into her father's arms.
"I came as soon as I heard," Alan said. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, thanks to Marissa."
"We already hugged it out," added Marissa. "I'll have my own fan club before long."
Samantha grinned at her friend, then turned back to her father.
"And you've met Brie?"
Marissa must have told him about the newest member of the family.
Alan nodded.
"The Starchild, yes."
Samantha decided not to comment.
"It's after midnight," she said. Why aren't you in bed?"
"I was until David called me. He wanted me to know you were alright. Thought you might need some moral support."
"Yeah, sorry for not calling," said Samantha. "I guess it was all over TV, huh? So much happened so fast. Also, my phone broke."
"It's fine. The news said you saved over twenty-five people from that bus. I think that's a new record for you."
Samantha studied his face, too humbled by his praise to reply.
Those eyes. Pride and sadness. There will always be the one I couldn't save and we both know it, Daddy.
Alan produced a manila envelope from his coat and handed it to Samantha.
"This was sent to my house, but it's addressed to you. Probably a mix up at the post office."
Samantha accepted the package. There was no return address, but the post mark showed that it had passed through, or originated from, New York.
I don't know anyone in New York, do I?
"Thanks," she said. "I'll open it later. Want some pizza?"
Alan drummed his fingers over his belly.
"No, it's too late for me to eat something like that. You'll understand when you're older."
Samantha dropped the envelope on top of her microwave and helped herself to lukewarm pie while Marissa and Brie chatted with her father. Marissa launched into a narrative of the evening's excitement from her point of view, starting with how cold it was atop the bell tower. Samantha could tell that Brie was doing her best to keep her attention focused on Marissa's tale, but her eyes always strayed back to Samantha. Marissa had almost reached the grand climax of her story when there was light rapping on the front door.
David.
"That was when I saw the man-statue-thingy that was on Samantha's CowlCam," Marissa explained. "Much bigger in person. Anyway, he had removed that black stuff from his face to gloat or whatever, and that was when I remembered my pepper spray. So I—"
"Daddy, we aren't telling David that Brie knows," Samantha said, wiping her mouth with a paper towel as she approached the front door. "Not yet. He'll be a dick about it."
"Marissa warned me," Alan said. "I get it."
Samantha opened the door, and wasn't surprised when David's gaze scanned the living room and homed in on Brie, the only face he didn't know. He embraced Samantha and put his lips close to her ear.
"Nice try."
Nice try? What try?
"Good, the gang's all here," David said, slipping past Samantha and tossing his sports jacket onto the arm of the couch.
"Hey boss," Marissa said. "This is Brie."
David ignored Brie's extended hand and placed a rigid forefinger an inch from her nose.
"I hope you know how to keep your mouth shut."
A wave of awkward discomfort rolled through the living room, washing over everyone but David. Samantha felt her stomach tighten.
He knows. How?
"Because if you tell a single soul about this, I'll hunt you down and—"
"David!"
Samantha put herself between David and Brie, who was shrinking away from him like a wilting violet. Marissa's lips trembled.
That's twice I've had to put myself between him and someone else tonight. What's his problem?
"Leave her alone," said Samantha. "She didn't ask for this, David. It was a mistake."
"Let her be, son," Alan said. "The bell's been rung and we can't unring it. Sammy, where do you keep your liquor? I think we could all use something to settle our nerves."
"Cabinet over the fridge," said Samantha, never breaking eye contact with David.
"This is bad Samantha," David said, his voice just above a whisper. "The wider the circle gets, the harder it will be to contain."
"Then we tighten it here. It ends with Brie. No one else has to know. By the way, how did you know that she knows?"
David turned away, placing one hand on his hip while running the other through his hair. Samantha looked at Marissa, who shrugged helplessly with eyebrows raised.
There's something I'm missing. Something obvious.
She retraced her steps since arriving home. She had come in through the window and gone downstairs, unmasked but still in her motorcycle leathers, to find Marissa's girlfriend staring at her dumbfounded. It was already too late by the time Samantha realized she hadn't changed before coming downstairs, and....
Of course.
The earpiece in her pocket. David had been monitoring their conversation the entire time.
"You were listening to us!" she blurted.
David accepted a shot glass from Alan and drained it in one swallow.
"Cheers," Alan said, eyeballing David's empty glass as he handed drinks to Marissa and Brie.
"Yep," David said. "Reception was a little muffled though."
"You spied on us! A private conversation!" said Samantha. "How dare you?"
"Listening to you and spying on you are two different things," David said. "From a certain point of view."
"Good one, Obi-Wan," Brie said, crossing her arms with a defiant smirk.
"I just wanted to make sure Marissa was safe and sound. Why am I suddenly on the defensive, anyway? We're all on the same team here. A team that has an ever-growing roster, apparently."
Samantha ripped the empty shot glass from David and levitated it into her hand, then marched to the open bottle of Maker's Mark and poured a drink for herself. The liquid burned a trail down her throat.
"Whoa! Shit!" Brie said, covering her mouth with her fingers as she witnessed Samantha's abilities in person for the first time.
She recovered her wits and studied the floor when all eyes fell on her.
"Sorry."
"Yes, Brie, it's real," David said. "And I'm sure by now you've seen Marissa's bullet-wound scar. That's real, too."
Brie turned to Marissa.
"You told me you used to be in a gang."
"You never believed that," Marissa replied, scratching at her shoulder.
"Not for a second."
Samantha and David couldn't help but break the tension with a shared smile; the idea of Marissa being in a gang dulled their mutual irritation. Alan seized that moment to make his exit.
"Okay, you kids be safe," Alan said, leaning in to peck Samantha on the cheek. "Some of us have to get up and go to real jobs in the morning."
"Thanks for coming, Daddy."
Alan said his goodbyes, making sure to take Brie's hand and tell her it had been a pleasure to meet her before pausing next to David on his way out of the door.
"Take it down a notch, boy. They're just scared."
David nodded and closed the door behind him.
"Okay," he said. "Let's talk."
The women gathered around to listen to David's tale. Samantha soon became aware that David was leaving out certain details, such as the name of his mysterious contact, but that minor omission took a back seat to the disturbing fact that the United States Government wanted her. Bad. Not an ex-military madman involved in a small, clandestine investigation into a flying girl; no, this time it was the full force of the government's intelligence agencies—and possibly the military. Samantha shuddered at the thought.
Would they really implement martial law just to find me? Would I let that happen? Could I even stop it?
David fell silent. His words hung in the air like gathering storm clouds, heavy and threatening. Samantha was left with the suspicion that they hadn't heard the whole story.
"Back up for a second," she said. "You really think they'll come after Marissa because you refused to drink the Kool-aid and help them hunt me down? "
"Like I said, they'll use whatever leverage they can. My contact knows who Marissa is. They've even worked together once or twice."
Marissa sat upright.
"Seriously?"
David nodded.
"Yes, but you never knew who he was. That was by design. Anyway, he tried to bring me on board the nice way, but I wouldn't play ball. The time for nice is over. I tried some...artful persuasion to convince him to lay off. I don't think that will stick, though."
"Remember, he's been backed into a corner," said Brie. "His hands are tied."
"That's right," David said.
"So what now? I can't be on the run forever," Marissa said.
"We'll get you some contact lenses, change your hair," he said. "That will buy us some time. But for now, you're roommates with Samantha. We'll have to—"
"What if I just turn myself in?" Samantha blurted.
Three sets of eyes bored into hers like unerring laser beams. Samantha held her breath.
Marissa's eyes misted over. She hooked her arm around Samantha's and reached up to lay her palm against Samantha's cheek.
"My friend, that's why you're a hero. But don't even think about it."
"What she said," Brie added.
David's surprise hardened into a warning glare.
"Okay, so we'll put a pin in that. Geez," Samantha said. "Make a list of what you need from home, Marissa. Aside from that giant beast you call a cat."
"No," David said. "They'll be watching her place."
"Not if I draw them away," Samantha said with a mischievous grin. "We can't let Brownie starve, David. Brie can slip in and out. Marissa can give her a key."
Brie raised her hands and patted the air.
"A key? Whoa, this is way too soon. I'm well aware of the stereotype, but let's not back up the moving truck just yet."
Marissa struck her with a throw pillow.
"That might work," David said.
"Who else could be in danger?" Samantha said. "We've never really talked about your family."
There it was again, that fleeting glimpse of something hidden in his eyes.
Full of secrets aren't you, Paperboy?
"I'll take care of it," he said.
Silence followed his cryptic response. Marissa broke it.
"What about Harkins? We can't bring him here, and we can't leave him in that pit."
"Pit?" Brie said. "What pit?"
"A pit he earned," David said. "He'll be fine until I can figure out what to do with him."
"Until we can figure out what to do with him," Samantha said.
"We. Sorry," David said. "Unfortunately, I have to leave again. There is an element to this that I haven't shared, and with good reason. I need more information before I can bring you in on it."
I knew it!
"Plausible deniability," said Samantha. "Is that the card you're playing? Isn't it a little too late for that?"
David held her gaze as he replied.
"No, we're way past that. If Brie or Marissa are caught and interrogated, they'll have no rights whatsoever. They'll be...let's just say that 'I knew nothing about it' won't hold up with their interrogators. I'll leave it at that. This is something different. Bigger. I wouldn't leave again so soon if I didn't have to. Just trust me."
Samantha's eyebrows rose at that.
What could be bigger than President Dietrich putting a target on my back?
"Wow, I'm going to have wonderful dreams tonight," Marissa said with a yawn.
Samantha rose from the sofa and echoed her yawn with a catlike stretch.
"I'll get you some bedding," she said. "Brie, you're welcome to stay."
Brie looked to Marissa for approval before answering.
"If you don't mind."
"I have an air mattress," Samantha said. "Plenty of room for two."
Once Marissa and Brie were situated, Samantha took David's hand and pulled him toward the stairs. He shot a nervous look to Marissa, but didn't resist.
"Sorry, Marissa," Samantha said over her shoulder. "I was going to tell you."
Marissa rolled her eyes and continued to fluff her pillow.
"Oh my god, no! How did I not see this coming? I'm so shocked! What ever shall I do?"
Samantha and David exchanged an amused look.
"Goodnight, you two," Marissa said.
Brie's giggles echoed from below as Samantha led David up the stairs and into the bedroom. She closed the door and spun on him.
"So you rush off all alone on another secret mission while I sit here with my thumb up my ass?"
David motioned to the door.
"She needs you here. This whole goddamn city needs you here. Your mission is every bit as important as mine. There's a pit filled with a super-powered jerk off out in Fairfax county, remember?"
Samantha crossed her arms, her protest fading before it could form.
Got me there.
"Besides," he said. "I won't be alone."
"What aren't you telling me, David?"
"Don't do that."
Samantha gripped the front of his shirt and pulled him close. Her forehead rested against his.
"I can't protect you if you won't let me," she whispered, her lips gentle butterfly wings against his.
Calloused fingers brushed her hair behind her ears.
"Maybe you're the one who needs protection."
Stealth was easy when one wasn't required to put any weight on the floor, and easier still when one didn't have to touch the floor at all. Samantha pulled back the covers with agonizing slowness and floated from the bed, taking great care not to make a sound as she levitated the cowl from her desk. She found his slacks crumpled where he had kicked them in the urgency of their passion, and pulled his phone loose.
The bathroom light pierced her eyes. She let the pain subside before holding the cowl up to the bulbs and exploring the leather with her fingertips, pinching along every inch.
There you are.
It was a disc, smaller in circumference and thinner than a dime. David had placed it in the lining at the back of the cowl, near the tiny zipper. A few well-placed rips in the fabric had it tumbling into her palm. She set the tiny device on the sink and pulled David's phone free from its rubber casing, hoping that no one would decide to call him in the wee hours of the morning, and deposited the tracker into the case before returning it to the phone.
She drifted back into the bedroom like a wraith and returned the phone and cowl to their proper locations before slipping back into bed. She nestled against his warmth, rousing him without meaning to.
"Everything okay?" he said, his voice heavy with sleep.
She buried her face in his neck and sent her hand exploring beneath the sheets. The second time she roused him was intentional.
"It is now."
Chapter Sixteen
DAVID LAY PRONE ON THE SNOWY BLUFF and brought the scope to his eye, careful not to make skin contact with the freezing metal.
He had won the rifle fair and square from Braithwaite's sniper in a game of kill or be killed, and had decided to keep it. He didn't usually take trophies, but it didn't hurt to make an exception now and then, especially for well-crafted weapons such as Wally's Ka-bar which was sheathed in his boot.
"What's she wearing tonight?"
Gonzales tightened the hood of his white parka and knelt in the drift just short of David's position. He had used that same line since Fallujah, and it hadn't been amusing then either. Dominic Gonzales had taken on the role of class clown, being the youngest of the squad and also the most jittery when it came to enemy contact. Some people used humor as a shield, and the skilled breacher was no exception.
"Check your pucker factor, Cracker," David said, adjusting the viewfinder. "No contact yet."
He had been watching the mine entrance for several hours while freezing in the sub-zero temperatures along with the rest of the team. They were itching to get moving. David couldn't blame them. Northern Alaska was no place to be this time of year. The airport outside of Coldfoot had turned out to be little more than a four-thousand foot stretch of gravel, and they had set off for the Brooks Mountains on foot soon after landing, taking only enough time for a cup of hot coffee and a thorough equipment check. David flexed his numbed fingers and tried to concentrate on the mine, but the events that had led him and his team into these frozen wastes made their way to the forefront of his thoughts.
It had taken one part creative ingenuity and three parts elbow grease to move one of the logs far enough to communicate with Harkins. A big box hardware store nearby provided the tools he needed; a wooden pry bar, a rope ladder, and a plastic lantern. The rest came naturally to David. He recalled the look of horror on Harkins's face when he dropped into the pit alone. There would be no one to rescue Harkins from him this time. David let that threat hang over his prisoner while he questioned him. Harkins had been given a reward for every satisfactory answer. A blanket, a package of beef jerky and two bottles of water later, David had what he needed.
A man calling himself Phil had made an arrangement with the Park Police to get the charges against Harkins dropped. Phil had then provided Harkins with a rare mineral stronger than diamond, along with a strategy on how to use it to bring Samantha down. When David asked for distinguishing characteristics about Phil, Harkins had told him that his mysterious benefactor was missing the tip of his left pinky finger. Harkins had given him up without a second thought. Hunger, thirst and freezing temperatures were great motivators for cooperation. David recalled the fact that Samantha had been under the same pressure not so long ago. The difference was that she hadn't cracked.
He thought back to the self-congratulatory smile that Tony had worn before disappearing into the crowd of football fans at the stadium in McLean. Harkins had beaten Samantha—it was right there on the gigantic scoreboard screen for all to see—and in that moment Tony knew that his plan had been a success. Or so he had thought. Marissa Sanchez to the rescue.
But that had occurred after Tony succumbed to David's threats. He had already given David the coordinates, hastily written on the side of a paper coffee cup. Now David and his squad were freezing their asses off in the Arctic Circle, scouting a location that had been revealed under duress. David couldn't shake the image of that knowing, victorious smile. There would be no turning back, however. He had to know, had to see this through.
"Anything?" said Gonzales.
David returned his attention to the present and shook his head.
"No. Let's bring the team up to speed."
David and Gonzales belly crawled back down the slope to rejoin their companions.
"The entrance is two klicks northwest," David said. "No sentries, but I have no doubt there are eyes out there."
"Recommend we get your Supergirl on the line and have her knock on the door while we find a fireplace and a bottle of bourbon," said Capelli.
"That's why I brought Cracker, here," David said, motioning to Gonzales. "You're hurting his feelings."
"Then go sing us a song, Breach Boy," said Lange.
"How about Reunited by Breaches & Herb?" said Acevedo.
"Son of a Breacher Man," said Capelli.
David rolled his eyes.
"Can we stop the stream of consciousness and get to work? Options, Gonzales."
Gonzales pressed the butt of his M-4 into the snow and used it to sketch out a rough approximation of the mine entrance.
"I see two options," he said. "Circle around the ridge and approach from above, dropping inside their surveillance range, or B, search for ventilation shafts and enter that way. I bet they keep it nice and toasty in there, so there has to be exhaust ports somewhere."
"Option A," David said. "They might have a self-contained ventilation system, and we don't have time to traipse through these cold-ass mountains looking for a vent. We'll step on the welcome mat."
"You heard the C.O. Let's check comms," said Acevedo as he pushed a tiny receiver into his ear and flipped open an LCD screen on his forearm.
Darkness fell over the mountains, and with it came plummeting temperatures. Night brought little cover as the white blanket of snow that surrounded them reflected the glow of a gibbous moon overhead. Their wide berth was spent leaning into the frigid winds, and they were caked with frost by the time they emerged onto the overhang above the mine entrance. Twin security cameras perched on either side of the steel door, one facing outward toward the approach, the other monitoring the door. They were concealed in the shadows of the overhang, undetectable to David's sniper scope from two kilometers away but obvious to a snake camera slipped over the eave for close-quarter reconnaissance.
Acevedo and Gonzales secured rappelling lines to their harnesses while Capelli and Lange wrapped the lines around their torsos anchored their heels in the snow. David stood watch, his Steyr sniper rifle held at the ready. Acevedo's voice crackled through his earpiece.
"Rock & roll, L.T."
"Execute," David said.
Capelli and Lange provided slack in the drop lines. Acevedo and Gonzales dropped out of sight.
David began counting and brought up the Steyr to scan the area.
"Status, DJ," he said when he had reached forty-five.
"Video loop in place on cam one," said Avecedo. "Moving to cam two. Copy."
"Copy that," David said. "Status, Cracker."
"Charges set," said Gonzales. "Copy."
"Copy that."
Acevedo's second report followed soon after.
"Both cams trapped in time."
"Bring them up."
David turned to help Acevedo and Gonzales over the edge while Lange and Capelli reeled them in. David shed his thick parka once the team had regrouped, and indicated that they should do the same. Gonzales knelt on one knee and withdrew a detonator module from a pouch on his plate carrier. He flipped open the switch cover with a gloved thumb and looked to David for confirmation. David rapped his knuckles on Gonzales's helmet.
"Burn, baby, burn!"
A hiss emanated from below, erupting into a sizzling shower of sparks that winked out of existence when they touched the snow. The group split and descended the steep slopes that framed the mine entrance, sliding half of the way in their rush to get to the door. David slung the Steyr over his shoulder and readied his M-4 assault rifle.
"Suppressors," David said, attaching a long cylinder to the barrel of his weapon.
The others followed suit.
"Positions."
Lange and Capelli knelt on either side of the door, while David and Acevedo dropped to their bellies, weapons pointed at the entrance. Gonzales, meanwhile, affixed two wide suction tools to the steel door and glanced at David.
"Crack it."
The door grated against the jamb as Gonzales pulled, its burnt and smoking edges groaning against its release. He removed the suction bracers and let the heavy portal fall, bringing his rifle to bear once he was clear. A broad tunnel loomed beyond, shrouded in blackness.
David dropped night vision goggles over his eyes and peered into the tunnel. The monochromatic image revealed no hostiles.
"Engage NVGs and form up," he said, rising to his feet and taking point as the squad followed his order and fell in behind him.
"Radio silence," said David, pressing his cheek to the stock of the M-4 at his shoulder.
They hugged the right wall of the tunnel in single file, each man resting one hand on the shoulder of the teammate in front of him while holding his weapon at the ready with the other. The corridor widened and dipped into a gentle downgrade that led them deeper into the mountain. The only sounds were the soft scuffle of their boots or the faint, metallic jingle of their gear. The team had advanced several hundred yards when David raised a fist to stop their progress. He tapped his ear and pointed forward.
It was a whirring sound, like that of a large gear spinning on its axis. Bouncing sound waves masked its precise distance. They crept forward on high alert until it became clear to David what lay ahead. The sound of a pulley working to raise the elevator car was now more prominent. David raised his fist again and broke the radio silence.
"Fan out. High low. Capo, you're up."
Gonzales and Lange darted to the opposite side of the corridor and took up positions, Lange standing, Gonzales crouching in front of him. David did the same with Acevedo as Capelli crept to the center of the tunnel and loaded his grenade launcher. David wondered if their camera trickery had been discovered. Or maybe they had been detected on their approach by surveillance drones or satellite. Either way, David was determined to see what lay at the bottom of that elevator shaft. Even if it meant stepping over bodies to do it.
The elevator car came to a halt as the winch and counter weight completed their tasks. Four men stood inside the cage. The night vision goggles didn't provide as much detail as David would have liked, but it was clear that they were armed with assault rifles. One of them reached for the sliding door at the front of the cage. Capelli's voice rang out.
"Cover!"
Paf!
David turned his head away from Capelli's illumination round as it detonated against the crossed rails that formed the elevator doors. He waited for Capelli's signal before giving the order.
"Light 'em up!"
"Engage!" said David, choosing his target and squeezing the trigger.
The squad made short work of the stunned and blinded men inside the elevator, but several retaliatory rounds had been fired in desperation. David was quick to issue his next command.
"Report in!"
"All good."
"Good here."
"Same."
"Good."
David motioned them forward, disengaging his night vision and switching on his helmet lamp. The access door squealed in protest as Lange pulled it open to reveal the bodies. They wore black fatigues and thick vests laden with body armor, but David's team hadn't been aiming for the chest. David knelt and fingered a patch on the shoulder of one of the uniforms. It depicted the American flag clutched in a green fist. He ripped it free in disgust and handed it to Acevedo, whose lip curled in derision.
