“Not so,” Reed said, dropping the mom eyes for just a moment. “I had to send Veronika, Kat, Angel, and Chase to Seattle last night. They had some sort of meta throwdown at Pike Place Market yesterday. Nothing major, but a lot of people got scared. And Friday, Tracy, and Jamal are in Oklahoma this morning, dealing with a runaway spiraling meta.”
I knew all of those people save for Tracy and Angel. Angel had been hired by the lady I’d trusted to start up this new agency, some meta who was in her family and apparently looking for work.
Tracy, though … Tracy was, by Reed’s own somewhat strained account, a real asshole who, by some sort of miraculous transmogrification that I’d never gotten the full story on—because Reed was being incredibly dodgy about telling it—had become a very helpful sort of guy, one who practically fell over himself kissing Reed’s ass on every occasion they were in close proximity. It might have been alarming if it hadn’t made my brother so comically uncomfortable.
He might have been able to do mom eyes with the best of them, but I could smell his guilt when Tracy was around. He’d done something he was ashamed of in relation to that guy. I was just too busy wallowing in my own shitty feelings to dig into it.
Yet.
“I might pull in Olivia Brackett for this, too,” Reed said, thinking out loud. He’d become quite the commanding commander, building up this agency I’d handed him. It was even making money now, which was a relief, because I was tapped out or cut off, most of my money taken away by Rose months ago. Hundreds of millions of dollars impounded by my Scottish nemesis, now well outside my grasp because I couldn’t get to the countries where they were quartered and take possession of them.
Alas. Being a federal fugitive is such a pain in the ass. Being a flightless federal fugitive? Even worse.
I stared at the TV. “What do you suppose did that?” I asked, pointing at the wreck of the Enterprise. The side of the ship was completely torn open. It looked like it had been gouged on the side of the quay, a tear in the metal hundreds of feet long revealing the compartments within. “Metal-controlling type? Poseidon playing splash games in the dock?”
“I don’t know,” Reed said, staring at it with full concentration again. The wheels were turning, which meant he had no time to mom-guilt his baby sister. Wheee.
“And here I thought hanging about with you lot would be boring,” Eilish said, her light Irish accent such a contrast with all our rugged American gutter mouths. “But it’s never boring in America, is it?”
“It used to be,” I said, suppressing another yawn. “Back when metas were an endangered species instead of sprouting up everywhere like genetically altered weeds.”
“Yeah, I thought we pulled that plant out by the roots,” Augustus said. He leaned forward, unintentionally displacing Taneshia and earning himself a glare he remained blissfully unaware of. “Didn’t we get Revelen’s entire distribution network in the US?”
“That we knew of, sure,” Reed said, still frowning. “But it’s a mighty big country, and there are a lot of wrongdoers out there looking to cause chaos.”
We’d talked about Revelen enough in recent days that I didn’t feel the need to go there again. When a European country takes a special interest in creating superpowered people who then go criminal and cause havoc in your country, there’s not much to discuss beyond a) stopping them here, and b) stopping them there. We were still working on the former, and thinking about the latter, because I’d had too many strong people warning me away from whatever demons lurked in the country of Revelen to go charging into that den of beasts unthinkingly.
Especially now.
“I think—” Reed started to say something but stopped, pulling up his phone and then answering it. “This is Treston, go.”
“Hi, this is your sister, Sienna,” I said, sotto voce, earning a completely horrified look from Reed. “I’m standing ten feet in front of you right now …”
“Dude,” Augustus said, almost on his feet. “He’s on with the FBI!”
“Yeah, and I doubt they can hear me, so …” I shrugged. “I thought it was funny.”
Augustus’s jaw tightened. “They have their own metahuman task force now. Complete with actual metahumans.”
“Oh,” I said. “Oops.” I hoped they didn’t hear me