"These private security goons think they get to wear the stars and stripes? Makes me sick."
Lange took the patch from him and inspected it.
"Verdant Global," he said. "They worked clean up for us in Mosul. Bunch of entitled, trigger-happy pricks."
"Get used to it," David said. "The military is becoming more privatized every day."
He backed out of the car.
"Get these guys out of here."
David stood watch as the four bodies were dragged from the elevator, then turned to Capelli.
"Capo, what else do you have in your bag of tricks?"
"Several rounds full of pointy, hurty things that go boom and send people to the hospital. Or the morgue."
David nodded.
"Send the elevator back down followed by a smoke round and let them expend their ammo," he said. "We'll ride up top and drop the hammer on them. Your flachette round sounds like a good hello, Capo. Remember, boys, save your gas grenades and flash bangs until we assess the EI."
It was an acronym that they hadn't learned in the military. For mission purposes, David thought it best to dub people like Harkins—and Samantha, through necessity only—Enhanced Individuals.
They dropped one by one atop the elevator car once it was in motion, then climbed several yards up the cable to avoid any bullet or shrapnel ricochets. David estimated that they had descended three hundred feet by the time the elevator reached the bottom of the shaft, though he suspected that a super-secret bunker holding a super-secret prisoner went far deeper than that.
"Smoke 'em if you got 'em," David said.
Paf!
The grenade shell sailed through the narrow, top hatch of the elevator car and exploded into a thick, gray cloud upon impact.
"And Capo scores a two for the Alaskan Seals!"
"Keep comms clear, Slasher."
David didn't have to warn Lange again. No one would have heard his sarcastic reply through the hail of gunfire that erupted below them. David waited until the storm subsided before issuing his next order.
"Pointy, hurty things."
Paf!
A chorus of screams was followed by the sounds of falling bodies and clattering weapons as Capelli's flachette round delivered its payload.
"Remind me to put M79 Grenade Launcher on my Christmas list."
This time it was Gonzales.
"Dammit, Cracker, what did I just say?"
"Pointy, hurty things?"
David looked up at Gonzales and shook his head. Gonzales managed a shrug despite his precarious position on the cable. David swiveled his body for a better look at Capelli's handiwork and found the smoke dissipating.
"Let's put the hammer down."
Capelli dropped through the hatch first, followed by David. They took up positions on either side of the elevator car and provided cover fire for the rest of the team's descent. Gonzales was next, followed by Lange and Acevedo. Gonzales slid the doors open, then ducked behind Capelli as he readied his weapon.
"Six hostiles down, four more ten yards ahead," David said, firing another burst from his rifle. "Slasher, DJ, take the cross corridor."
The elevator opened into a T intersection of finished hallways that were narrow and well lit, a stark contrast to the crude, dark mining shaft through which they had entered far above. Lange and Acevedo waited for a pause in the gunfire before splitting up and turning their attention to the left and right corridors.
"Clear," Acevedo said, followed by Lange's identical assessment of the other corridor.
"Cease fire," said David.
Distant shouts replaced staccato bursts and the tinkling of expended shell casings.
"Let's get to a better position before they regroup with reinforcements."
The team fell into formation and advanced through the central hallway, pausing to confirm that the six men who had fallen were in no shape to rise and hound them from behind. A trio of doors lined the north side of the long corridor, and the squad cleared each room with expert precision before continuing on to the double doors that served as a temporary dead end. Gonzales knelt to inspect the access panel mounted on the south door.
"Biometric."
"Breach it," David said.
Gonzales quietly rummaged through an equipment pouch and withdrew a broad, flat ribbon attached to a small control module. David attempted to decipher exactly how Gonzales would use it to open the doors, but his attention was drawn to a sudden ruckus behind him.
"Do you see that? Jesus Christ!"
Lange had taken up rear guard. David pointed his weapon back down the hallway but saw nothing except for the bodies they had left in their wake.
"What is it, Slasher?"
"Holy fuck!"
Lange unloaded his magazine, sending bullets ripping into the walls and ceiling concealed in the darkness at their rear. He didn't stop until his rifle trigger conjured nothing but impotent clicks.
"Cease fire!"
David clapped Lange on the shoulder and twisted him around. The man's face was whiter than the frozen drifts far above. Sweat poured down his cheeks and dripped from his chinstrap.
"What the fuck were you firing at?" David demanded.
Lange's expression was helpless. He turned his head to look back down the hallway and blinked in confusion.
"It was..." he started, pausing to wipe his face with the back of his fingerless glove. "It was climbing the walls. The ceiling."
David followed Lange's wild gaze and again found nothing. The rest of the team gathered around Lange, except for Gonzales who hadn't stopped working on the access panel. Their eyes flicked from David to Lange with concern.
"There's nothing down there now," David said. "You good?"
Lange issued a shuddering sigh followed by a slow nod. David knew that bringing the squad back together would be risky. Many of them hadn't seen action in years, and now they had just infiltrated a secret government bunker and killed almost a dozen men. He couldn't blame Lange for succumbing to his nerves. Still, he needed his medic's head in the game.
"Gonna need you back with me, Slasher," David said, clapping him on the helmet before turning back to Gonzales. "Report, Cracker."
"Give me just a...got it," said Gonzales. "On your mark, Footlong."
The team split and hugged the walls again, rifles held high. David issued the order.
"Open sesame."
Gonzales punched a button on the device in his hand and dropped it to retrieve his weapon, then flattened himself against the wall as the double doors yawned inward. A wide, curving staircase greeted them, descending into the unknown. David flattened his hand in the air and hinged his wrist, signaling them into motion. The squad followed him down the winding steps to find another set of intersecting corridors.
"I don't like it," said Capelli. "Thought there'd be more resistance than a dozen mall cops."
"Government funding cuts," said Acevedo. "What are you gonna do?"
"Cut the chatter," said David, although he agreed with Capelli's assessment.
This was too easy.
Each new hallway ended in a single door with similar biometric access mechanisms. David had no idea which door would bring them closer to their goal, so set off down the center corridor. It seemed as good an option as any.
"What did you just say, DJ?" said Capelli, breaking formation to wheel around.
Acevedo stopped just short of colliding with his squad mate.
"What?"
"Dammit, I told you to cut the—"
David's remonstration died on his lips when Capelli shoved the muzzle of his M-4 into Acevedo's stunned face.
"Say it again, you piece of shit! Tell me what you're going to do to my daughter!"
David went for Capelli's gun but Lange was already there, seizing the barrel and shoving it toward the ceiling. David wrapped his arm around Capelli's neck and muscled him away from Acevedo, who stood in silent confusion.
"Cracker," David said over his shoulder. "Get us through that door."
"Already on it."
"I didn't say anything about his daughter," said Acevedo. "We're all hooked into the comms system, everyone would have heard it."
"We know, DJ, we know," David said, focusing his attention on Capelli. "What's your problem, soldier? Did you hear DJ's voice?"
Capelli shook his head and tried to remove his helmet, but David pulled his hand away from the straps.
"Leave it on, Capo. We aren't done here."
David felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to find Lange indicating Gonzales with a tip of his head. David followed Lange's eyes. A lance of fear skewered his spine.
Gonzales knelt with his decryption device in hand, the ribbon connector swinging freely like a useless pendulum below it. He punched out a specific series of keys, then looked up to see if he had cracked the code. The series of motions was practiced and precise, and might have worked if Gonzales hadn't been staring at a blank wall three feet from the door he was trying to hack.
David released Capelli and stepped toward Gonzales, who stood up with a proud smile.
"We're in," he said, mimicking the removal of the connector that was never hooked up and returning the device to his pouch.
"Well done," David said, exchanging an incredulous glance with Lange. "Cracker, let's try the door at the end of the corridor."
Gonzales cocked his head, then motioned to the wall in front of him.
"Just cracked it, Footlong. We doing this or what?"
Now he had the attention of the rest of the squad.
"What?"
Lange pointed at the door. Gonzales followed Lange's pointing finger. His eyes went wide as if seeing the door for the first time, then he turned back to the wall in front of him. He inhaled sharply and stumbled backwards into the opposite wall where he braced himself for support. Again, he turned to look at the real door. His face paled, competing with Lange's pallor after his phantom encounter on the upper level.
"...the fuck...."
David studied his old friends, weighing his options. Lange's incident could be chalked up to stress. Capelli's as well, although the chances of both men experiencing hallucinations within such a short time frame were slim. And now the episode with Gonzales. David's throat tightened. He had his suspicions about the source of their head trips, but there was another, more rational explanation.
"Block up those vents," he said, motioning to the grates that were evenly spaced at the juncture of the wall and ceiling. "They might be pumping some sort of gas into—"
"Well look at you, Footlong."
The familiar voice echoed from the winding staircase.
"All geared up and ready to shake and bake! Dayum!"
David didn't need to turn his head to know who it belonged to. He focused his attention on the matter at hand.
"They might be flooding these corridors with—" he started, but was again interrupted.
"I didn't get my invitation, David."
A figure hovered at the edge of David's vision, closing in on him.
"Did it get lost in the mail?"
David knew he wasn't real, knew that whatever had affected the others had found its way to him. He resisted the urge to acknowledge the specter that now stood beside him.
"Just cover the vents," he said. "Cracker, the door. Now!"
He swallowed hard and shifted his gaze.
Walter Pritchett wore a bloody grin. Decomposing limbs hung from his torso by sinewy threads, rigid and putrefying. Air found its way through the gaping wound where his throat used to be, wheezing in and out with each ghastly breath. David could feel that breath on his face, could smell death with every exhale.
"They know where you dumped me, Footlong," Wally said. "They'll know everything soon. Samantha will be...will...be...."
Wally's expression twisted from mocking glee to excruciating pain.
"Samantha..." he said. "S-Sam...?"
Pain resolved into despair as Wally's face morphed before David's eyes. Undead hands gripped at him, forcing David to recoil. Wally's eyes held David's, revealing another emotion. Heart-wrenching sadness. David was transfixed, confused. Wally faded from existence, his last word diminishing as it trailed after him into nothingness.
"Sammy?"
David steeled himself. There was only one option now.
"Gonzales!" he thundered, pivoting on a heel to approach the door. "Blow the fucking thing! We need to move!"
He managed a single step before the muscles in his legs seized up. Shock overtook his motor functions, rooting him in place. Lange, Acevedo and Gonzales had their weapons trained on Capelli, who had separated from the group and was pointing his M79 at their feet.
"Give me the order, Lieutenant, and I'll send these fuckers to hell," he said.
David slung his rifle over his shoulder and patted at the air.
"Come on, Capo. Something is messing with your head. These are your brothers. I'm your brother."
David heard pounding footsteps in the intersection behind them, but didn't dare take his eyes from Capelli.
"We don't have time for this, Eddie," he said. "Chamber that launcher. Do it."
Capelli's eyes were wide, haunted saucers as they oscillated from David to the rest of the squad in quick repetition. The tendons in his jaw tightened. A bead of perspiration found its way down the bridge of his nose.
Something hit the floor with a metallic clang, bouncing into David's right boot. David sucked in a harsh breath.
"Cover!"
All color and shape disappeared from David's world. All sound was replaced by a lone, pitchy note that pelted his ear drums with atonal throbbing. The distant sound of discharged firearms penetrated that note, discordant and horrifying. Something heavy and solid connected with the back of his neck. He lurched forward and struggled for balance. He groped for his weapon, fingers curling around the grip just as the floor came up to meet him.
David never felt the impact. He passed through the floor and kept going and going....
Chapter Seventeen
IT WASN'T THE SEARING SHOULDER PAIN that awakened David, nor was it the myriad of nightmarish images that swirled through his state of near consciousness. It was the eruption of stars behind his eyelids that brought him to wakefulness. The blow to his head left the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. Several seconds passed before his swimming vision consolidated into a cohesive image. He found himself staring into a pair of cold, granite eyes.
They belonged to a hulking man with a bare scalp that reflected the sterile lighting above him. A thick moustache the shade of mountain peaks curled around his lips Fu Manchu style, serving as an anchor to his broad nose. His uniform matched those of the security force that David and his squad had encountered during their infiltration, replete with the Verdant Global patch on his shoulder. The man stood eye level to David, who came to realize with dread that he was standing on his naked toes. David broke eye contact to find his wrists encircled in manacles above his head, their connecting chain looped over a wicked meat hook bolted into the cement ceiling. The sharp cuff edges took his weight and dug into the raw skin of his wrists.
Years of combat experience kicked in. David took stock of his environment with single-minded detachment. His team was unconscious but alive, as far as he could tell, also strung up on meat hooks in a neat row. They had been stripped of their gear—stripped of everything, in fact—and had been trussed up over a drainage channel covered by rusted grating, David being the last in their line of misery. It occurred to him as he fought to clear the fog from his brain that the room resembled a kill room, quite similar to those found in butcher shops or livestock slaughterhouses. The fact that it existed in a military bunker deep under a frozen mountain could mean only one thing. This was a torture room.
An armed guard stood on either side of the thick, reinforced door, submachine guns at the ready. They watched the prisoners with icy anticipation. Fu Manchu buried his fist in David's hair and seized his attention with a sharp jerk.
"Give me a name."
The throbbing in David's head hadn't abated. There had been the flash bang canister at his feet, then gunfire. Had they used non-lethal rounds? He couldn't assess the damage to his men at the moment, but suspected that their bodies were riddled with welts and lacerations where their body armor hadn't protected them. David found himself wondering where their gear had been taken. His life savings had gone into outfitting his squad for this mission, and his supplier expected the equipment to be returned in good condition. First things first, however. He and his squad had to live through this.
Acevedo came to with a guttural curse. Fu Manchu nodded to one of the guards. Acevedo was put back under with the butt of a submachine gun.
"Damn you!"
David spat at his captor's feet.
"Name."
David inspected his manacles again, testing their strength. The pain in his wrists was exquisite.
"Name!"
"Name? What name?" David growled. "I don't know what you want!"
Tony. It had to be Tony. Why else would David still be alive? They wanted Samantha's name. This had been a set up from the very beginning. A calculated move in the game he and Tony had begun. Was there even an E.I. in this hell hole? Was that just bait to lure him here? David vowed to find out. If he lived long enough.
"What's wrong, big guy? Didn't make the cut with the military? Or did they drum you out because of that embarrassment growing under your nose?"
Fu Manchu drew his sidearm, a Combat Unit Rail model Colt .45. Popular with Special Forces trainers. David couldn't help but appreciate its craftsmanship, but his admiration faded when Fu Manchu pressed it to Acevedo's forehead.
"Give me her name," he said, retracting the slide to chamber a round.
David gritted his teeth and slid the manacle chain against the hook, ignoring the agony in his shoulders and wrists. If he could pull himself up fast enough, he might be able to jump the chain over the hook. A risky move, and one that would most likely get him shot.
"Name!"
"How did you do it?" David said. "Psychotropic agent weaponized into gas?"
Fu Manchu's finger flexed against the trigger in slow motion. David's entire body went rigid in that awful moment, helpless to do anything but watch as Acevedo's head rocked backward, decorating the wall behind him in a grotesque painting of blood and bone fragments. The scene doubled as tears stung David's eyes. He hung his head and let loose a ragged exhale that transformed into an animalistic howl. He lunged against the bonds that held him, writhing in desperate attempts to free himself.
Fu Manchu waited for David's protest to play itself out, then pressed the Colt against the forehead of the next man in line. Edward "Capo" Capelli.
"You got three more chances," said Fu Manchu.
"No, please," David heard himself say.
"Name."
David focused his mind and let his training and experience force away the anguish in his heart with a dispassionate, analytical shove. He was going to have to make a deal. He knew that now. If Gonzales, Lange and Capelli were going to make it out of this, David had to compromise. While each of them had known the risks, David was the one responsible. He was the reason for their current situation. He might as well have put them in chains himself. Maybe if he'd had more intel going in, maybe if he had pressed Tony for the layout of the facility, they would have been able to infiltrate with more precision. No, David dismissed the hypotheticals and concentrated on the matter at hand. He knew damn well who this paramilitary pretender wanted.
But David would never give her up.
He couldn't help but picture Samantha hanging in his place, brought down by whatever means they had used to unhinge his team. He couldn't help but imagine her being tortured, brainwashed and reconditioned. Hell, she had been in this situation. She had come out of this very scenario scarred but triumphant, and David refused to play a part in putting her back in chains.
What then? What did he have to trade with this man or, better yet, what leverage could he use against him? Verdant Global was little more than a group of mercenaries, a corporation of ex-military thugs hired to....
Hired.
"What is your contract worth?" David said. "How much to break it and come work for me? I can get whatever you—"
Blam!
David was hyper-focused on the dark wisp of gun smoke that trailed the Colt's muzzle as Fu Manchu compensated for the recoil. He didn't see Capo's brains exit through the back of his head. He heard them hit the wall.
The tip of the weapon burned a small circle into Lange's forehead as Fu Manchu brought it to bear once more.
"I want her name."
The murderer's face was freckled with crimson droplets, yet he repeated his request in the same rote, emotionless tone as though he was clarifying the details of a fast food order at a drive-through window.
"Let me down and let's have it out man to man," David said, his heart a molten core in his chest. "No need to unshackle me. I won't need my hands to end you."
David had moved beyond desperation. Capelli had told him that Lange had twin sons. Sons whom would never see their father again, and it would be David's fault. He could give this mustachioed monster a false name, but it wouldn't take long to reveal the deception. They would hold David and what was left of his squad until they could confirm it. Or maybe they would just kill everyone outright once David gave them a name. David swallowed his guilt and reminded himself that the mission came first. They all knew it. This was bigger than any one man. Much bigger. Lange had to die, and there was nothing David could do to prevent it.
Fu Manchu readjusted his grip on the Colt in preparation for the kick against his hand.
"Three...."
David stared straight ahead in silence. A spider was putting the last touches on a web that connected the opposite wall to the ceiling.
"Two...."
David wondered if he could somehow will himself to block out the sound of the gun's discharge when the time came. He wondered if he could dampen the wet splash of blood against the wall behind him. He closed his eyes and tried.
"One."
David exhaled and dropped his chin to his chest. Every muscle tensed.
Boom!
David's eyes shot open. The lights flickered overhead.
Choom!
Dust descended from new cracks in the ceiling. The spider bobbed on its web. David was rocked in his chains. His toes left the floor. Fu Manchu and his guards backed against the nearest wall, steadying themselves.
Thoom!
Bratatatatat!
Frenzied shouts and automatic weapons fire erupted beyond the door. David's captor waved his pistol at the guards.
"Go!"
The pair of guards exchanged a hesitant glance before leaving the room. David heard the door lock behind them. Fu Manchu strode to David and pressed the Colt between his eyes. His trembling hand caused the muzzle to scribble nonsensical patterns across David's brow.
"Last chance! Tell me her name!"
David forced his facial muscles into a grim smile.
"Ask her yourself."
The door exploded into the room, followed in short order by the flailing bodies of the men whom had guarded it only moments before. Their headlong flight was interrupted by the far wall, and they fell lifeless to the damp, rust-stained cement. Fu Manchu, a seasoned soldier and combat veteran, remained unfazed. He darted to David's left, putting his prisoner between himself and the ruined doorway.
David felt the Colt against his temple. He gathered himself for a futile attempt to distract the man, but relaxed when the gun disappeared. He swiveled his body on the meat hook as best he could, and discovered that Fu Manchu's wrist and elbow joints were folded into unnatural positions. The brute's weapon arm had twisted in upon itself. Now the Colt's muzzle drew nervous lines across Fu Manchu's brow. David's captor backed away in horror, unable to release his own firearm.
The voice that filtered into the room was an aria of joy in David's ears.
"Man, this place is a sausage party. I'm out."
David tore his attention from Fu Manchu's plight to see Samantha backing out of the doorway and turning to leave.
"Just kidding," she said, reappearing with a grin.
She wore her cowl and motorcycle outfit, both of which appeared to have undergone hasty repairs after her encounter with Harkins. The cowl's shattered lens had been replaced with one that didn't match the intact lens, giving her eyes a strange, heterochromatic appearance. Spatters of blood covered her like a Jackson Pollack piece, and there were dozens of bullet holes in the black and red leathers.
"Damn," she said, planting a hand on a cocked hip as she took in David's state of undress, "I could get used to—"
Her whimsy fled when she noticed Acevedo and Capelli. Her cheeks blanched and she covered her mouth in surprised horror. Fu Manchu used her momentary distraction to regain control of his gun. If he had thought it through, he might have attempted to use David as a bargaining chip for his safe release. He instead turned the Colt on Samantha and squeezed off three rounds, which resulted only in shifting her focus away from the hanging bodies and onto him. The last bullet struck her in the side of the head before it ricocheted into the thigh of a fallen door guard. Samantha's lips twisted into a snarl.
"Did you do this?" she said, indicating the dead men with a sharp tilt of her head.
Fu Manchu was relieved of the Colt and found it turned upon himself, hovering inches from his face in the grip of an invisible assailant.
"No," David said. "No time for this."
Fu Manchu flew past the corpses of Acevedo and Capelli and smashed into the wall behind them, helplessly pressed against the gore that now adorned it. Samantha held him there, sliding his face against the carnage before letting him drop to the floor. His legs kicked once, then he was still.
David felt himself rising into the air. The chain slipped over the hook and he was gently lowered to the floor. Spikes settled into his shoulders as normal blood flow was restored, shrinking into needles that penetrated his hands and fingers. Samantha was there, wrapping an arm around his waist to ease him down.
"You're an idiot," she said, pressing her lips to his and lingering there before embracing him. "I'm so sorry. If I'd found you sooner, I could have saved them. I could have—"
David silenced her with another kiss.
"I'll be damned, Footlong. You do know her."
David and Samantha separated to find Gonzales watching them. His groggy observation had them blushing like guilty teenagers. Samantha freed Gonzales and passed him off to David, then released the unconscious Lange and laid him on the floor.
"Footlong?" said Samantha with a smirk. "That's a bit of an exaggeration. Wouldn't you agree, David?"
Gonzales's weak chuckle was a refreshing counterpoint to the trauma the squad had just endured.
David ignored her quip and moved to Fu Manchu. He pressed two fingers below the man's ear. The pulse was strong. Good. Samantha had shown restraint. David recovered the Colt and checked the magazine to find three rounds remaining.
"Oh my god."
Gonzales had discovered Capelli and Acevedo. David waited until his old squad mate had finished making the sign of the cross over them before approaching him and placing a hand on his back.
"We'll deal with it later, Cracker."
Gonzales wheeled on him with a ferocious scowl, knocking his hand away.
"Damn right we will!"
Samantha broke the tension.
"Here. Get dressed."
She had already relieved the door guards of their gear and uniforms, and sent twin bundles floating toward David and Gonzales.
"Lange can wear Kojak's fatigues," David said, indicating Fu Manchu. "Cracker, wake him up and get on it. Kinetic Star, restrain these assholes."
Samantha and Gonzales stared at him with blank expressions, each for a different reason.
"The mission isn't over until I say it is, Gonzales," David said with an icy glint in his eye. "We're going to get what we came for. DJ and Capo didn't give their lives for us to turn tail and run."
He turned to Samantha.
"And yes, I called you Kinetic Star. Get used to it."
They didn't move except to turn their vacant stares on each other.
"We have work to do! Move out!"
Gonzales and Samantha did as they were told, and soon Lange was on his feet and slipping on Fu Manchu's uniform. His reactions to both the deaths of his companions and the sudden appearance of the masked woman from the news was that of sorrow followed by wide-eyed incredulity, but David's firm appeal to his discipline and training had him armed and ready for action within the span of a few minutes. The quartet emerged into the corridor, this time with Samantha taking point.
"How did you find us?" David said.
Samantha shrugged.
"I don't know. How did you find me out in Fairfax County? Strange how that happens."
David sifted through her playful, sarcastic reply, thinking back to their brief quarrel about the tracking device in her cowl. She must have found it and turned the tables on him. Probably while he was asleep. He was glad her back was to him. He wouldn't want her to see his grin of approval. She was learning fast.
"What exactly are we looking for?" she said. "I can search much faster on my own."
"No," David said. "We stick together."
His response was meant to reinforce the notion that they needed her in case they encountered more resistance which, while true, wasn't David's only motive. He hadn't told her about the mission objective for good reason; he had no way of knowing how she would react to yet another Enhanced Individual. Harkins had forced himself into her world, had presented himself as an immediate threat which left her no choice but to regard him as such. But her gentle, trusting nature and good heart might not see the potential dangers that another E.I. would represent until it was too late. He didn't resent the fact that she had planted the tracker on him—he would undoubtedly have a bullet through his brain if she hadn't—but her appearance had introduced an unknown quantity into the mission. A variable he couldn't control. He was more apprehensive now than when he was hanging from a meat hook in that kill room. David had no choice but to adapt to the new mission parameters, and that meant keeping her in the dark for as long as possible.
The group descended to a lower level and stumbled upon a storeroom where the men were reunited with their own gear. Samantha stood watch as they suited up, fielding Gonzales's and Lange's unending questions with polite patience, careful not to say too much about herself. Gonzales hefted Capelli's M79 and tested its weight.
"You're in good hands now."
All eyes fell on him.
"We don't need a Cracker anymore," Gonzales said with a nod toward Samantha. "We need a Capo."
Lange clapped a reassuring hand on Gonzales's shoulder. David's eyes dropped to his boots.
"Listen," Samantha said, holding up a hand. "Do you hear that?"
David tensed and strained his ears, but heard nothing. Samantha's head was cocked, her lips pressed together in concentration. The complex was silent.
A sudden dread crept over him. There was no reason to believe that whatever mind-altering tactics Verdant Global had used to capture his squad couldn't be used on Samantha as well—with dire consequences.
"What is it?" Lange whispered, easing a fresh magazine into his rifle.
Samantha hesitated, then shook her head.
"It's nothing. Thought I heard someone moaning."
David released his grip on the gas grenade at his belt. He didn't realize he had taken hold of it. He slid past her and motioned for them to follow, replacing Samantha in the lead.
They found the medical unit on the same level as the storeroom, behind three more biometrically-secured doors which Samantha blasted through as though they were made of tissue paper. Three bays lined each side of the hallway, each designed with a heavy-duty access door and a reinforced window for observation. Only one bay was occupied.
A woman clad in a stained, white hospital gown lay atop a gurney in the center of the small room. Machines surrounded her and kept her tethered to them by a dozen tubes that sprouted from her face and body like cybernetic extensions. Her head was covered in a hairnet and her eyes were taped shut.
"They have her in a coma," Lange said. "Get me in there."
Samantha didn't wait for David's permission. She ripped the door from its hinges and set it against the opposite wall. David followed Lange inside.
"Can you pull that shit out of her but keep her under?" David said.
Lange cocked his head in uncertainty.
"I'm just a combat medic, Footlong, but I can try."
"You two keep watch," David said over his shoulder. "Do it, Slasher."
Lange went to work, consulting the monitors and checking her vitals before each tube was extricated from her body. David kept one eye on the woman and the other on Samantha, who watched with interest through the broad window. She cast an occasional glance down the hallway to show him that she was performing her assigned duty, but was absorbed by the procedure in the medical bay.
"She's stable," Lange reported. "More than stable, actually. It wasn't an induced coma after all. Just deep anesthetic. I think we can move her, but she'll be dead weight. This one isn't waking up any time soon."
David took hold of the tape over her eyes and removed it with slow deliberation. He thumbed open an eyelid and was greeted by an iris of pure emerald. An image of Dorothy's first glimpse of the capital city of Oz flashed through his mind. There was something very familiar about that eye. He let the eyelid drop and stepped away from her.
"Yeah, she's out. Let's go."
Lange draped her arm around his neck and prepared to lift her from the gurney, but paused and removed the hair net as an afterthought. Long, matted hair spilled free. It was deep red.
It was the color of blood.
Samantha burst into the room, tearing off her cowl as she came. David opened his mouth to order her to put it back on, but her expression stayed his command. It was the look in her eyes, the transformation from casual curiosity to sudden emotional awareness.
It was recognition.
Samantha shoved Lange aside and took custody of the woman. She held her head steady and brushed filthy, tangled locks from her face. Samantha sank to her knees, all strength having fled. The word that issued from Samantha's mouth was almost too weak to hear, but it rocked David back on his heels. It was a moment he would remember for the rest of his days, a word spoken with such anguish that it became etched into his psyche. The word was spoken not by a young woman with the power to shake mountains, but by a traumatized little girl.
"Mom?"
PART FOUR
GOODBYE, BLUE SKY
ANA PLANTED HER PALM AGAINST THE BACK OF THE SOFA and heaved herself into an upright position, smoothing the maternity blouse over her belly with her free hand. She felt the tiny thing squirming beneath the layers of fabric, skin and muscle. It was a familiar sensation. The child would be confined no longer. Ana had long ago learned to listen to the demands of her unborn children.
"It's time."
Her calm demeanor added even more stress for the father. This was his first child, and he had spent the past nine months going grey with worry. She liked this one quite a bit—perhaps more than any that preceded him—and had even given him a nickname.
"Slow down, Puck. The bag is in the bedroom closet," she said.
She recalled the first time she'd heard that odd name. It had stuck with her through the years. William had painted with words, and the language had been so elegant in those days. Ana missed her old friend.
Puck descended the stairs two at a time with a baby bottle in each hand, but halted and reversed direction with an absent-minded "Bag. Right." as he disappeared from sight. Ana called after him, suppressing a smile.
"We won't need bottles for quite a while, my dear."
Puck came back down the stairs and set a large satchel by the front door, then spread his hands and looked at her helplessly. Ana shifted to the edge of the sofa and extended her hand for assistance.
"Help me up to the tub," she said. "My water is going to break."
The contractions had become more frequent and intense during the previous night, but she knew the labor signs were false. People called them The Jester's Grip in days long past. Ana was well acquainted with true labor. It was an old friend that appeared on her doorstep every few years, and had returned while she was resting her aching back on the firm sofa cushions moments ago.
"Just take it slow. We have time," she said, gripping the armrest of the early 90's Ford sedan as Puck careened around a corner in a mad dash for Miami Valley Hospital.
She noticed that somehow, in the midst of his hysteria, he'd had the presence of mind to cover the new leather with multiple layers of bath towels.
"If it's a boy, we'll name him Jacob Ian," said Puck. "I like that. Do you like that?"
Ana didn't answer right away. Her stare was fixed on the storm clouds that gathered over the thick traffic of the interstate. It was always a boy, and she had run out of names at the beginning of the eighteenth century.
"That sounds nice."
"You don't like it," he said. "How about Dane Alexander? Strong name. A king and a conqueror."
Ana winced as a contraction seized her and held on tight.
"That's good. I like it," she managed.
"No you don't. What about Mickey Shitbritches?"
"Mm hm, okay."
Puck laughed.
"I knew you weren't listening."
Doctor Sebastian was waiting in the delivery room when Ana was wheeled in. She was a slight woman at the end of middle age, and radiated a kind professionalism that Ana respected.
"It won't be long now," Sebastian said, poking her head above the curtain that preserved Ana's privacy. "I'm glad you chose not to learn the sex beforehand. So many couples do nowadays. It kind of ruins the surprise, doesn't it?"
Ana gritted her teeth against another contraction and nodded.
"Okay, we're at ten centimeters," said Sebastian. "You can push."
Puck's hand covered Ana's in a death grip, but the pain was nothing compared to what was happening below the curtain. His other hand smoothed crimson hair away from her perspiring forehead as he repeated a supportive mantra in gentle tones. She knew his words were more effective in placating his own nerves than in easing her through childbirth, but that was expected. He had the best of intentions.
"Push! Come on!"
Doctor Sebastian encouraged Ana with all of the enthusiasm of a football coach on the practice field, rooting for her yet demanding more than she was willing to give. Ana didn't care. She was a professional. Still, she allowed the obstetrician to go through the motions, just as she had with Puck. They both needed it more than she did.
"Almost here! Okay! One last big push! There it is, great job! And...."
Ana felt a sudden emptiness. She exhaled through tight lips and fell back against the pillows. A silence followed, then a baby cried.
"It's a girl!"
Ana stiffened. The words were clear, their meaning simple. Yet....
Puck kissed her on the forehead. Doctor Sebastian appeared above the curtain. A tiny human was cradled in her gloved palms, naked and glistening.
"What is it?" Ana demanded. "Tell me!"
"It's a girl, honey," said Puck. "We have a baby girl."
Ana's newborn daughter was placed against her breast, beneath which surged a wellspring of emotion. Ana could barely make out her daughter's beauty through the blurry film of tears. It had taken so long for this moment to arrive. Centuries. Millennia. Forever. She had longed for it since before she could remember, since she had first become ripe with child on that frozen steppe eons ago. She wept as her prepared despair and disappointment were released and joy rushed in to take their place. There would be no more running. Ana could finally stay and raise her child as a proper mother should.
Puck's hand entered her line of sight and covered the baby's head.
"She's gorgeous," he said.
"She will be mighty, Alan."
Ana detected an shared look of confusion between her husband and Doctor Sebastian, but she let it go and stroked the wispy hairs that decorated her daughter's tiny, pink scalp.
"Her name is Samantha."
"I love it," said Alan.
"Samantha Anne McAllister."
Chapter Eighteen
DAVID HAD ASSURED SAMANTHA that his companions didn't know her name, and never would. That assurance had come after yet another heated reminder of how foolish it had been to remove her cowl in a high-security government facility where the E.I. was no doubt being monitored. If her face had been caught on camera....
E.I. Enhanced Individual. The classification, while disturbing all by itself, didn't bother Samantha as much as David's detached, clinical use of the term. He was a bit too comfortable with it. It was a separator, a designation that sounded too much like "Enemy Combatant." Samantha wasn't so sure that the terms weren't interchangeable.
They had ransacked the bunker before making their escape, destroying every piece of computer-related hardware they could find. Samantha had taken great pleasure in obliterating several server rooms stacked floor-to-ceiling with equipment worth millions. They hoped it was enough to cover their tracks. The mercenaries of Verdant Global—those still able to walk and form coherent sentences—had been restrained and barricaded in the kill room where David and his team had been held. David put her mind at ease by informing her that reinforcements were no doubt on their way, and that the men wouldn't starve to death before help reached them. His tone carried with it an obvious apathy. She had let the matter drop.
The elevator car had served as a makeshift gondola once it was ripped clear of its housing, and Samantha had taken the motley group southward with as much speed as the arctic temperatures would allow. She found it odd that one of the first questions David asked her once they had safely arrived at the hospital in Fairbanks had to do with the blood covering her leathers. Had he forgotten so soon that she had referred to the anesthetized woman as "Mom?" She had let that drop too, and decided to answer his strange question.
"They were pretty freaked when I appeared out of nowhere, but that didn't stop them from shooting at me," she explained. "It was a mass of confusion and nerves. I guess they didn't account for the ricochets, and those corridors were damn narrow. So no, David. I didn't kill anyone. They did it themselves."
She had decided to leave her next thought unspoken; there had been no time to be concerned with the welfare of the people that were about to kill David. She knew she had to act fast, and had made her choice. People had died. Samantha had little room for more guilt. Not for those murderers.
David's face had remained impassive, as usual. He was quick to change the subject, telling her that he was going to stay behind and see to his fallen companions, but that she should take the E.I. back to D.C. with all haste and check on Marissa. His mysterious adversary wasn't going to be happy after the stunt they had pulled. Samantha was glad that David had pulled it, however. Never in a million years would Samantha have thought that she would be reunited with her mother. It was almost too good to be true.
"She looks so young."
Marissa leaned against the desk next to Samantha's queen-sized bed, watching her dress the unconscious woman. Brie nodded in agreement from the doorway. The three of them had bathed her soon after Samantha's return, and Samantha had to agree that this was not the body of a forty or fifty-something woman. She appeared to be in her early to mid-thirties. Marissa's not-so-subtle implication wasn't lost on Samantha.
"I'm going to bring up some water," said Brie. "She'll be dehydrated when she wakes up."
"Thanks, Brie," Samantha said as she pulled a thick sock over her mother's foot.
Samantha had clothed her in a heather grey Northwestern sweatshirt and matching sweatpants, garb that would provide comfort and warmth. She smoothed a strand of dark red hair from her mother's face before pulling the fleece blanket up to her pale neck.
"You look just like her, Samantha," said Marissa. "There is no way she is old enough to be your mom, but I've seen stranger things, I guess."
"Me too."
I know it's her. Hair like blood.
"Did I ever tell you that I saw her? I mean as an adult. Not so long ago, I saw her," said Samantha.
Marissa shifted her weight on the desk. Her hip bumped into Samantha's alarm clock, but she righted it before it fell.
"No. You didn't tell me that."
"It was when I was being held captive by Galina. I was so exhausted, so confused and strung out that I wanted to give up. I was about to, actually, and then she was there."
Samantha indicated the sleeping woman with a nod before continuing.
"She was wearing my motorcycle suit, helmet and all. When she removed the helmet, it was like looking at someone that I knew but couldn't quite place. Like someone from a childhood dream so vivid that you're positive it's a real memory. But this is the face I saw. I've never been so sure of anything in my life."
"Did she say anything?"
Samantha nodded, her eyes never leaving the woman in her bed.
"She asked me what my father always tells me when things get tough. It was something only I would know, and she was well aware of that. I don't know how or why that happened, but it did. She was as real as you are right now."
"Wow," said Marissa with a whistle.
"Then she tapped me on the forehead and—"
Holy shit. The vision. The nebula. I completely forgot about that.
It was the same image she had seen when Harkins had touched her face at the Capitol. She felt a sudden urgency to go to him, to make him tell her what the vision meant, but she had already tried that once. Harkins had been no help.
What am I going to do with him?
Samantha felt her stomach rumble and pushed thoughts of supervillains and mysterious nebulae from her mind.
"And what?" Marissa said. "She tapped you on the forehead and what?"
"Huh?" said Samantha, rubbing at her eyes. "Oh, nothing. Nevermind. Can you keep an eye on her while I find something to eat?"
"You bet. Take a break."
Samantha squeezed Marissa's shoulder as she rose from the bed. She could sense that her friend was thankful to have a distraction from her own problems. Marissa was most at ease when she had a job to do.
Samantha met Brie at the top of the staircase.
"We might want to think about a bedpan at some point," said Brie as she held up a tall glass of water. "Or some adult diapers. No telling how long she'll be bed ridden."
Samantha forced a smile.
"I'll add that to the list, thanks."
Item one hundred and thirty-four of Sammy's List of Worries.
In case the sudden appearance of Harkins and her long-lost mother weren't enough to stress Samantha out, she would be remiss not to include the fact that Marissa's quirky girlfriend had discovered her alter ego. The quirky girlfriend who also happened to run the Kinetic Star fan club.
And let's not forget David's mysterious dealings with a shadowy government intelligence agent.
Samantha shoved a bowl of chicken noodle into the microwave and pressed the start button, then checked her phone while the soup warmed. It was another new smartphone, the latest in a long line of replacements. She had picked it up while gathering supplies for Harkins prior to her departure for Alaska.
How many phones have I gone through now? Maybe I'll start buying stock in Apple.
A text from her father appeared on the screen. It had come in the day before.
Heading out of country. Will visit when I get back. Let me know if you need anything. Love you.
Sorry, Daddy. I was too busy rescuing people and demolishing underground bunkers to see your text.
Wait. Daddy....
There hadn't been a chance to sort out all of the implications. Only now, as she finally found time to unwind, did it hit her. Her father thought his wife was dead, lost forever in the car wreck that had almost killed Samantha. She hadn't even considered how he would be affected by his wife's sudden reappearance.
So that's worry number one hundred thirty-five.
The microwave announced that its job was complete with a trio of digital beeps. She opened the door to retrieve her meager dinner, but paused when a manila envelope fell to the floor.
Right. The package that was delivered to Daddy by mistake.
Curiosity renewed, she retrieved the envelope and brought it to the kitchen table with her meal. Steaming broth slopped over the rim, burning her finger as she set the bowl down.
Ow. Dammit.
She took up the spoon and stirred the liquid to distribute its warmth more evenly. The writing on the parcel was as she remembered. It had been made out to Samantha McAllister but her father's Bethesda address was printed below the name.
Honest mistake, I guess.
The writing appeared to be masculine; sharp, bold and angular. She again noted the New York City post mark in the corner. A salty, wet noodle slapped against her chin as she rested the spoon against the edge of the bowl and slid a thumbnail along the seal of the envelope. She discovered a stack of medium-weight card stock within and pulled it free.
Please don't be a new item on my list....
Please don't be a new item on my list....
A grey card provided a cover sheet for the stack, blank except for a phrase embossed in black, flowing script at the center.
What the hell language is that? Arabic? Hindi? Gonna have to Google that later.
She took up the spoon and fished for a hunk of chicken, willing the paperclip from the stack and letting it drop to the table. She flipped the mysterious card over and found its reverse free of any markings. Beneath it lay the first photo in the stack.
The spoon halted its journey to her mouth.
Samantha found herself staring at the woman who lay unconscious upstairs. The photo depicted her holding Samantha, who was barely old enough to qualify for toddler status. They appeared to be at a zoo, probably in Columbus or Cincinnati, during a family trip of which Samantha had no recollection. Her father stood close by, his mouth open as he addressed her mother, his finger extended toward a sullen female lion. The family hadn't posed for the photo. It was a candid shot.
Taken by someone without them knowing?
Samantha set the photo aside to reveal the next one. This time the spoon splashed into the soup bowl, scattering brothy droplets across the table.
Her mother stood in the mud surrounded by hundreds of people, perhaps thousands. A white flower was tucked behind her ear in sharp contrast to her wild, flaming locks. Her arms were thrown into the air, a cigarette clutched in her fingers. A band played on a broad stage in the background, led by a man in a white, tasseled shirt who played a matching white guitar in left-handed fashion. Samantha looked closer. The man looked familiar, famous.
Holy shit. Woodstock. And I don't think she's smoking tobacco....
The woman in the photo was the same age as woman upstairs.
What the hell is going on? What is this?
Samantha's hand began to shake as she flipped the photo over. A date had been etched on the back. It was in the same hand as whoever had addressed the envelope.
8/18/1969
Samantha stood in alarm, unwittingly knocking her kitchen chair to the floor as the next photo was revealed. This one had been developed in black and white, and captured her ever-youthful mother with two other women. Welding torches were held high in gloved hands, and they brandished proud smiles as they posed for the photographer. Protective goggles were raised onto polka-dotted bandanas that covered their heads. Their cheeks were smudged with grime. A poster was mounted on the wall behind them. It was a painting of an attractive woman wearing an old-fashioned hairstyle and clutching a handful of letters to her chest. Her expression exuded loneliness. Samantha had to squint to make out the words printed below the woman.
Longing won't bring him back sooner...
GET A WAR JOB!
Samantha flipped the photo to find another date.
2/27/1943
Samantha dropped the photo as though it had become a poisonous viper and stumbled away from the table. Her fingers clawed through her hair and interlocked on the back of her neck.
What the fuck?
She paced a circuit around the small kitchen, staring at the ceiling. Mal jumped onto the table and attacked the discarded paperclip before sniffing at her abandoned bowl of chicken noodle.
What the...? Oh god...oh god....
Several more photos awaited discovery, lurking just below the one that mocked her from the top of the stack.
Nineteen Forty-Three? How the hell...?
She steeled herself and returned to the table, shooing the Siamese away. Her palm was cool with perspiration as she reached out. Her hand stopped less than an inch away, clenched into a fist and released. Samantha sucked in a deep breath and revealed the next photo.
This one had also been rendered in black and white. Her mother was frozen in time yet again, now engaged in dance alongside a handsome young man wearing a striped suit, his hair a slicked pompadour. Her face was a mask of embarrassment, but the hint of a smile told a different story. Both the fashion and the unfamiliar dance position reminded Samantha of when she had been assigned The Great Gatsby in college. The date on the back of the photo confirmed the era.
10/15/1922
Samantha felt herself go numb. The fingers that brought the next photo into view did so of their own volition.
This picture was crinkled and yellowed, the edges darkened vignette style. Its tone was sepia, not black and white as Samantha expected it to be. The woman who resembled her mother stared back at her, face devoid of emotion as she stood next to a uniformed officer with a heavy beard. She was dressed in a Victorian bridal gown of satin. The flowing veil was pulled back, obscuring her hair. The man's uniform was from the Civil War. Union Army. Samantha swallowed hard and flipped the photo.
4/22/1864
Samantha's gut constricted into an agonizing cramp.
This is too much to process. How can she be over a hundred and fifty years old? Better yet, who sent these photos to me and why? And were they doctored?
There was one photo left. Samantha took the corner between thumb and forefinger and pulled it into view with the same trepidation as a bomb expert snipping a wire.
It was modern and bursting with color, captured in high resolution beneath a glossy finish. Her mother's hair was much lighter in hue, somewhere between blonde and red, perhaps brightened by the sunlight falling over it. An outside cafe was visible in the background. Some of the white-clothed tables had been overturned. She was in mid-stride, an expression of consternation painted across her features. Something was clutched in her outstretched left hand, slightly blurred as though she had plucked it from a nearby table while in motion. Samantha brought the photo closer and squinted in an attempt to bring the object into focus. It was a linen napkin.
A wine-stained, linen napkin.
An electric pulse of panic ripped through her. She wiped at her eyes and scrutinized the woman's face. Recognition fell over her like a grand piano cut from a cable twenty storeys above, its final, dissonant note ringing in her ears.
Oh no....
Samantha flung the photo away from her and ran to the kitchen sink to douse her face with cold water. She clutched at the formica counter, watching droplets of water fall from her nose and chin as she fought to control her breathing. She forced herself to turn back to the table.
The final item in the stack was a second sheet of grey card stock. Two words were written there in red Sharpie.
Find Me
She turned the card over.
Tell No One
The words twisted and rolled in her vision, separating and rearranging themselves into a cruel brain teaser before resuming their logical order only to spiral away again.
A call from upstairs broke Samantha's trance.
"Samantha! She's waking up!"
Samantha reassembled the stack and stuffed it back into the manila sleeve. She spun in a circle, frantic for a place to hide it before settling on the cabinet below the sink. The curving PVC pipes at the back would serve as a temporary cache until....
Until what? What am I going to do?
Brie was halfway down the steps when Samantha emerged from the kitchen.
"Did you hear me? Your mom is...Samantha, you look like you've seen a ghost."
Samantha mounted the staircase without replying.
Maybe I have, Brie. Maybe I have.
Chapter Nineteen
THE WOMAN'S EYES WERE WIDE OPEN one moment and half lidded the next, and unseeing in both states. Beads of perspiration formed on her forehead and her skin was waxy alabaster. She pitched beneath the blankets, her mouth opening in a silent battle with an unseen foe. Samantha resumed her position on the bed, dabbing at her mother's face and neck with a cool washcloth. Marissa and Brie gathered together near the door, giving Samantha room to work while they waited for the stranger to come to her senses.
"What's wrong with her?" Marissa said. "Didn't that medic guy say she was just anesthetized?"
"Maybe she's allergic to it," said Brie. "Some people are."
Samantha didn't respond. The photos shuffled through her mind in a flashbulb slideshow, each burst of light revealing a new image in perfect clarity.
Eighteen sixty-four. Jesus. How old is she?
Her mother inhaled with a sudden sharpness that had Samantha halfway to her feet before she realized she had moved. The woman's eyes flared open, her pupils the size of coasters, bright green irises mere slivers of color in orbit around them.
"Accipit navis aquas! Bail, stulti!"
The woman rolled away from Samantha and clutched at the air, grasping for something seen only to her.
"Was that Latin?" said Brie. "I took a semester in college. She said something about water. I think."
Marissa retrieved Samantha's tablet from the desk and began punching at the screen with her thumbs. She held it at arm's length toward the bed as the woman's next outburst exploded in a strangled cry.
"Cuidich mi! Cuidichidh cuideigin! Thuit e ann an slochd a 'bhata!"
Samantha took hold of her mother's arms and held fast, hushing her with gentle tones.
"You're okay now. You're safe here."
"Don't ask me what language that was," Brie said.
"I'm recording it," said Marissa. "We'll figure it out later."
The woman's head snapped toward Samantha, her face twisting into a mask of hatred as she tried to pull her trapped arms free. Her eyes were unfocused, wild and severe.
"It's okay," Samantha said. "You're going to be —"
Samantha felt the slightest twinge of pain behind her eyes, as though someone had magically transported a finger into her skull and delivered a light poke there. The sensation forced her to blink several times, interrupting her quiet reassurances. She rubbed at her eyes with a thumb and forefinger, and when she opened them she found that her mother was gone, along with Marissa and Brie and the rest of the bedroom.
The Bibbing Plot smelled as she remembered it, right down to the chemical odor from the cheap ammonia solution that Claudio insisted they use to wipe down the bar every night. Marcy whisked past her, carrying a pair of giant mugs that appeared larger than they should have been in her petite fists. Samantha wondered why Marcy's hands were covered in latex surgical gloves.
"Almost time!"
Her effervescent demeanor hadn't changed.
Claudio burst from the kitchen, his face a mask of worry. He carried a white towel which he twisted and wrung in feverish, obsessive repetition. Steam rose from the cloth as droplets of water darkened the wooden planks at his feet. She was surprised to find that she missed him, missed her simpler life working at the Bibbing Plot.
"You ready for this?"
Ready? For what?
Samantha caught her reflection in the bar back mirror and froze, unable to look away. Her usual work attire was gone, the white blouse and black slacks replaced by a hospital gown. Her immense belly pushed against the cotton fabric, round and swollen with child. Her breasts were heavy and sore, transformed by the hormones that had also filled out her face and neck.
"No...no, I'm not pregnant...."
Her own voice sounded distant. Her hands flew to her abdomen. The baby moved. Samantha recoiled and felt her bladder release, felt the warmth on her legs. Heard the urine splash to the floor. She realized with horror that it wasn't her bladder. Claudio's reaction was calm and supportive.
"Okay, let's get you down on the floor. Come on."
People were there, easing her to her back. Some she recognized and some she didn't. She was pretty sure one of them was a regular who only came into the Plot on Bottomless Tankard night.
Is that tonight? We're gonna be busy.
A bar stool cushion was shoved beneath her head. She bent her knees and planted the soles of her feet flat against the cool wooden floor. Someone grabbed her hand and held on tight. She looked up to find Ball Cap there, his nose bloody and flattened.
"It won't be long now," he said in his lazy Midwestern accent.
Ball Cap. That jerk from table fourteen. That night, yes. The night that started everything....
"Push, Samantha!"
It was Marcy, the top of her blonde head just visible over the hem of Samantha's gown.
Oh my god. Here it comes.
Samantha bore down hard, gritting her teeth and squeezing Ball Cap's supportive hand. She felt his bones crack in her grip, but he didn't let go. His girlfriend Tanya knelt next to him, chewing bubble gum and tapping at her smartphone with bloody nubs where her garish fingernails had once been.
"Remember to breathe," she coached without looking up.
Samantha breathed.
The ordeal was over before she knew it. The occupancy of the Bibbing Plot increased by one, evidenced by the squawking cry of a newborn. Marcy rose with Samantha's child cradled in her arms.
"It's a girl!"
Claudio, who had been monitoring the situation at Marcy's side, stood with her. His face beamed with pride, the hot towel slung uselessly over his shoulder.
"A...a girl?" Samantha said.
She reached for her new daughter, but retracted her arms when the baby began to change. Samantha rose to her elbows and tried to scramble backwards, but her heels found no purchase in the slickness that now covered the tavern floor. Marcy screamed and dropped the newborn.
What had been a newborn.
The baby aged with impossible speed, years compressed into seconds. Limbs elongated and thickened, bones shifted and popped. Hair sprouted and lengthened. Samantha's daughter was a toddler by the time she rolled to her belly, a teenager when she got her hands and knees beneath her and pushed herself from the floor. She climbed unsteadily to her feet a full-grown woman, naked and glistening with afterbirth. Her back was to Samantha, who had ceased any attempts to move away.
Samantha's daughter spun around, tucking a thick lock of golden hair behind her ear as she spoke. Her voice was unmistakable.
"Mom?"
Samantha stared into her own face and screamed.
"Samantha!"
Marissa and Brie were there, shouting at her and patting the air in front of her.
Back in my bedroom. What the hell just happened?
"We lost you for a minute," Brie said, her worried expression matching Marissa's. "You screamed."
Samantha lay in the middle of the room, unable to recall rising from the bed or falling to floor. Her hands flew to her belly. There was no swelling, no hospital gown. No daughter.
What the fuck was that?
Samantha scrambled to her feet and looked at her mother, who had reclined on the bed. Her anger was gone, replaced by a coy smile. She pulled the covers higher and spoke again. Her tone was playful yet sinister.
"Mais que faire si la comtesse rentre à la maison? Tu m'aurais dans la rue en train de mendier du pain?"
Samantha smoothed back her hair and sat on the edge of bed, her mind still reeling from the vision.
"Well, now we know she speaks at least three languages," Marissa said. "Do you think we'll get lucky and she'll know English?"
"That was French," said Samantha. "She's reliving an affair. With a Count, I think."
"Get it, girl," said Brie, shrugging when Marissa and Samantha issued matching looks of disapproval. "What?"
"Do you think she's actually reliving memories or just having fever dreams?" said Marissa.
Good question. Did she do that to me? Was I pulled into one of her fever dreams?
Samantha shook her head.
"I don't know. Maybe both."
But I'd put money on her reliving old memories. If she really is that old, who knows how many languages she's fluent in.
"She's delirious," said Marissa. "I know we can't take her to a hospital, but should we at least call a doctor?"
"No," Samantha said. "No one can know she's here. I'll never see her again if she's found. They'll shove her in a dark hole halfway around in the world, hook her up to those machines again. Maybe worse."
What were they doing to you, Mom?
"What do you think the government will do now that she's gone?" said Marissa.
"I don't know," said Samantha, watching the mischievous grin disappear from her mother's face. "But they can't have her."
I won't let them take you.
Marissa's next words were spoken in a whisper tinged with fear.
"Samantha. Look at Brie."
She did so, and found Brie standing with her back to them, facing the bedroom door. Samantha rose and advanced on her with caution.
"Brie?"
Brie's countenance was a chilling mask of horror, her eyes glassy and wide, her lips parted and quivering. A shaking arm extended to point at the doorway. Samantha wheeled about, but found only an empty hallway ending in a vacant staircase. Marissa placed a comforting hand on Brie's shoulder, which prompted a terrible wail that pierced their ears.
"Brie! What is it?" Samantha said.
She detected movement from the corner of her eye and spun about to find her mother standing next to the bed, staring at Brie with malevolence.
"Marissa! Get her out of here!"
Samantha moved to break her mother's line of sight to the petrified young woman, and in doing so felt another sensation of pressure behind her eyes.
This time it was the subterranean chamber beneath the abandoned power plant. She could sense the despair. She could smell the mildew, feel the frigid air slip beneath the coarse smock with icy fingers. It was as though her escape, and all of the events that followed, had been yet another hallucination. But this time she wasn't in chains. Someone large and strong had backed her into a corner. The domed bulb in the ceiling that she had studied for hours upon hours during her captivity now flickered on and off, each rebirth of light revealing a different face on the man. Each new face leered at her with hungry, lecherous eyes. First it was Braithwaite. Evan was next, followed by the scarred and hulking Olav, her nightmarish assailant from the casino. She pushed against every iteration, but couldn't stop the groping, meaty hands from clutching at her. She heard ripping seams and tearing fabric. Another blackout, then Claudio was there. The bulb died and was reborn. Claudio became David, then morphed into Braithwaite once more. Samantha was forced to the floor, unable to match his fearsome strength. The cement was cold and damp against her skin. Samantha refused to scream, refused to give him the satisfaction. Somewhere, she heard Marissa crying.
This isn't real.
A fist buried itself in her hair, pulling her head to the side. A heavy weight pinned her down. She smelled musky sweat. Brie screamed again.
"Mother, are you doing this? Stop it!"
Samantha fought with everything she had, but it was hopeless. Her abilities were gone, her powerful force of will blunted and useless. She was helpless to stop what was about to happen. The light went out. She felt hot breath on her exposed neck.
"STOP!"
The many-faced man dissolved into nothingness. There was a pause, a sudden absence of everything. Samantha had no perception. She was weightless, floating.
*Sa... Samantha?*
Mom?
I'm here, Mom! I'm here!
Samantha squinted her eyes against the sudden, piercing light of her bedroom and found herself laying in the corner. Marissa was curled into the fetal position across the room, bawling from an unseen sadness. Brie knelt in the doorway where she had been stalked by an invisible horror, head in hands and shoulders quivering with sobs. Samantha's mother collapsed, slipping from the edge of the bed to fall to the floor.
Samantha went to Marissa first. She helped her friend into a sitting position as she came to her senses. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, her eyes puffy and red.
"I'm here, Marissa. You're fine now. I promise."
"Oh my...oh my god! It was...."
Samantha pulled her close rubbed her back.
"It's over now," she said. "It's over. Brie needs you."
She let Marissa recover and moved to Brie, hesitant to touch her lest another scream alert the entire strip of townhouses that inexplicable nightmares were being handed out like Halloween candy in the McAllister unit. Brie's gaze met Samantha's with agonizing slowness, her fear melting away to make room for confusion. Brie's mouth moved as she searched for the right words, then gave up when she became frustrated. Her confusion bled into anger. She lurched to her feet.
"What the fuck is going on here?"
"Brie, listen..." Samantha said, rising as well.
"I saw that...thing! I saw it, Samantha! Nothing you can say will change that!"
Marissa was there with an empathetic hand that went for Brie's shoulder. It was summarily batted away.
"It had claws the size of steak knives! Rows and rows of sharp teeth like...like fucking Jaws!"
Brie spun around, searching for the monster she described. Again Marissa tried to calm her, and again she was denied.
"No, Marissa! No! It knew my fucking name! It's voice sounded...like my...father...."
Brie's eyes welled up. She pushed past Samantha and fled into the hallway. Samantha took a step to follow, but was stayed by Marissa's grip on her wrist.
"I'll go with her. Talk her down."
Samantha nodded in helpless frustration. Marissa raced to the stairs and disappeared from sight. The front door opened and closed, then all was silent.
Samantha drew in a shaky breath and let it out slowly, banishing the memories of her own waking nightmares, expelling them with the air from her lungs. Her eyes traveled to her mother, who now didn't seem so helpless.
Samantha lifted her onto the bed and shook her.
"Wake up, goddammit."
The woman moaned. Her head lolled about on her shoulders. Samantha cupped her chin and raised it, leaning in closer.
"Wake up, mother!"
She flattened her hand and patted the woman's cheek, gently at first then with increasing intensity. Eyelids parted into slivers. Samantha braced herself, wondering if she had the capacity to resist another round of whatever it was that this woman had inflicted upon her and her friends.
Her mother's eyelids parted further, then snapped open with a swiftness that startled Samantha. The pupils were normal now, contracting as they adapted to the light. The pair of emerald eyes focused on Samantha's face, studying every inch of it. They were distant at first, but softened as recognition filtered into their depths. Droplets formed in their corners, spilling over to slide down her cheeks. Pale, cracked lips curled into a smile.
*My Little Star.*
Samantha's vision blurred, light reflections becoming lens flares as she choked up. Her mother reached out and smoothed Samantha's mussed hair. Her shaking hand slid to the back of Samantha's head to bring it closer. Their foreheads touched.
"I missed you so much, Mom."
*I know, my baby girl. I'm so sorry.*
Chapter Twenty
IT TOOK CLOSE TO AN HOUR for her mother to rouse to full wakefulness. Samantha spent the intervening minutes in quiet apprehension, wondering what she would say to this stranger who she loved but knew nothing about.
Almost nothing. Samantha knew that she was possibly old beyond belief. Samantha knew that she was dangerous.
She calmed her nerves by taking on the role of caretaker, feeding her weakened guest applesauce and urging her to drink plenty of water. The woman's eyes rarely strayed from Samantha's, adding to the uneasiness of the situation. The odd sensation behind Samantha's eyes returned several times, but no horrifying hallucinations followed. It was a light intrusion, a gentle probing like the slightest brush of a feather.
"Mom, I have so much to tell you," said Samantha, placing the glass of water on the desk top when her mother waved it away.
"There is no need."
Her voice was fragile, yet carried hints of strength and depth.
What does that mean?
*It means I looked into your mind and read your memories like a book.*
Samantha shot to her feet. Her mother tapped two fingers against her temple and grinned.
"Oh yes. I'm special, too. Where do you think you get it?"
Samantha clutched at the desk to steady herself. After so many nights spent staring at the ceiling, sleep stolen away by a restless mind that tried so hard to unravel the mystery of her powers, the solution had just been revealed in a casual, almost flippant manner.
"Your father, though a gallant and wonderful man, did not pass along your gifts. They came from my genes, not his."
Dizziness gripped Samantha. An anvil dropped onto her chest. Questions manifested faster than she could process them, building with such ferocity that they couldn't possibly be filtered through the tool of language with any order or faculty. Her mother seized the opportunity to continue uninterrupted.
"I'm sorry about your friends," she said, throwing off the blankets and pivoting to place her feet on the floor with careful, tender motions. "I've been kept in a fugue state for a long time. I was confused and meant them no harm. Or you, my dearest girl."
A question managed to squeeze itself from the jumble of Samantha's befuddled mind.
"What did you do to us?"
Her mother rose and stretched, wincing as her atrophied muscles and joints protested. She wobbled and dropped back to the bed in defeat.
"I wasn't in control, my dear. I was struggling to come back to you, and I...I could sense you near me, but I...sometimes my gifts are...."
Samantha's eyes narrowed in skepticism. Her mother broke off her explanation with a sigh.
"Let me try it this way," she said. "The males in our bloodline exhibit external abilities. Your brother, for example—the one you have imprisoned in a hole in the ground—has power over inorganic material. Iron, stone, certain minerals, that sort of thing. I developed talents that are internal. For me, the mind is a playground. For you—"
Samantha opened her eyes. She was once again on the floor with no recollection of how she had arrived there. Her mother was leaning over her, shaking her awake.
"Do try to stay with me, daughter. We have much to discuss, and I can't have you fainting with each new revelation."
Samantha supported herself on her elbows as she recalled where she was and who she was with. The mountain of questions followed in short order. One climbed to the peak and flashed there in neon lights.
"My brother?" Samantha said.
You've got to be shitting me.
"No, I am not shitting you."
"Please stop that. It's unsettling."
Samantha climbed to her feet and leaned against the desk, picking up the glass of tepid water and finishing it in a single gulp.
"Now, as I was saying."
Her mother paused to take stock of Samantha's condition.
"Why don't you come sit beside me, sweetling? The bed is much softer than the floor. In case you decide to leave me again, I mean."
Samantha did as she was told. Her mother continued.
"For you, the power is both internal and external. I've never seen anything like it in all of the children I've birthed. Samantha, I need you to listen to me very carefully. This is important."
Samantha folded her hands together in her lap, trying to find her way back to her body from an eerie detachment, a third-person spectator point of view that grew stronger with each word that issued from her mother's lips.
"Samantha, you are my first daughter. In my many years on this forsaken earth and after many, many children, you are the first girl."
And I thought I was special before....
Her mother smiled.
"I've been waiting for you for a long, long time."
"Then why did you leave me?"
The question was born before Samantha could abort it, but she didn't dare take it back. Her mother clutched at the bedpost to support herself as she stood and shuffled to the window, then crossed her arms and scanned the blackness beyond the glass. Samantha watched in silence as her mother's face rode a carousel of emotion.
"I didn't choose to leave you, my Little Star," she said, facing Samantha. "For the first time, I had a child that I would raise to her full potential. My exhaustive search had ended."
"Search for what?"
"You'll see."
Each answer created multiple questions. Samantha had to wrangle them all, had to make sense of the impossible. She changed tactics.
Start at the beginning.
"The accident. What happened?"
A shadow of pain passed over her mother's features.
"After the car went off the bridge—you and those accursed bubbles, Samantha—I was injured, weakened."
"It was you. You pulled me from the car."
Her mother nodded.
"I always thought Daddy saved me, but he said he was thrown from—"
"They were following me, Samantha. They always followed me, and I always eluded them. But I chose to save my daughter that day. You were more important than my freedom. Your life means everything. More than you know."
"Who? Who was following you?"
"They've had many names over the years, darling; OSS, CIA, MI6, Mossad. In old America they were called the Pinkerton Agency, and before that they were a group formed out of the Masonic Temple overseas. Their lineage goes back to the beginning of civilization. There have always been men who think they must maintain order through secrecy and oppression. There is no single face for them. They wear many."
"So this organization, or brotherhood or cabal or whatever, knew about your powers?"
"They know about them, Samantha. They're still here, shaping the world from behind the curtain of legitimate intelligence agencies. These men were frightened of me, and with good reason. But one summer day I collapsed on a riverbank after snatching my beloved daughter from the grasp of death. I woke up somewhere else, unable to see or hear or feel anything. My daughter was returned to her father, unharmed. Her power was in the infantile stage of development and went unnoticed."
Samantha felt a pang of guilt slam home. It was her fault that her father had lost control of the car. Her father had insinuated it without placing direct blame, but her mother had just confirmed it with dispassionate finality.
There were so many bubbles....
Her mother nodded, sharing Samantha's unspoken memory. Her voice quieted.
"I hoped against all odds that you had survived."
Samantha's mind reeled. She rubbed at her temples, trying to ease the throbbing that had manifested there.
"I can't...I don't..." she stammered. "How? If you had all of these gifted children, then where are they? Why weren't there news stories about them over the years? And Harkins? My brother?"
"One thing at a time, child," her mother said. "Oh, there were stories. In recent history, there were."
Samantha leaned in, waiting.
"A sixteenth-century priest who could find buried treasure using a divining rod, for example. The stick was just a prop. In reality, he could sense the location of precious metal. More recently, there have been stories about a man who could both generate and withstand high electricity voltage, or a man who could use echolocation to communicate with aquatic mammals. In the early fifties I gave birth to a boy who grew up to complete seventy-two triathlons in seventy-two days. He was featured in national periodicals."
"But those are either hoaxes or examples of the extreme limits of human ability. What I can do is much—"
"Not everyone is as fortunate as you, Samantha. Like I said, you're special. Now show some humility."
Samantha had no reply for that. Her mother continued.
"The concept of what you refer to as 'news' is a recent invention in the history of mankind. It was not a part of daily life until the invention of the printing press in the fifteenth century. Prior to that, knowledge was kept in handwritten tomes in monasteries and other religious institutions. News was passed from person to person by word of mouth, and in those days one was born, lived, and died without leaving their village, more often than not. My sons escaped notice due to the limited availability of information. Most of the time."
"Most of the time?"
Her mother waved it off.
"It is nothing. They are not important."
"Tell me," Samantha said. "Please."
Her mother took a seat next to Samantha.
"If it will satiate your hunger for the irrelevant and let us focus on important matters, fine," she said, patting Samantha's knee.
"Some of my children were, shall we say, eccentric. When tales travel in the oral tradition, facts can easily become warped and unrecognizable from their origin. They are often blown out of proportion and become something else entirely."
"Like the telephone game."
Samantha felt the intrusion behind her eyes again.
"Yes, like that. Sometimes these tales go on to become legend. There are some that still exist today."
"I don't understand."
Her mother sighed with impatience.
"I lived in what is now Eastern Europe for a time. One of my offspring had a penchant for blood. Drinking it."
Samantha gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth.
"It was a side effect of his talent. An unfortunate necessity if he was to live. He was a very strong lad, almost invulnerable like you, but demonic in appearance and thought. Unlike you."
"Holy shit!" Samantha said, leaping to her feet. "Are you telling me I'm related to Dracula?"
Her mother's head tilted back in laughter.
"Silly girl! That is nonsense, a work of fiction by an Irish socialite who fancied himself a novelist."
"But he based that story on Vlad the Impaler."
"Also rubbish. But this is what happens when stories take on a life of their own with each new telling. Do you see now?"
"What about Jesus Christ? Water into wine and all that. Also bullshit?"
Her mother's eyes narrowed. All mirth fell away from them.
"Do not speak ill of that man."
Samantha shrank back.
"You...you knew him? Are you seriously telling me that—"
"No. I was among the tribes in what is now the Scottish Highlands by that point. Celts, we were later called. But his tale reached us even there. Pilgrims and missionaries carried his message to the furthest reaches of civilization, handwritten testament reinforced against oral misinterpretation."
It took great effort, but Samantha held her tongue. She changed tactics for a second time.
"How old are you?"
"I'll let you get away with asking a lady her age only because you are my beautiful daughter. Lovely in every way. The answer is: I don't remember."
"I'm honored, but try. Please, for me."
Her mother reached out to tuck Samantha's hair behind her ear. Her hand stayed there, rubbing Samantha's cheek with her thumb and peering into her eyes with pride.
"I can only estimate my age based on what history has recorded since mankind got the inkling to do so. I can only put it in terms of what was written down centuries after the fact, but understand that these terms—the dates, names, and places—have changed as new discoveries were made, especially in the last hundred years as science became such a force in this world."
"I understand," Samantha said. "Go on."
"My earliest memories were of bitter cold. We would move with the weather patterns, scavenging for food where we could, hunting game if we were lucky. I have no recollection of my parents."
Her expression grew wistful as she focused on the past.
"I remember being injured from a fall while climbing an escarpment. My legs were paralyzed. There was nothing anyone could do for me so they left me to die. When I walked into our camp several days later, I was met with fear and outrage. Mostly fear. I was exiled, but fell in with another tribe just as I was about to perish from starvation. I stayed with them for years, but had to leave when I came to the realization that I wasn't aging with the rest of them."
"When was that? How old were you?" said Samantha. "You don't look a day over thirty."
"How kind," her mother said. "My best guess is that was a memory from the Upper Paleolithic era, otherwise known as the Late Stone Age. I had no sense of time, no language or reference for understanding things like archaeology or anthropology. I must have stopped aging at around thirty, as you say. Maybe thirty-five. I don't know."
"Why?"
"I've pondered that question for millennia, Samantha. It must go back to my miraculous recovery from the paralysis. I've been stabbed, shot, cut, slashed, burned, bashed and bludgeoned over the years. I always recover. Every time. I finally realized that cellular regeneration is among my power array, once the terminology had been invented to quantify such a concept. In short, my cells don't decay. It may have something to do with my traumatic injury. Perhaps it awoke something in me. I aged up to that point, then stopped."
"Power array?"
Her mother cocked her head at Samantha and painted on an elusive smirk.
"You'll see."
Samantha wasn't sure how she felt about that reply. She wasn't sure how she felt about any aspect of her mother's story. It was an overload of information, of emotion. For all she knew, this woman was a mind-reading E.I. who was making the story up as she went along, pulling facts and memories from Samantha's head to lend credence to her tale, to gain Samantha's confidence. She had certainly done a good job of routing her friends, getting them out of the way to work on Samantha. But for what?
"Where were you when George Washington was sworn in as the first president?"
"I don't remember. France, maybe?"
Samantha pursed her lips.
"What were you doing when the Hindenburg crashed?"
"Probably sitting by the wireless like everyone else that horrible day. The radio, as you would recognize it now."
"What about when Lincoln was shot? What were you doing that day? Where were you?"
"I have no idea, Samantha. Probably having a baby."
"How can you not remember significant historical events? I don't get it."
Her mother responded without hesitation.
"Where were you on this date two years ago?"
Samantha opened her mouth to respond, but no answer was forthcoming.
"What did you have for dinner a month ago on this day? Breakfast two weeks ago?"
Samantha ran a finger around the rim of the empty water glass.
"I remember high points and low points in my life. Flashbulb memories," her mother said.
"Like giving birth to your children?"
"A mother never forgets the birth of her child. Ever."
Samantha let that sink in. Her mother had an answer for everything. Every avenue of understanding was thwarted by another roadblock, another implausible explanation. Samantha needed time to process the conversation, and there was an important matter she had to take care of.
"Why don't you rest," she said, rising from the bed. "I'm going out for a bit, but I'll be back soon. Stay in bed and try to get some sleep, okay?"
Her mother nodded and reclined against the pillows. Samantha retrieved the water glass and made her way to the door, but stopped there as a thought struck her.
"Is your name really Madelyn?"
The woman shook her head.
"No, dear," she said. "I've had many names. I had to in order to survive as I moved from city to city, country to country. Madelyn was the name I took on when I met your father. My true name, my first name, is no more than an utterance. A vocalization assigned to me. I can still hear it being called out, voiced in worry as I fell from that rock face."
Samantha watched as memories were reflected in her mother's changing expression. Pain, remorse, love, and happiness bent her features to their will, resolving into a facade of stoicism. She found Samantha's eyes.
"My name is Ana."
Chapter Twenty-One
ROGER LOVED PIZZA, but it was difficult to focus on eating with a handful of tokens weighing down his pocket. Wails of delight accompanied the electronic beeps and whistles that bled into the restaurant area of Wild O'Willy's Funtime Pizza Palace, irritating the adults whom were trying to take refuge from the insanity of other people's children. Roger could hear Defender waiting for him just around the corner, luring him with microprocessed explosions.
"Sit down and eat, Roger."
"No, I want to go play Defender."
"You'll finish your dinner first."
Reba didn't bother to look up as she issued the mandate; she was too busy dipping a tiny brush into the bottle of glittery nail polish and applying it to her fingertips with careful strokes. Roger huffed in defiance and poked at the greasy slice on his plate. Reba ignored him.
He suspected that she was closer in age to him than to Father, but it didn't stop her from acting like his mother—or rather a babysitter paid in expensive jewelry and fancy dinners. Roger recalled the night that Father had come home from a trip with Reba in tow. It had been a Friday. He'd missed the end of The Dukes of Hazard and the beginning of The Incredible Hulk because he had been forced to show interest in meeting the latest contestant in Father's game of Who's Your Mommy Now? The moving truck had followed on Saturday.
"No," Roger said. "It's my birthday, and I'll do what I want."
Miss June had told him last year that seven was a lucky number, and that once he hit seven years old he would have good fortune all year long. So far, his seventh trip around the sun hadn't gotten off to a great start. What did Miss June know anyway? If she was such a purveyor of good luck, why had she gotten sick?
"You're going to eat that goddamn pizza, Harkins!"
The voice didn't belong to Reba anymore. Roger looked up to find her standing over the table, bedecked in her stupid mask and motorcycle uniform.
"I want to play Defender!"
His voice had changed as well. He was in his forties now, sitting at the table in his underwear and throwing a fit like a seven-year old.
She raised her index finger as if to scold him, then slowly bent it downward. Roger's head followed the motion, unable to resist the force that compelled his face into his untouched dinner. He lurched to his feet in rage when she finally relented. A slimy pepperoni slid from his cheek to splatter onto the floor.
"Go to hell! I hate you!"
His scream reverberated throughout the room, drowning the gleeful cacophony of elated children and digital chirps. A deep rumbling echoed back at him. The floor vibrated into the soles of his bare feet. Tables skittered across the restaurant, toppling paper cups filled with sugary soda. Roger bent his legs in preparation to launch himself at her in a futile effort to take her down, but a dazzling light pierced the ceiling and skewered his eyes. A chill wind fell over him as he turned away from the yellow glare.
"Morning, Sunshine."
The delicious aroma of pizza was replaced by the scent of raw earth and decaying leaves. The innocent sounds of Wild O'Willy's dissolved into a voice that was a claw on a chalkboard in Roger's ears. It made his teeth hurt.
The cowled bane of his existence peered over the edge of the pit.
"Sorry. I've been a bit busy or I would have come back sooner. But I hope you've enjoyed the hospitality of the Superville Inn."
Roger pushed the blanket aside and sat up. Sharp aches from the pummeling he had received at the hands of her companion flared to life, dispersing the last wisps of the silly dream. He had never liked Defender anyway.
She had come to him several days prior—or was it week?—and dumped four shopping bags into his subterranean cell, pausing long enough to sever the zip strips that bound his wrists and ankles before sealing his prison and leaving without a word. His bounty from the heavens consisted of a bright pink Adidas warm up suit, a matching pair of sneakers, a thick winter coat—also coordinated to the color and style of his new outfit—along with three blankets, two gallons of spring water, two boxes of strawberry pop tarts, a pouch of honey-roasted peanuts, and a can of barbeque-flavored Pringles. He had discovered a roll of quilted toilet paper and a Soap Opera Today magazine in the bottom of the last bag. At least she had given him something to dull his mind during his gastrointestinal nightmare.
"See what I did there? Superville Inn? Get it?" she said, crouching above him. "Because you're a supervill—"
"I get it, you annoying cunt."
She winced as though she had been slapped across the face. Her self-congratulatory smile faded.
"Um, wow. Okay then. Maybe a couple more days down there will improve your mood."
She disappeared from sight. Heavy timber shifted on the forest floor above him.
"Wait!" he said, scrambling for a reason to keep her there.
Her disembodied voice sounded from above.
"What?"
"I'm sorry. You're not an annoying cunt. I take it back. You're a fucking cunt. Better?"
Roger felt a presence take hold of him, an invisible, giant hand closing around his waist. He found himself passing the rim of his makeshift prison a moment later, but his journey wasn't complete. He cleared the edge of the pit by at least six feet, then was maneuvered horizontally before he was released. Roger fell to the forest floor with a hard, heavy thump. Tiny points of light danced in his vision as pain was renewed across his body, but he blinked them away to find the young woman leaning against a tree with her arms folded over her chest.
"I couldn't hear you very well from up here," she said. "What did you say?"
Roger ignored his misery and rolled to his knees. He threw his head back to drink in the sunshine, surprised to learn how much he had missed it. When he'd had his fill, he turned his attention to his captor.
"What do you want?"
She recrossed her arms and planted a chunky boot heel against the tree behind her.
"Money?" he said. "I'm rich. How much are we talking here?"
"I'm rich, too. Try again."
"So you want to torture me for thrills. Is that it?"
"I'm no torturer. Trust me."
"Trust you? I'd laugh, but your boyfriend did a number on my ribs and it hurts to breathe. What was his name again?"
Roger took advantage of the ensuing silence to focus on the surrounding environment. Countless attempts to locate something he could use as a weapon had failed while in the pit, but perhaps there was a chance now that he was free. Just a chance...maybe. He only needed a few seconds.
"Okay, so you don't want money, and you're not a psychopath—or so you say. I'm still alive for some reason, so why don't you share what's going on in that twisted little head of yours?"
Nothing. There was nothing useful in the vicinity. It was all trees and shrubs and dirt and leaves. No sign of any material he could transform and command. She had been careful in choosing the location of his makeshift jail. That was it. He was helpless. Again. But he wasn't ready to give up. He figured he had at least twenty years on her. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties, maybe younger. At that age, Roger thought he was king of the world. Untouchable. Unimpressionable. All knowing. He was a naive fool.
"Is it the suit? Are you turned on by my pink sweat suit? You want a tumble in the leaves? Want me to peel off that kinky leather and beat you with it? Come on, let's bring out the gimp! What do you say? What else could you want, you little harlot?"
Her hand flew to her face as she shook her head. Roger thought he detected the hint of a smile. He bolted.
Six steps and two seconds later, he knelt in the dirt next to the pit once again. Sprinting was a poor escape strategy against someone who could move things—and people—with her mind.
"Fine. If you're going to kill me, just kill me. We both know you can't turn me in, and you're not going to let me go, so get on with it for fuck's sake."
He rose and moved to one of the gigantic logs that had been used to seal him in his cell. He cast a glare at the masked woman as he sat down with a grunt.
"'Harlot'? Really?" she said. "Are you a fanboy of Masterpiece Theater or something? Downton Abbey?"
She poked a pinky beneath her cowl to scratch at her ear as she approached him.
"This damn thing itches sometimes," she said, looking him up and down. "I guess I could have gotten you bigger pants, huh?"
Roger shook his head in disdain and stared into the lenses that covered her eyes. They appeared to be mismatched now. It was then that he recalled ordering his constructs to smash her face into the concrete. He grinned at the memory.
"That's the spirit," she said, mistaking his amusement for an appreciation of her witty remark.
Roger stood up to face her, readying another volley of insults, but held his tongue when she plunged a hand into the pocket of her leather pants.
"Here," she said, extending a roll of bills to him. "This should get you some new clothes, a hot meal and a bus ticket to wherever you want to go. You can even take the Soap Opera Today with you for the ride."
Roger's attention bounced from her face to the money and back again. He didn't reach out to take it for fear that she would yank it away at the last second, but the decision was made for him when she stuffed the roll into the pocket of his track jacket. He resumed his position on the log when his legs failed him, and planted his hand against the bark to steady himself.
"You're letting me go?"
Roger almost added "After what I did to you?" but decided against it. The situation was delicate enough already.
She sat down next to him.
"I never should have detained you like that," she said. "I was once held against my will and now I'm seeing a shrink. Well, there's more to the shrink thing, but that's a big part of it."
There had to be more to this. She was trying to trick him. Roger had no doubt that he would wake up in his wretched hole at any moment.
"I didn't know what else to do," she said. "I mean, you deserved it, yes, but it was the wrong thing to do. I needed time to think and, well, there have been some other things going on. Monumental things."
"What are you playing at, girl? If you let me go, what's to stop me from hunting you down and finishing the job?"
She leaned forward and smoothed the leather over her knees, pausing for a beat before shifting her body on the log to face him.
"Because I'm going to take that satisfaction away from you."
With that, she reached up and pulled the cowl from her head. Roger blanched, leaning away from her in disbelief. In the blink of an eye, his powerful, dangerous nemesis was transformed into a pretty, freckle-faced, golden-haired young woman. Smoldering green eyes bored into his, peering into his soul. Roger was too stunned to react.
"Hi, I'm Samantha."
Her next statement sent him reeling. He had to grip the log tighter to maintain his composure.
"I'm your little sister."
Processed potato snacks and sugary pastries roiled in his belly. His tongue thickened in his mouth. Patches of black shot through his field of vision. Her next words faded in and out, but he got the gist.
"Or so I'm told. Well, half-sister, I suppose. I guess we have the same mother, who I met less than forty-eight hours ago. Who knows if she's the real deal, but she's pretty damn convincing. She's alive, Roger. She...Roger?"
He was on his feet with no recollection of standing, and backed away from her with a shaky finger pointing at the cowl nestled in her hands.
"No...no no no. Put that back on. I know who you are! Stop this!"
Samantha rested the cowl on the log and stood up. Two steps closed the distance between them. She raised her hand, palm facing him. Roger flinched, but then understood what she intended.
"Remember?" she said. "Trust me."
He had no idea why he did it, but his retreat stopped and his arm came up. His hand made its way to hers despite his best efforts to retract it, and he knew that her powers had nothing to do with it.
Their skin met.
The shock to his senses was every bit as intense as he remembered. He found himself elsewhere once again, as he had when they touched on the Mall and at the Capitol. This time he stood in a field of blackness with no point of reference to orient himself. There was no up or down, no direction at all. His feet rested on something solid but transparent, and he dare not move for fear he might become lost in the void. Samantha stood before him, her face as naked as it had been in the forest mere moments ago. Her long braid rippled to the side, blown by a strong wind. Roger felt it too. It was constant and undeterred. His nape hairs rose.
Their heads swiveled in tandem toward the source of the heavy draft. A presence was there, pulling at them, calling to them with nothing more than its silent existence. Their dark world shifted and lurched into motion. Roger sensed that he was traveling through a gargantuan tunnel while standing still.
Blackness gave way to brilliant emerald as they were bathed in a verdant glow that stabbed at their retinas. The field of green also withdrew, coalescing into a sheet of white decorated with chaotic, purple tributaries. Roger adapted to the sudden brightness to find his world continuing to retreat and change. The whiteness took on an oval shape, its center composed of a ring of green around a black orb.
It was an eye, massive and impossible.
Roger's peripheral vision detected fire and smoke, but he dare not look away. Charred skin and burning flesh assaulted his nostrils. Screams erupted, both nearby and far away, distorted and terrible as they reached his ears. He stood transfixed as the eye withdrew into a beautiful, feminine face. A waterfall of crimson fell across it in a curtain of blood. Full lips curled into a nefarious grin before it was washed away.
"Holy shit!"
Samantha stumbled away from him, knuckles rubbing at her eyes. Roger twisted every which way to confirm that he had returned to the forest, to safety. No words were spoken as they locked into each other's stare.
"That was...that was her," Samantha managed after a time.
"That was who? That...whatever it was...that face.... It looked like you!"
"No. I look like her."
Samantha put her back to him and shook out her hands.
"That was the most intense one yet," she said, taking a few steps and turning back to him. "Now do you see that we're linked?
Roger couldn't deny it, though he searched for an explanation. The first time, at the Washington Monument, had been a fluke, a momentary lapse of reason. At least that was his running theory. The second experience, when he had touched her face while trying to unmask her in front of the Capitol, put that theory in doubt. And now this. He'd had bigger problems since that night—his banishment to a hole in the ground for one—and hadn't revisited the strange visions until now. What could they mean? Was this a deception? Does this "Samantha" also have the ability to warp his mind? If so, she hadn't subjected him to her tricks when she'd had the chance. She hadn't even attempted it when she was beaten and helpless in the clutches of his constructs. No, it didn't make sense.
"You need to tell me everything," Roger said. "Right now."
The cowl skittered across the log and flew into her hand. She bowed her head to study it before speaking.
"Our mother was being held by men working for the government. Men whom have manipulated the world for centuries. For almost twenty years, they kept her in a twilight state, drugged and helpless, unable to use her abilities to escape."
"What abilities?"
"Mind powers. She can speak with her thoughts, take over your senses. Make you believe in the illusions she creates in your head. Take my word for it, they seem very real."
Roger moved closer and crossed his arms as she looked up at him. Samantha's face had gone pale.
"She was confused after we rescued her, in a state of hysteria," she said. "She attacked my friends and I. It was horrible."
Roger's eyes narrowed beneath an arched eyebrow.
"Go on."
"She recognized me when she finally came around, and told me, well, she told me a lot. It was quite a bit of information, and I...."
She trailed off, averting her eyes. Roger waited.
"She read my mind. Found out about you. She knew you were here. When she told me who you really were, I couldn't believe it at first. Then I remembered being transported when we touched. Now I know that you were, too. It wasn't just me. We're linked, Roger, related. I know it in my heart. I can't explain how, I just do."
"So you came here to confirm what this woman told you? That we're siblings?"
Samantha nodded.
"That, and to free you," she said. "She says she's your mother too, Roger. She knew all about you. Told me what you can do. Your powers, I mean. God, I hate that word. Anyway, I obviously had a pretty solid understanding of your abilities, but she confirmed it."
"Maybe she just looked into your mind and cherry picked information that she could use to mislead you."
The young woman's expression validated his statement. It seemed that she wasn't convinced either.
"I agree that there is something going on between us," Roger said. "I assume that I'm the only other person with gifts that you were aware of before this woman appeared?"
"Yes. And her name is Ana."
"She must be in her sixties or seventies by now. That woman we just saw didn't even approach that."
Samantha tucked a lock of hair over her ear and peered into the red and gold canopy high above.
"It's complicated," she said.
"It's not complicated. This woman abandoned me forty-some years ago. Left me with an absent father, left me to be raised by the help. Are you going to tell me that she doesn't age?"
He could tell by Samantha's searching eyes and trembling bottom lip that she was fighting an internal battle, perhaps deciding how much more she should tell him. She reached for his hand, but thought better of it.
"Ask her yourself," she said. "I can take you to her."
Roger waved off her suggestion with a scoff.
"Fuck her, and fuck you. I've had it with wanna-be superheroes and visions and deadbeat mothers."
"What? You're just going to leave?"
Roger turned and did just that. He heard the young woman calling to him as he picked a direction at random and set off.
"What about what we just saw? The fire, the dead bodies! It has to mean something!"
Roger's reply was a bent arm that ended in an extended middle finger.
"Seriously? You need to pick a path, Harkins!"
He didn't stop. The caterwauling eventually faded, and was replaced by thoughts of hot showers, soft beds and lobster dinners.
But first, Roger had a debt to repay.
It struck him that he hadn't the slightest notion of how to repay that debt. Phil's plan had failed, and now Roger's mysterious benefactor was a loose end. He knew too much, and might attempt to force Roger into another futile attempt to capture the young woman. Roger's encounter with Samantha, as he now knew her, had changed his mind. He was content to let her go her own way as she had let him go his. It was only fair. But Phil would never stop coming. As far Roger was concerned, Phil saw him as a tool to be used and discarded once he had what he wanted.
Roger sat down in a bed of dry leaves strewn throughout the root network of an old oak and let the sunshine warm him. His hand dipped into the pocket of his track jacket and found the wad of cash that Samantha had stuffed there. He let his thoughts drift to her friend, the man who had dropped into the pit unexpectedly. The man who had extracted information from him with practiced ease. The man who had been interested in Phil.
Perhaps he would know how to find him.
A chill wind whistling through the boughs overhead awakened Roger. He wiped away the bead of spittle that had gathered at the corner of his mouth and realized he had dozed off. The sun had shifted to the west and the air was much cooler now. Roger climbed to his feet and resumed his random direction, wondering if any motorist would pick up a filthy, stinking middle-aged man in a bright pink track suit once he found his way to a road.
His musing was interrupted by the sound of hurried footfalls smashing through the underbrush. Roger ducked behind a tree and waited.
Chapter Twenty-Two
"SHE DID WHAT?"
A car horn jerked David's attention to the road. He corrected his dangerous trajectory with a sharp turn of the steering wheel, which put him back in his own lane.
"Weird, Jedi mind stuff. Brie's really having a hard time with it. She's shaken up pretty bad."
David cursed under his breath. The failure of the operation had been bad enough; two of his former squad brothers murdered in cold blood, Samantha tracking him to the Enhanced Individual that he had attempted to keep hidden from her. Now Marissa was telling him tales of hallucinations caused by the E.I. that Samantha thought was her mother. Her story sounded familiar. Hallucinations had haunted him and his men in the lower levels of the government installation. Weird, Jedi mind stuff was the very reason they had been captured in the first place. This was too convenient for circumstance. This E.I. was dangerous.
All of them were dangerous.
"Where are you now?" he said, checking his rear view mirror. "Wait, don't answer that. Are you safe?"
"Yes, but Brie doesn't want to go back there. I'm not sure I do, either."
"Then stay where you are. I'll find you and let you know what to do next."
"I'm sorry about what happened, Boss," Marissa said. "She told me you lost some friends."
"Stay put. I'll be in touch."
David ended the call and merged onto the highway.
Marissa had always had an unassuming sweetness about her, but her sympathetic words did little to alleviate his guilt. Gonzales and Lange had said little to him at the hospital, and even less when they parted ways at the Fairbanks airport. The loss of their friends hung over them like a thunderhead, an angry grey mass that flashed with resentment whenever David brought up their fallen companions. He doubted Gonzales and Lange would ever forgive him, but it was a dangerous game they played. They had known that going in. Acevedo and Capelli had known it as well.
Then there was Samantha. Despite the gnawing anxiety in his gut created by this newest E.I., he couldn't forget the fact that both he and his entire squad would have perished if Samantha hadn't shown up. It was like old reruns of Superman that David had watched as a kid; George Reeves swooping in to save the day at the last moment, bullets bouncing from his chest. Or maybe a better analogy would be Lynda Carter in her golden bustier, smashing through a reinforced door to deflect deadly rounds with her silver bracelets. David had watched that show as well, although for different reasons. No, David's real-world experience with super-powered beings—the only one he had known about before recent events—had been grounded in reality.
As much as it could be, anyway.
Samantha was coming into her own, becoming independent where before she had relied on his guidance and reassurances. It was undeniable, and the realization made him uneasy despite the fact that he was proud of her. David wasn't sure if the unease was because he didn't like to be saved—by anyone—or because he was losing control of her. Maybe it was a fear of what she might represent.
Now there were three Enhanced Individuals. It wasn't so long ago that David had been sitting with Samantha on the veranda of the Occidental discussing her role in the world. Discussing her future. She was a smart woman, and saw through David's delicate insistence that they learn more about her origins. Samantha knew full well what he meant, and she had said as much. There could be more people like her out there. Their grand plan had begun to unravel the moment the sirens screamed down Fifteenth Street, the moment Roger Harkins had appeared at the Washington Monument on that cool, early autumn day.
The flight from Alaska to D.C. had given David plenty of time to consider his next move. One option stood out from the rest, and he had mulled it over as the wheels of the airbus touched down at Dulles. He had convinced himself by the time he reached the rental car desk. Yes, it was the best course of action. It was all he could do, really.
He would deal with one super-powered maniac at a time.
Every step announced David's presence. The blanket of fallen leaves made it unavoidable, crunching underfoot as he drew closer to the pit. The November sun lit the treetops with breathtaking artistry, a panorama to which David wouldn't have given a second thought before meeting Samantha. The colors of the leaves playing against the patches of cobalt sky beyond reminded him of her hair splayed against his powder blue pillowcase. He filed the memory away, put it in a safe place. David wasn't sure if she'd ever speak to him again after what he was about to do.
David stepped through a stand of saplings and found himself in the clearing. He was forced to pause there as his brain processed the scene.
The logs covering the pit, which had served as Samantha's primitive security system for Harkins's incarceration, were gone. The pit was now a rounded mound of earth that would eventually settle into the forest floor to be covered by leaves and forgotten. David hustled to the edge of the mound and walked the perimeter, fingers stroking his chin as he reconstructed the events that had transpired there.
Had Harkins forced Samantha into a homicidal rage, manipulated her into burying him alive? Was his body already decomposing, crushed beneath tons of soil because he had pushed her too far? Had he taken her to a place from which she couldn't return? No, that was ludicrous. Not Samantha. Perhaps she had reinforced his prison after an attempted escape.
David found a long stick and probed the mound. The slender piece of wood disappeared into the earth until his knuckles touched dirt. David found a longer stick and tried again. The result was the same. The pit had been filled in.
He cast his probing tool aside and inspected the ground, crouching to brush dead leaves from the perimeter of the mound. The hexagonal sole pattern and thick heel impressions from Samantha's Harley-Davidson motorcycle boots were easy to spot. She had been there, and within the past twenty-four hours. Perhaps more recently than that. He found a second set of prints nearby, wider and set deeper into the soil. Adidas. Male. Size eleven, probably. David didn't recall Harkins wearing shoes, however. Had Samantha taken pity on him after returning from Alaska, given him food and clothing? It was autumn, after all, and the nights were cold. David followed the prints to the oblong indentations in the earth where she must have set the logs after removing them from the pit.
Another pass at the brittle, leafy ground cover revealed more information. The two of them had been standing in close proximity, facing each other. Why had she freed him from his cell in the first place? And now they'd had a face-to-face conversation? David shrugged away the thought that it could have been something more, and focused on the task at hand. He had come here for one reason. Harkins had attacked Samantha, the woman David had sworn to protect.
He had to be removed from the equation.
David felt the likelihood of that happening slip away as the male footprints led him out the small clearing and into the trees. He lost them soon after, and stood scratching at his chin as the answer presented itself in crystal clear resolution.
"Son of a bitch."
Samantha had let Harkins go.
There was no way he could have overpowered her without some source of mineral or metal to aid him. David would have detected signs of a struggle if one had occurred. This was a catch and release. Harkins wielded power equal to her own. Harkins had threatened her very existence. It made no sense.
"Why, Samantha?" David muttered to himself.
Ping!
The chime from David's pocket ended his contemplation. It didn't matter, his investigation was concluded anyway. Harkins was in the wind, and Samantha had some explaining to do. He suspected that the text message was from her, but then remembered that he carried one of his expendable phones. She didn't have the number. Only Marissa did, or so he thought.
New Text Message
Unknown
David unlocked the phone with a series of quick thumb taps.
Storm is coming. I can stop it with a single name.
David spun about, searching his surroundings. He was alone with the towering sentinels and the scavenger denizens that hurried through the underbrush gathering supplies before winter set in. He cast his glance back to the phone screen.
The words stared back at him unchanged, promising that Tony would follow through with his threat: the nation's capital subjected to martial law until Samantha was found. His old contact was at the end of his rope. David feared that there was nothing Tony wouldn't do now. But why? Why the sudden obsession? Were his assets being threatened? His family? David thought back to his visit to the high school football game, to Tony's wife and son.
Another message pinged onto the screen.
Last chance.
David punched in a reply and sent it.
Good luck.
Another message, this one with a photo attachment. David opened it and almost dropped his phone.
The years had been kind to her. The slightest hint of crow's feet at the edges of her big, round eyes enriched her natural beauty with wisdom. She had been caught mid-laugh, the photo snapped in a moment of levity that no doubt appealed to her broad sense of humor. Her left arm was out of frame from the elbow down, extended as though she was holding someone's hand. A playground was bathed in sunshine behind her.
"No."
David tottered forward, unable to tear his eyes from the photo as he forced his legs into a mad dash for his car. He would have detected the flash of pink among the greens and browns of the arboreal landscape if he hadn't been in such a state of shock and worry.
A thick ash slammed into his shoulder, spinning him about and causing him to surrender his phone to the sea of decaying leaves underfoot. His stomach clenched and he fell to his knees, pushing away the leaves with frantic sweeps.
Ping!
A third message gave away the smartphone's location. David rose and scooped it up mid stride. It was another photo.
The little boy wore a shy expression, indicating that he was unfamiliar with the photographer. His features were familiar, haunting. Another photo, much older, flashed through David's mind. His father had taken him to the Tallaway Reservoir that summer day. David had caught a carp the size of a terrier, and held it up for the camera with a proud smile as wide as his catch.
David's legs failed him. He skidded on his knees, still unable to separate his gaze from the phone screen as he collided with an artery of mossy roots.
The boy had Elyse's slim nose and angular jaw line.
The boy had David's eyes.
His right arm was upswept, also disappearing from frame. A swing set stood behind him, soaking up the sun.
David was paralyzed. The back of his throat became caustic, and the sensation spread into his blurring eyes. His stomach became a knot of agony. He attempted to force himself into motion but his body wouldn't cooperate.
Ping!
The last photo depicted a scotch glass resting on a lacquered bar top. David recognized the smooth, rich finish of the wood and the design of the coaster protecting it from the shallow glass. He had bought Tony a drink at that bar many times. Tapio's was their alternative to Old Ebbitt Grill, a second meeting place for those times when Ebbitt's was too crowded for private—and classified—conversations.
A simple word accompanied the photo.
Now
It required supreme effort, but he forced his legs to obey his mental commands. He lurched to his feet and ran to his car. He would have detected that the trunk lid was slightly ajar if he hadn't been in such a state of shock and worry.
David didn't recall the drive to K Street. It had been spent in silent numbness. He didn't bother to turn on his flashers as he left the rental car parked askew in the fifteen-minute limit parking space. This wouldn't take long.
An idle, throwaway notion occurred to David as he passed the firearms prohibition notice posted at bar's entrance; he wondered what gregarious Tapio would think when David pulled the Glock nestled at the small of his back and used it to give the shiny bar a new paint job. David knew it would be the end of him, but he was beyond caring. Tony would let Elyse and the boy go or he would pay the price. This wasn't a negotiation.
The scotch glass from the photo now sat empty next to its full counterpart. David didn't bother to sit when he reached the unoccupied stool next to his former contact. Tony took hold of the fresh scotch, unaware of the newcomer's presence until David's hand clamped over his forearm. Ice cubes played a song of agitation against the sides of the glass. Aged, single malt whisky slopped over the rim.
"You made it," said Tony. "Good."
The fingers of David's free hand twitched at his side, hungry for the Glock's textured grip.
"Do you think a public place is going to save you from me?"
Tony eyeballed his trapped arm and swiveled on his stool to face David.
"No, I don't. But if you'll kindly let me drink my drink, I'll tell you how to save your ex-fiancé and son. Sit down, David."
David hesitated, battling for control of his emotions as Tony's offer confirmed what he had feared.
He was a father.
Tony yanked his arm free and brought the caramel-hued liquor to his mouth, this time unimpeded.
"Sit down, for fuck's sake. Have a drink."
David stepped closer, using his body to block the fluid motion that had his weapon out of his belt and inside Tony's blazer. Tony stiffened. The ice performed a reprise as the glass was returned to the coaster with an unsteady hand. David leaned in, not caring if any of the patrons had seen his draw.
"No more games."
The barrel pressed into Tony's ribcage.
"Okay, easy!"
"You know that locating people is my business," said David. "I'll get to them whether you are alive or dead."
"You will, will you? Is your special friend going to help you rescue Elyse? Save Duncan?"
David was taken aback at the name of his son. It was strong. Elyse had chosen well.
The Glock relaxed in his grip. Tony seized his opportunity.
"Time is on my side, David. The National Guard is already mobilizing. Soon the skies over the tri-state area will be filled with an armada of military aircraft that will make Operation Gomorrah look like a crop dusting expedition. The streets will be filled with battalions of soldiers supported by cutting-edge anti-personnel weapons. All available reconnaissance aircraft is already on its way home. Your friend won't be able to scratch her ass without us knowing."
"Where are they?"
"I warned you this would happen. Now sit down and have a drink. People are starting to stare."
David measured his options. How had it come to this? Elyse. The boy. Duncan. His name is Duncan. David's finger curled around the trigger. One squeeze and it would be over. He could be in his car before anyone knew what happened.
Tony shifted on his stool.
"Either shoot me or let me buy you a scotch, but make up your mind, goddammit."
The photos flashed before David's eyes. Duncan's eyes. He slipped the pistol under his shirt and sat down.
"One for my friend here," Tony said to the passing bartender. "And I'll have a double."
"Let them go, Tony," David said, ignoring the scotch that was set before him. "It's not too late to come back from this."
David's plea rang hollow in his own ears. Tony had stepped over the line by threatening his loved ones. There was no coming back from that.
"Come back from this?" Tony said. "You threatened my wife and son! What did you think I was going to do, David? Your leverage is gone. Canceled out."
David had no reply for that. He seized the scotch glass and upended it.
"That was a bold move by the way, grabbing the redhead out from under our noses," Tony continued. "Some of the boys named her Carrie. You know, from that King novel. They were scared to death of her. And with good reason."
David said nothing.
"Elyse and your boy for Carrie and Kinetic Star. A fair trade. You have until I finish this drink."
Tony swirled the brown liquid in his glass to accentuate his offer. David remained silent, staring into the depths of his empty glass.
"Oh please, David! How can you even consider going against me on this? What is she to you? Are you fucking her? Is that it? Was that her scarf in your kitchen that day?"
David reeled. His hands balled into fists below the bar.
"Is a piece of ass worth losing your son?"
"You used to be a decent man, Tony. Now you're a lapdog for the government. Where is your pride? Your honor?"
Tony took another drink, draining his glass to the mid-point.
"Duncan is growing up without a father. You can change that. He isn't even seven years old yet."
David slammed the empty glass onto the bar and slid his hand over his face. What would Samantha want him to do? He thought of their first night together, staring at the ceiling side by side in a tangle of sweaty, naked limbs as their rapid heart rates slowed to normal. She had shared an old nightmare with him, one where the armies of the world were hunting her down. She killed so many of them. Out of necessity. Out of a primal need for survival. How could he let that become a reality? How could he give up on her? What if there was another Braithwaite lying in wait behind the scenes? What if there was someone worse waiting in the wings?
Tony's scotch was almost gone. His fingers rotated the glass on the coaster. David barely noticed.
It wasn't only about Elyse and Duncan. Marissa couldn't run forever. They would catch her and she would never be heard from again.
Tony raised the glass. He had David's full attention this time.
David's heart turned to lead in his chest. His bowels churned and protested against what he was about to do. What he had to do. His brain sent urgent signals to his organs, ordering them to calm down because the rationalization was coming. The rationalization would make everything alright.
Enhanced Individual. It had never been David's intention to include Samantha when he had coined the term. But if E.I. applied to Harkins and this woman that Tony's men called Carrie, then the label must also apply to Samantha. There was no way around it. It was supposed to be neutral term, free of judgment, neither good nor bad. It was supposed to describe a person with enhanced abilities, powers beyond the scope of a normal human being. And that was just it. An E.I. could never be free of judgment. Samantha isn't normal and never will be.
Tony drained his glass and returned it to the coaster with a delicate touch. His palms went flat against the bar in preparation to push his stool away from it.
Duncan appeared in David's mind's eye, his innocent face animating into a smile. David's jaw clenched. A trickle of sweat carved a line in his temple.
Maybe it was time to stop protecting her. Maybe it was time to set her free, let her fight her own battles. How else can she reach her full potential? She can take care of herself now.
Sweet, sweet rationalization.
"McAllister. Samantha McAllister."
David reached for the words as they spilled from his lips, grasping at them in a vain attempt to stuff them back into his mouth, but the genie had been released from the bottle.
Tony's eyes lit up.
"You did the right thing," he said, clapping David on the back. "Your boy likes superheroes. I'd suggest buying him a gift like that before you finally meet him."
Tony rose from the stool and tossed a fifty-dollar bill next to his coaster.
"I have to make an important call. I'll be in touch."
David's fingers pressed into his eyes as he heard the entry door open and close. He was left alone with his regret. It fell over him in a crashing wave, bringing with it horror and revulsion at his actions. The combination was familiar to David; he had been smothered by it during his first tour. It had led to his split with Elyse when he had come back to the States. It returned for his second tour, and later his third.
A sudden scream wrenched him from his misery. There was a commotion just outside the entrance. Blood splashed against the front windows and ran down the glass in rivulets, distorting the image of fleeing pedestrians. David leapt to his feet, his hand covering the Glock of its own volition as he made his way to the door.
He emerged from Tapio's into a sea of chaos. People ran for their lives in a mass exodus from the eight-foot tall monstrosity that hovered over the lifeless body of Tony Aldridge. Iron-wrought arms resolved into cruel, spiked maces that rose and fell in alternating rhythm to pound what was left of Tony into the pavement. Bone, gristle and brain matter dripped from the metal extremities, falling to the sidewalk in a macabre patchwork that was once Tony's head.
David drew the pistol and fired without thinking, his body now operating on reflex.
Spang!
A ricochet crashed through the window pane beside him. The impossible creature shifted its weight, rising into a posture that left David with little doubt that he had its attention. The useless gun lowered to David's side. There was nothing he could do against this thing, and he knew it. Retreat was the only option.
The aberration burst into action before David could find his exit. David blinked, unable to trust his eyes as the thing changed. Metal rippled and elongated, twisted and reformed before finally becoming rigid and lifeless. A tall street light teetered where the creature had stood less than a second ago. It toppled over and was still.
Harkins.
David hurdled the fallen post, shoving the gun into his belt as he ran into the street. Dozens of people milled about like ants on a disturbed mound. David searched in every possible direction, but there was no sign of him. Cursing, he ran back to Tony's mangled body and searched his pockets before sprinting to the rental car.
The trunk was open.
David blinked in confusion, then slammed it closed and leapt into the driver's seat. He pocketed Tony's phone as he eased around the corner, slamming his fist on the horn to scatter the frenzied crowd. He waited until a trio of police cruisers raced by before stepping on the accelerator.
The agents watching Elyse and Duncan would be waiting for Tony's call. Multiple strategies presented themselves, but one stood out above the rest. David managed a smile as he weaved through the heavy traffic and headed for the Potomac.
He had a hunch where Marissa might have holed up and, as luck would have it, his assistant happened to be dating a hacker.
Chapter Twenty-Three
SAMANTHA TRIED HER BEST not to redecorate her townhouse wall with the inside of her phone when another call went straight to voicemail.
"Hey, it's me again. What's going on? Call me back."
Her thumb hovered over the button that would end the call, but she couldn't resist an attempt to dial back her worry before hanging up.
"Trying real hard not to be Needy McClingy here. Just call me back."
She was sure he would have let her know if his flight out of Alaska had been delayed. What the hell was going on? She needed him. They had only brushed the surface of what had happened in the bunker before she'd left him and his companions at the airport, and she had so much to tell him about everything that had transpired since then.
It had been helpful to get out of the house after the bevy of revelations her mother—if that's who she truly was—had dumped on her. Samantha had needed space to sort them out, but the space didn't help. New questions arose in the hours that followed the surprising, painful conversation, questions that had eluded her at the time.
Does she know who sent the photos? Was it an accomplice of hers? An attempt to solidify her story by providing proof that she has been alive for centuries, maybe even millennia?
Samantha consulted her phone. Nothing.
Does this mean I'm going to live for millennia?
She couldn't help but imagine herself in a futuristic world of flying cars and space travel. Robot maids.
Meet George Jetson. His boy Elroy.
Samantha decided to revisit that insanity another time, and shifted her thoughts to the visit with Roger Harkins. She figured that there was a fifty-percent chance— perhaps greater than fifty—that she had endangered herself and those close to her by letting him go, but his ambivalent reaction to the news of their relation had her reconsidering those odds. She would probably never hear from him again if he truly had washed his hands of the entire situation as he claimed he had. That would be that. Boom. Super-villain brother defeated.
Yet....
Samantha had to admit that learning about a long-lost sibling was kind of exciting, especially after the loss of Cole. Then again, Harkins was a stubborn man-child with women and abandonment issues. Not so exciting.
Not to mention the fact that he beat the shit out of me. And the fact that Ana could be making this whole thing up. But that feeling when we touched....
She checked her phone. Nothing.
In addition to David's sudden radio silence, Samantha hadn't heard from Marissa since she fled the townhouse in pursuit of the traumatized Brie. Samantha had been thrown for such a loop by Ana that she hadn't thought to check in with Marissa until she was on her way back from Fairfax County after dealing with Harkins. That had been almost two days ago, and now Marissa had gone silent as well. Had she been abducted by the shady government operatives David had warned them about? No, Samantha would have heard from David if that was the case.
Unless they got to David, too.... No, Sammy. Don't. David can take care of himself. Let's deal with one problem at a time.
She shoved her phone into her pants pocket and cast a final glance into the mirror before bundling her hair into a loose bun and heading downstairs. Ana sat cross-legged on the sofa with eyes closed, hands resting comfortably in her lap. She had insisted on wearing a dress for their outing, despite the fact that Samantha's closet held only a handful of light, floral-patterned dresses intended for summer outings and not brisk November afternoons. She had no memories of her mother's choice of clothing. Two decades was a long time, and Samantha had been too young to care about such things. The silver lining was that they were the same dress size.
A pair of wayfarer sunglasses and a tweed newsboy cap rested on the cushion next to Ana. The latter had been a gift from Cole, an attempt to jazz up Samantha's sense of style. She had never worn it, but now it would finally be put to use as an important component of Ana's disguise. Her guest had been adamant about going into the city, and had quashed Samantha's fervent protests as fast as they had formed.
"I've been buried under a mountain for the last twenty years, girl," Ana had reminded her around a mouthful of scrambled eggs that morning, "and I'll be damned if I'm going to stay cooped up in this house!"
She had a point. Samantha relented.
"Ready?"
There was no reply.
Samantha went to the closet and retrieved her brown leather jacket and a woolen scarf the color of charcoal. She chose a puffy blue winter coat for Ana, and draped it over her arm as she stood waiting by the front door.
Is she meditating?
*Be patient, daughter. I'm putting the finishing touches on a few things.*
A minute passed, then another. Beads of sweat formed on Ana's forehead as Samantha stood watching. Another minute, then Ana opened her eyes and smiled at Samantha.
"Now I'm ready."
They stood in front of the White House an hour later, warmth radiating into their hands through thick paper cups filled with sweetened coffee. Samantha had seen the executive mansion dozens of times, and waited in silence as Ana drank it in.
"I haven't been here in many years," Ana said, removing her sunglasses despite Samantha's warning glance. "It looks very different now."
"You really should put those glasses back on. There are cameras everywhere in this city. Especially here."
Ana slipped the glasses over her eyes with a disappointed click of her tongue.
"When were you here last?" Samantha said.
"Around the turn of the century. The nineteenth century. When it was being built. Everyone wanted to come see it back then. People made a day of it."
Samantha peered through the wrought iron fence onto the pristine grounds, trying to imagine what the area looked like back then.
"It was a muddy mess, the air filled with smoke from burning trees. Slaves labored alongside immigrants to build this place with blood and sweat."
"Please stop reading my thoughts, Ana," said Samantha. "It creeps me out."
*Of course, dear.*
Samantha sighed.
Daylight had begun to wane by the time they finished their circuit of the National Mall. Samantha couldn't help but notice that Ana was recovering from her decades-long captivity with startling swiftness, which lent credence her claims of regeneration abilities, but even she had her limits. Ana was ready to rest by the time the shadows grew long and the sun caressed the western face of the Washington Monument with a brilliant orange. The obelisk was still wrapped in scaffolding from broad base to recuperating crest, and was still off limits to visitors. They claimed an unoccupied bench just outside of the construction zone.
Ana craned her neck to peruse the broken stonework that made up the rim. New blocks had been set into place, but it was far from whole. Angry black streaks still decorated the marble where the lightning strikes had left their signature.
"Your memories are hazy from that night," Ana said. "The night of the hurricane."
Samantha followed Ana's eyes to the top of the monument.
"Makes sense. I was exhausted. Barely conscious."
"Yet you pushed yourself beyond your limits to rescue those people. Why?"
Samantha's gaze dropped to the strange woman.
"What do you mean?"
"You almost succumbed to the waters of the Basin after saving them. Why risk your life?"
Samantha's mouth moved as she fumbled for an answer that seemed so obvious to her.
Does she really not understand?
If Ana detected the thought, she didn't acknowledge it.
"Because it was the right thing to do," Samantha said. "My real mother would know that."
Ana spun on her, anger breaking her calm facade. The moment passed and her composure was restored with practiced expertise.
"Don't assume that you know me, child. You were a frightened, drowning little girl the last time you laid eyes upon me."
Samantha didn't miss a beat. She indicated the top of the monument with a nod.
"What would you have done? Let them die up there? Crushed to death under tons of stone?"
Ana's jaw clenched. Her nostrils flared.
"You are foolish to think these people are worth your life. They would have you locked up in a heartbeat, hidden underground with tubes sticking into every orifice, pumping you with psychotropic cocktails in an attempt to bend your powers to their will!"
These people?
Ana's hands balled into fists. Her eyes flared into green embers.
"If something had happened to you, if you had been compromised, everything I have put into motion would be for nothing! My sacrifice would be meaningless! My life worthless!"
"Wait, what are you talking about?" Samantha said, planting her hands on the bench seat to shift her weight away from the raving woman. "What have you done?"
Ana paused, blinking as she regained control. Her features softened and she placed her hand on Samantha's shoulder. Her smile was thin, her expression mischievous as though they shared a secret.
"My beloved girl," Ana said in a patient, didactic tone, "do you not remember anything of our discussion after I awoke?"
Samantha replayed the conversation in her mind, but found no connection.
"What? No. I mean yes, but—"
"They are nothing to us. They are weak. Filled with avarice, duplicity and violence."
She waved her hand across the Mall that surrounded them, indicating the tourists and locals who Samantha had loved to watch before starting her shift at the Bibbing Plot.
That seems so long ago. Wait a minute....
"What are you saying? What about Daddy? Is he included in that group?"
"Your father was a means to an end."
One important condition of their ill-advised afternoon jaunt—and Samantha had been insistent—was that they couldn't, under any circumstances, draw attention to themselves. Samantha violated her own contract when she stormed to her feet and backed away from Ana with wide, disbelieving eyes.
"What the fuck does that mean? What end, Ana?"
*Take your seat and show me proper respect, child.*
Explain yourself!
"What end, Mother?"
A nearby couple stopped their trek up the long cement pathway at the sound of her raised voice. A pair of cyclists slowed their approach from another direction.
*Be seated and I will explain.*
Samantha paused for several heartbeats to reinforce her defiance, then huffed and sat down at the far end of the bench. The passersby continued on their way.
*Did you think your gifts were an accident of nature? They weren't. You have a purpose, Samantha.*
You never really loved Daddy, did you?
*I loved him with all my heart. Now quiet your mind and listen to what I have to say. I promise it is more important than your sanctimonious tantrums.*
Samantha pulled her jacket tighter and rewrapped her scarf, staring at Ana all the while.
"Okay, so what is this 'purpose'?"
This is starting to sound like a B-grade fantasy movie. If she uses the word "destiny"....
"You can make light of this if it helps you cope," said Ana, "but it won't change the fact that it is true. You have been searching for an answer, and now you shall have it."
She cleared her throat before continuing. Samantha waited, fumbling inside the cuffs of her jacket to pull the sleeves of her sweater lower over her wrists.
"I have known my purpose since my first monthly blood. That day, I became aware of my reason for being."
Flashes of memory made their way to the forefront of Samantha's consciousness. A sleepover at Kelly Farrier's dad's house in Bellbrook. Stained pajamas. Fear and humiliation as Mr. Farrier's horrified voice filtered through the bathroom door, carrying with it a bumbling tutorial on how to use a tampon.
"The early pregnancies were awful. There was no such thing as maternal health strategy. No such thing as medical science, for that matter, but my abilities matured with my physiology. My body recuperated faster every time."
"What about the men, Ana? Did they mean nothing to you? What did that make you? An empowered prostitute?"
"There was a time when such a profession was honorable, accepted among the highest social classes. It was a convenience at times, yes, but I have been many things."
Ana's eyes embarked on a voyage through the years before coming full circle to find Samantha's once again.
"And yes, I have felt the inevitable sting of love a handful of times. Your father's barb was quite poignant, if you must know. Now stop interrupting."
Samantha leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees.
"As I was saying, my mission in this world became clear to me. I found it in the primal cycle of nature; we are born, we live, we die. My place is with the first of those. I am the Mother. I am the creator of life, put on this earth to fill it with great power and unbound potential."
Wow. This movie just dropped to C-grade.
"As I said, you are my first daughter. You will take my place, then I will rest. It is the natural order of things."
Samantha let that sink in. She felt the chilly air on her tongue and closed her mouth, unaware that her jaw had dropped open.
"You...you think I'm going to spend the rest of my life making babies?"
Ana held her gaze but said nothing.
"I can't believe this. I...I can't...."
Samantha leaned back and smoothed her hair over her scalp.
"You want me to be a goddamned incubator for super-powered maniacs?"
This is insane!
"Insane?" Ana erupted. "Insanity is you flying around in a mask like a character from ancient mythology!"
"Have you even thought this through, Ana? We're being hunted! Times have changed! Even if I wanted that kind of life, how could you possibly think—"
"I have thought it through. For twenty years I reached out across the miles to move the pieces on the chessboard. The men that imprisoned me thought that their chemicals kept me in a vegetative state, but I was very much aware. And I was not idle."
Samantha shook her head.
"I don't understand. What are you telling me?"
"I know you have been preoccupied with myself and my idiotic son, and I'm sorry for that, but your true mission hasn't yet begun. A war is on the horizon, Samantha."
Oh god. The news headlines. The President withdrawing from the Oman Accords. The sanctions on our allies.
Ana's eyes narrowed, studying Samantha's face as the chilling revelation spread over it.
"It was you," Samantha managed. "Y-you got into their heads...you.... The President.... How—?"
"It will be a matriarchy, my Little Star. Glorious and just. A world led by the wisdom and compassion of women instead of the gluttony and greed of men."
No....
"You want to destroy civilization and repopulate it with people like us!"
Samantha could barely get the words out. Her stomach roiled and her skin erupted in a cold sweat.
"It is your reason for being, my dear. Your power to foster life eclipses any other ability you've inherited from me."
Daddy. David. Marissa. Brie. Everyone gone in a white hot flash.
Ana's victorious tone drew Samantha's attention away from the apocalyptic image.
"You will make new friends. Take on many partners. Bear many fine children. Your father raised you well, but his task is finished."
Samantha doubled over and expelled sour, acidic bile onto the concrete. She felt Ana's warm hand on her forehead and recoiled at her touch.
"You can't be serious," Samantha said, her watery vision tracing a line of spittle from her lip to the ground. "What makes you think I would ever—"
A thunderous rumble stifled her protest as a trio of military helicopters buzzed the National Mall. They were join by two more flight squadrons that appeared from the blue to hover over the White House and the Capitol.
Samantha felt herself being hauled to her feet by Ana's surprisingly strong hand. A long line of armored personnel carriers rolled down Constitution Avenue, orders blaring from public address systems perched atop their bulky frames. The message was linked to speakers that dotted the mall for use in times of emergency, strengthening the directive into a stir of echoes that bounced from building to building.
"...return to your homes. Washington D.C. is under martial law effective immediately by order of the Commander In Chief of the Armed Forces of the...."
Samantha fought down the gorge rising in the back of her throat and looked to the sky. One of the three helicopters hovering near the Washington Monument had opened its side access door. A pair of soldiers in full battle gear manned a mounted machine gun. They appeared to be scanning the throng of people below. Samantha took Ana by the wrist.
"We need to get out of here. They're looking for you."
Samantha hauled Ana after her, but felt resistance when Ana stayed rooted in place.
"No, dear. The President doesn't even know about me. I saw to that."
Samantha's eyes darted to Ana's. The movement should have taken a fraction of a second, but Ana's next words made it seem like an eternity.
"They're looking for you."
Chapter Twenty-Four
THE SMART PHONE RESTED IN DAVID'S PALM, its screen painted with flecks of dried blood like some macabre filter in a twisted social media app.
"You're going to have to turn it on, you know," said Brie.
David continued to study the device, his finger hovering over the power button for the fifth time.
"They'll have our location the second I do. How long will it take to pinpoint the locations from his recent calls list?"
Brie's fingers danced across the keyboard of her laptop in a practiced staccato. The screen illuminated her focused stare. The decal on the lid depicted a fist with the middle finger raised, the glowing alien head embedded into the plastic balanced on the fingertip like a spinning basketball.
"It won't be a second," Brie said. "We'll have a few minutes, maybe longer if they aren't looking for that dead guy. It's only been a couple of hours or so, right?"
"How long, damn it?"
Brie shrugged in exasperation.
"Like I said, a few minutes. Maybe. Probably."
David paced across the hotel room. Several cryptic text exchanges with Marissa had clued David in to where she and Brie had taken refuge. Alexandria had been a good choice; close enough to D.C. to monitor the developing situation, yet far enough away to stay ahead of the widening net of martial law.
For now.
Marissa stood in front of the window, arms folded over her chest as she watched the National Guard lock down the capital. She hadn't moved from that spot since David arrived, and had said little to him since then. David knew full well why she studied the distant D.C. skyline with such fervent obsession.
"Okay, here we go," David said, his thumb poised to power up the phone. "Marissa, be ready to go at a moment's notice. Marissa?"
She didn't acknowledge him. The horizon beyond the window buzzed with military aircraft, black specks against a darkening sky that moved about like gnats on a sticky summer day.
"Marissa?"
Her head turn was almost imperceptible, her voice just above a whisper.
"It doesn't make sense. She won't answer her phone."
"I need you with us. Come on."
Marissa spun about and rubbed at her eyes.
"She wouldn't do that, David. Not after what happened. She should be trying to check in with us. Something's wrong."
"Oh shit!" Brie said. "Look at this!"
David peered around the desk to get a better angle on the computer screen. A news web page was displayed there, its headline jumping from the screen in bold, blocky letters.
WORLD WAR III IMMINENT?
David stutter stepped away, trying to wrap his mind around what he had just read. This had nothing to with Tony Aldridge or Enhanced Individuals or martial law; this was a separate crisis, one that had decided to rear its ugly head at the worst possible moment. How had it come to this? All of the news snippets he had caught in passing had pointed in this direction, but David had faith that tensions would be relieved by world leaders working together in a civilized manner. Then again, he couldn't ignore the possibility that the world leaders were the real problem and, if that was the case, there would be no one left to stop a war that would dwarf the sum of all wars throughout the history of mankind. Not even Samantha could do that.
David let the thought go and exhaled, unaware that he had been holding his breath. One thing at a time. Elyse and Duncan.
"Okay, you two," he said, forcing confidence into his voice, "let's keep our heads in the game."
Brie minimized the browser window, which brought her hacking software to the fore. A sheet of alphanumeric characters covered the screen in a monochromatic mass that had David blinking in a vain attempt to make sense of them. He thought he recognized global coordinates, but couldn't be sure. Brie's finger lowered onto the mouse button with a snap. A cursor appeared in an empty field at the bottom of the screen, blinking expectantly. She locked eyes with him.
"The cat's in the toaster."
"Huh?"
Brie rolled her eyes.
"Just...nevermind. We're a go. Turn it on."
David powered up the phone and conjured the list of recent calls. He set it on the desk beside Brie's laptop and stepped back, glad to be rid of it. She kept her eyes focused on the list of phone numbers as she entered them into the software with impressive dexterity. David let her work her magic and joined Marissa at the window.
"You never told me you had a son," she said.
"If I had known, I certainly would have."
She took his hand in hers.
"We'll get them. Elyse and your boy will be fine."
David wasn't so sure. Tony's agents would soon realize that he was missing, and David entertained no illusions about their contingency orders. Time was on his side for now, but that could change at any moment.
"Harkins ruined everything," he said. "I had it under control. Goddamn him."
Marissa perked up at that.
"How?"
David pulled his hand away and resumed his anxious circuit around the small room.
"How much longer, Brie?"
"Working on it. Chill."
Marissa caught David by the shoulder and wheeled him around to face her.
"David, what do you mean you 'had it under control'?"
David drew the semi-automatic pistol from his waistband and ejected the magazine to inspect it. Satisfied, he shoved it back into the gun and returned the weapon to his belt. Marissa moved to block him when he tried to move away again.
"What did you do?"
David looked everywhere but into her dark eyes. He started to speak several times, but said nothing.
"Got it!" announced Brie, standing up to clap her hands and wiggle her hips. "Oh yeah, baby! That's right!"
David and Marissa rushed to the laptop. Brie ended her victory dance and pointed to a mapping application.
"He called this number several times right before texting you. Then—look here—one more time after that. Whoever he called hasn't moved from that location in the past twenty-four hours. Or the phone hasn't, I should say."
Relief washed over David. It appeared that Elyse had taken up residence in Charlottesville. He could make it in two hours.
David snatched the phone from the desk and deposited it into his blazer pocket as he stalked toward the door.
"You two stay here. I'll draw them away before I destroy the phone. Don't answer the door or the room phone. I'll be in touch."
His hand was pulled away from the door handle when Marissa threw her arms around him and held him tightly.
"Good luck, Boss."
"Go get 'em, Double D," said Brie.
David sprinted down the corridor and reached the bank of elevators before the hotel room door latched behind him. He smashed the down arrow several times and stepped back, taking a measured breath to slow his racing heart. A sonic boom vibrated the broad window opposite the elevator doors, and David spun around to find himself looking northward at the same scene that had captivated Marissa. The sky over D.C. had faded further into night's embrace, providing perfect contrast for the flashes of artillery fire that lit up the horizon.
Chapter Twenty-Five
SAMANTHA WAS AMAZED AT THE SPEED of the deployment. More helicopters and ground vehicles appeared from nowhere, joining those already overtaking the streets with a measured efficiency. The entire scene unsettled her.
"Why are you frightened?" Ana said. "You could wipe them out before they knew what hit them."
Samantha uncoiled her scarf and tied it over her head, stuffing her hair beneath it as best she could.
"That's not the point. I'm not going to fight the United States military just because they have orders to bring me in. Come on, we have to go."
A checkpoint had been set up at the intersection of Independence Avenue and 14th Street. A dozen armed soldiers were stopping both pedestrian and vehicular traffic to conduct impromptu interviews. A young woman had been pulled from a car. She hurled curses at the pair of uniformed men who held her immobile. Long blonde hair flew about as she struggled in their grip. Samantha stopped mid-stride when the woman was pressed bodily against her own car. One soldier patted her down while the other upended the contents of her bag onto the hood.
They can't do that.
A scream of defiance erupted from the opposite direction, tearing Samantha's attention away from the violation occurring at the intersection ahead. Another young woman was being restrained, her relaxing afternoon stroll with a handsome young man ending in humiliation. Guardsmen leveled rifles at her outraged counterpart as she was taken into custody. The woman was close in age to Samantha and shared her fair skin tone.
Oh no.
*Keep walking.*
"This is bullshit. They can't really expect this tactic to work. They're trying to lure me into the open."
Samantha felt Ana's hand clamp onto her upper arm, urging her forward. She compelled her legs to move.
"They're arresting women who look like me! I can't let them do—"
"No! Calm yourself. They will see what I want them to see."
They melded into a throng of confused and frightened people being herded into the intersection by a soldier directing foot traffic. The warning broadcast continued all around them, bouncing from nearby buildings into Samantha's ears.
"...return to your homes immediately. Washington D.C. is under...."
*Just keep moving.*
They reached the other side of the street without so much as a second glance from the vigilant soldiers. Samantha risked a peek over her shoulder to confirm that she hadn't been identified.
It appeared that Ana could indeed influence perception on an alarming scale. That meant that Ana didn't need her help to escape. Samantha needed hers.
No. Not happening.
"I'm sorry, Ana, but I have to stop this. Those are innocent people."
*You will not.*
The telepathic message was laden with imperious overtones that stopped Samantha in her tracks.
Fuck. This.
"You know I won't be a part of your madness, right?" said Samantha. "I mean, aside from the insanity of your—and I can't believe I'm actually saying this—world domination, you can't truly believe that I am going to spend the rest of my life making babies."
"Can't I?"
Samantha searched her eyes, waiting for whatever lingered beyond them to reveal itself, waiting for Ana to burst into laughter and let her in on the cruel joke.
"What I can't believe is that you have chosen to waste your life flying around in a silly costume liberating worthless, dirty children from slavers. Saving suicidal weaklings. Fighting mewling cowards with half the power that you possess."
How can she talk about her son like that?
"It is the truth, Samantha. Roger and all of his brothers are weak. Only you and I have what it takes to reshape civilization."
"Damn it, Ana! No! Civilization is doing just fine!"
"Is it?" Ana said, her calm demeanor further agitating Samantha. "Manipulating President Dietrich was so simple. A minor tweak to his perception. All it took was a little push for Prime Minister Brousseau to assume the worst. For self-styled Supreme Leader Quong , it was just a matter of showing him what could be if he didn't act. They, and all others like them, are frightened children. Power has made them complacent and paranoid, and the people of this world have suffered because of it."
"But there are people trying to make things better, Ana. Good people who want to bring about real change."
"No, daughter," Ana said. "A friend of mine once said 'What is government itself but the greatest of all reflections on human nature. If men were angels, no government would be necessary.' A man said that. He became president. You still don't understand, my sweet child. There is no such thing as good and evil. There are only our choices and our actions."
Samantha shook her head and gazed up at the sky in exasperation. She couldn't refute that logic.
"You said you've been setting things into motion for decades. Pieces on a chess board or whatever. Why are you pulling the trigger now? What were you waiting for?"
Ana stepped closer.
"Not what, my dear. Who."
Oh. Walked into that one, didn't I?
"Well, I'm not going to help you."
"Yes you are," said Ana. "It has already begun."
She placed her hand on Samantha's lower abdomen.
"Can you not feel it?" she said. "No, of course not. You choose to use your gifts like a novice."
Samantha flinched at Ana's touch. Her mind cast a wide net to capture the weight of Ana's words, but their meaning slipped through the seams.
"What...what has begun?"
*Don't play the fool, girl.*
Samantha didn't realize that her own hand had replaced Ana's until her eyes dropped to her belly.
"You think so externally, Little Star. Have you never turned your abilities inward?"
Samantha became absorbed in the moment, bewilderment at Ana's implication overshadowing the immediate threat all around her. Samantha closed her eyes and brought her other hand to her stomach.
*Let me guide you.*
Samantha felt the mental intrusion. Ana was there, nudging her forward with a gentle push, a mother prompting a toddler to take her first steps. She sensed her power taking on a new form. It folded in upon itself faster than she could comprehend until her entire being was contained in a single atom. It traveled through her skin and muscles, narrowing to a pinpoint then growing even smaller. It infused her entire body like a sixth sense, laying everything bare, magnified for intense scrutiny. Her cells became visible in her mind's eye, trillions upon trillions floating in her perception.
She found it clinging to her uterus, a cluster of cells. They were similar but different. A part of her, yet separate. They belonged to something else. Someone else.
*Yes, that's it. Do you see?*
Samantha broke the connection and stumbled away from Ana. Her knees failed her and her stomach seized into spasms. She managed to keep her balance, but lurched sideways as her fingers spread over her face and slipped down to her neck.
No...David....
*Your beau played a small part, yes, but it appears that your fertility rivals my own. We are givers of life, Little Star.*
The words were innocuous when they entered Samantha's head, but swelled into wrecking balls that slammed into her heart as reality set in.
"Fuck you! I will not be part of this! How can you talk about giving life when you want to wipe out mankind?"
Rage filled her veins, immolating the anxiety and giving her newfound strength.
"I'll rip this thing out of me if I have to!"
Her words rang hollow in her own ears, but Ana's demeanor transformed from gloating victory to dangerous intensity. A quartet of soldiers heard Samantha's outburst and turned toward them.
"It appears that not all lessons can be taught," Ana said, her voice descending into a growl. "Very well."
Ana backed away from Samantha. The approaching Guardsmen paused in unison, blinking as though a veil had been lifted from their eyes. Their rifles came up, sights trained on Samantha.
"On your knees!"
Panic clutched at Samantha. She reacted without thinking. Her scarf leapt into motion, wrapping itself around her face to leave only a narrow slit for her eyes. Weapons discharged as she leapt into the air. Their impacts were impotent taps against her skin. Samantha seized their guns and dashed them on the concrete, leaving them broken and useless.
*How much do you love these feeble beings, daughter?*
Samantha tensed for a straight shot into the cloud bank overhead when she heard a frightened shout from below. A full company of soldiers now made their way onto the Mall to support the squad she had disarmed. She couldn't understand why their weapons were trained on the civilians instead of her.
What have you done?
*I told you, girl. They will see what I want them to see.*
Samantha bolted for the closest group of civilians.
"What are they, Corporal?" shouted one of the soldiers as the squad maneuvered into a flanking formation. "What the fuck are they?"
"Weapons free!" came the reply.
Samantha's construct formed just as dozens of triggers were squeezed. Automatic gunfire erupted, pounding the invisible shield. Terrified men, women and children huddled together, waiting to be torn apart by a deadly hailstorm that never found them.
Samantha dropped to within earshot.
"They're people! Stop!"
The guardsmen spun on her as one, their faces frozen in shock as her words fell on deaf ears.
*Do you know what a harpy is? Half bird, half woman. A grotesque thing of nightmares, which I'm sure these fine young men and women in uniform will experience for years to come.*
Samantha didn't wait for them to fire first. Magazines ejected from their rifles and snapped apart to rain useless bullets at their feet. She turned her attention back to the cowering families and dissolved her protective barrier.
"Run, damn it!"
They scattered, though Samantha figured it was because they saw a flying bird-monster and not the young woman who had saved their lies.
Whatever works.
Samantha searched the vicinity and found Ana watching her from below, a pillar of calm in a storm of hysteria.
*Well done. But you can't save them all.*
Shots rang out, followed in short order by horrified screams. Samantha ascended for a better view. Her breath caught in her throat as the terrible tragedy she had just prevented was reborn a dozen times over. It was too much to take in. Civilians were gunned down in the street, their appearances transformed into otherworldly threats in the eyes of the National Guard. In the eyes of brave soldiers only trying to protect American lives.
"NO!"
Samantha dove at the nearest of them and ripped their guns away to prevent the murder of a family who knelt in surrender, their hands outstretched to ward away the danger.
A group of young tourists was cut down on a nearby corner.
Not fast enough. I can't...oh god....
She exploded into motion, moving in a blur as she made her way to anyone wearing a uniform in a desperate attempt to disarm them before more innocent civilians were killed, but chilling echoes reached her ears despite her blinding speed. Shots and screams. The crowd's initial shock morphed into a mass exodus, a flight to find safety where none existed. The military was everywhere.
Think, Sammy!
Samantha levitated and spun a full circle, taking note of the location of every soldier, every vehicle and every piece of machinery bearing the emblem of the National Guard within her field of vision.
You can do this. Just deal with it. Deal with it and move on.
She inhaled sharply and reached out with her mind, arms outstretched and face raised to the heavens. An intense, immediate pressure formed in her chest, reminding her of that day in the salvage yard when she pushed herself beyond her limits to lift an industrial-sized crane. It seemed so long ago.
Stop it. Concentrate.
She held her breath and exerted her will. The shooting stopped, replaced by a symphony of surprised exclamations.
*I am impressed. My blood makes you more powerful than I could have imagined. You are perfect, my child.*
Samantha ignored Ana's telepathic commentary and focused on the landscape of targets she had committed to memory. Raw power emanated from her in waves, crushing and ripping and smashing. Her lungs burned. The weight on her chest doubled. Blood erupted from her nostrils. Her eyeballs throbbed in their sockets. A steady, deafening note rang in her ears.
Just a little bit more. Give them time to get away. Run, dammit!
*Do you think it will be a boy or a girl? Even with you, I didn't want the doctor to tell me. I hope you'll do the same. Suspense is so delicious.*
Samantha felt a palpitation in her temples, followed in short order by a powerful shock to her chest. Her arms trembled from fatigue, but she held herself steady. The constant tone in her head intensified, morphing into a trio of high-pitched screams.
*Uh oh. The boys have brought their toys.*
Samantha's eyelids parted.
Toys?
Trucks and personnel carriers plummeted to the ground, their mounted guns broken and ruined. Troops fell as well, those unfortunate enough to land on asphalt or concrete suffering fractured bones and contusions. Samantha twisted around to find a flight of fighter jets arcing overhead. They had already broken off by the time she spotted their payloads diving at her with devastating intent.
It was pure reflex that saved her life, a neural transmission that bypassed any conscious thought and resolved into a protective construct of her will. The air-to-air missiles slammed into her hastily-erected shield with such force that the resulting shockwave swallowed everything in a five hundred-yard radius. Stragglers who still hadn't evacuated the area were bowled over from the force. Benches and light posts tumbled free of their moorings. Windows shattered, raining lacerations on anyone passing below.
A shroud of white hot light enveloped Samantha's vision. Her brain registered a series of impacts before she came to a rest, choking and sputtering. Her body was wracked with agony. Her head was trapped in a centrifuge and her breath came in raspy, painful bursts. An eerie silence fell over her world, and she realized two things.
One. My ears are bleeding.
Two. I'm still alive because I'm aware that my ears are bleeding.
She relaxed her aching chest to allow her breathing to normalize. Her vision returned in short order, and she found herself staring into the gaping maw of a Tyrannosaurus Rex. It was just a skull, but no less startling. Samantha thought it was another of Ana's phantoms, but came to the conclusion that the redistribution of force created from the impact of the missiles against her construct had cast her through the walls of the Natural History Museum.
"Sorry, Rex," she said, rising to her feet and patting the dinosaur's dismembered head.
Dust fell from her in a powdery grey cloud. A cursory look around revealed that the museum had been evacuated well before she had decimated its south-facing wall.
Good.
She looked through the ruins of the museum to the opening she had created upon impact, and spied soldiers gathering in the street beyond.
*They almost killed you. Do you understand now why we must change the status quo?*
Samantha took a step toward the improvised exit, but hesitated when a shadow fluttered at the edge of her vision. She shook her head to clear it and rotated a sore shoulder in its socket.
Stay out of my head. Stay out of my life!
*This is your final chance, daughter. Your last opportunity.*
More troops joined those covering the exit. Several had shoulder-mounted RPGs ready to launch through the opening in the ruined wall. A bullhorn crackled to life.
"Remove the scarf and come out with your hands spread wide! Slowly!"
They think I'm responsible for this. For what you did.
*Of course they do. They will never understand people like us. We will educate them together. Then replace them with our own kind.*
They are my own kind.
Samantha again detected motion from the corner of her eye, inside the museum as before. Someone was moving closer. She ignored it. She had more important matters to attend to at the moment.
"This is your last warning! By order of the United States Military, come out! Now!"
*This is your last warning. Say the word and I will end this.*
I'm capable of ending this myself. Goodbye, Mother.
She felt Ana's presence growing in her mind, carrying with it a mass of emotions that pumped through her like blood through an artery. Sorrow. Anger. Disappointment. Love.
*Goodbye, Little Star.*
A sharp crack erupted in Samantha's skull. Her balance faltered. Spots danced in her vision. The sensation was internal, unrelated to the lingering effects of the missiles and the ensuing collision with the museum. She was sure of it. It was palpable, as real as the solid rubble beneath her boots. As real as the company of Guardsmen waiting for the order to destroy her.
Samantha fought through the disorientation and raised her hand to liberate the soldiers of their grenade launchers.
Nothing happened.
Samantha blinked and tried again, manifesting her power and forcing it to obey her as it had so many times before.
The weapons didn't move.
The commanding officer nodded to the soldiers wielding the explosive weapons and raised his arm.
What the...?
Samantha pivoted on her heel and willed the layers of rubble to shift and separate.
Better retreat until I can figure out what the hell is going on.
The chunks of debris defied her command.
Ana? What did you do?
There was no answer.
MOTHER!
Nothing.
Samantha twirled around. The commander's arm dropped. Exhaust erupted at the rear of the launchers. Grenades left their housings.
"WAIT!"
Something heavy collided with Samantha, tackling her from the side and lifting her from her feet. Explosions came to life in brilliant displays of fire and smoke, beautiful and terrible. They brought pain beyond measure. Samantha smelled burning hair. Her wail reflected back at her from miles away.
A whisper found her ear just before the darkness swallowed her whole.
". وتعويض الشر هو عقاب مثله"
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I'M GOING TO BE HONEST.
I'm still fairly new to this novel-writing thing, despite laboring over two novels (and one audiobook) for over two and a half years. The Acknowledgments section seems to me like an Academy Awards acceptance speech, except no awards have been won and my gratitude isn't being broadcast to millions of people.
"First and foremost, I'd like to thank...."
Bear with me. I'll get to that later.
For now, I'd like to use this space to talk a little bit about writing. Stephen King's On Writing was (self-imposed) required reading for me before writing both Kinetic Star and E.I., and I'll read it again before finishing this trilogy. Hell, I'll probably read it prior to starting every future novel. In On Writing, King tells us not to be afraid to kill our darlings.
* Spoiler Alert for Kinetic Star!*
Full disclosure: Evan Douglas was one of my darlings. I loved him. I loved to hate him. I loved to write him. I loved to hate to kill him. But Samantha needed an emotional slap in the face. (Oh yes, this was but the first of many!) And so did I. So rest in peace, Evan. You fucking traitor.
*End Spoilers for Kinetic Star*
To my mind, King also meant that in a not-so-literal sense. Sometimes your darlings can be ideas, not characters.
I bring this up because I want to share something with you: I wrote twelve chapters of this novel before throwing it in the trash and starting over. I had some darlings in those pages, but they had to go. The story you just read was better for it, and that wasn't the first time this has happened.
One of my good friends read Kinetic Star before I published it. He got to the epilogue and said, "I don't know, man, it just seems too...flowery."
I amputated the epilogue entirely. Lopped it off like a gangrenous foot. It was tough. I killed that darling even though it was crucial back story for the character of Ana, who I intended to introduce at the end of Kinetic Star. Even though I loved it, it had to go.
Guess what? He was right.
If I had stuck to my guns and kept that epilogue, I would have been locked into an unsatisfactory origin for a pivotal character in this story, E.I. I went in a different direction with Ana's back story, and now I can't imagine it any other way.
So if I could offer some advice to my fellow authors, take a good, hard look at your story and don't be afraid to throw it out and start again. And for fuck's sake, listen to the feedback you get! Whether it be from an editor or a friend or a friend who's an editor, seriously consider what they tell you. You don't have to take action on every point they make, but at least listen to them very carefully, and take their input seriously!
Sermon over. Amen.
Now, on to the good stuff.
Craig, you were right about the epilogue in Kinetic Star. And if that insight wasn't prescient enough, your twenty-five page review of E.I. blew me away. What I thought would be a casual conversation about your overall impressions became an in-depth, robust and thoroughly professional chapter-by-chapter criticism. (Except in certain parts. David and Samantha's sex scene, for example. Ahem!) More than I expected. Just what I needed. Thank you, my friend.
Another pleasant surprise was my aunt's reception of Kinetic Star. Linda treated me to dinner with a hard copy of the book in hand. She wanted to know about the writing process, about the characters, about how I published it and how soon the next book would be out. She wanted to know why Samantha flew home from Vegas using her powers instead of flying first class on an airline after she won (um...stole) all of that cash. My aunt knew the story! I have to admit that I was a little dumbfounded, overwhelmed that anyone would be so interested in my creation. I think I clammed up out of befuddlement and didn't give her the answers she wanted. Maybe next time. I can't wait for you to read this one, Aunt Linda. Thank you for supporting me. I'm truly touched.
Most of my family didn't know I was writing Kinetic Star until the book was finished. It was different with E.I. Weekly meetings at "the office" (read: the local buffalo wing sports bar), weekend phone calls, texts, family gatherings...you name it—they all went something like this:
"What have you been up to, Jason?"
"Writing."
or
"Book two."
or
"Causing trouble for Samantha."
or
"The usual."
I must have sounded like a broken record to my family, but nights and weekends were reserved for my second full-time job. Doesn't leave much time for anything else. So thank you Lisa, Gary, Mary Ellen, Brian, Alex, Tori and Nick for putting up with my lack of anything interesting to share over the past year or two.
Hopefully you found this book interesting. It's what I've been up to.
Last but certainly not least, thank you to my good friend Jared. Our shared tendency to re-read the previous books in a series before cracking open the latest addition means that your feedback was unique. Kinetic Star was fresh in your mind as you read E.I., as it was when I wrote E.I., and that means you took extra time out of your busy life to help an old buddy with his damn fool crusade. So thank you, my friend. I'll let your good-natured comparison of my tardiness in releasing this book to that of George R.R. Martin slide (as I sit here writing this, the latest book in the Game of Thrones series is still A Dance With Dragons, published in 2011).
Okay, I know I said "Last but certainly not least," but indulge me in one more thought before you close this book and get on with your life.
I want to acknowledge one of the readers of Kinetic Star. Not an old friend, not a family member. Not a co-worker or a casual acquaintance. A complete stranger.
After leaving a wonderful review on Amazon, this person took the time to go to my website, find my Email address and send me a note. I don't think he'll mind if I share it here:
*****
Subject: Love Kinetic Star
Message:
Hi Jason,
You’re a great author. I look forward to all your future efforts.
*****
I don't include this message to boast or brag, nor are any toots of my own horn intended here. I share it because it has a very special meaning to me, and always will. It means that my work stood on its own. It means that I can do this. It means that my words brightened this person's day. It means that my story enriched this person's life, even if for a brief time and in a small way.
A complete stranger.
That means everything to me.
I'll see you next time.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jason Andrews is a mild-mannered website editor by day and vigilante writer by night. His passion for a good story can be traced back to the spinning comics rack in the local drug store, where he discovered modern mythological heroes in four-color newsprint.
Jason received his Bachelor's degree in English and began his career as a technical writer for a computer company. His interests have led him into drawing, music, and filmmaking over the years, but he always finds his way back to the keyboard.
His novel Kinetic Star is the first in a series that explores a unique take on the superhero genre.
CONNECT
Website
www.jasonandrewsauthor.com
Facebook
www.facebook.com/JasonAndrewsAuthor
Twitter
@writerandrews
Samantha McAllister will return in the third novel of
The Provenance Trilogy
Table of Contents
PART ONE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
PART TWO
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
PART THREE
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
PART FOUR
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five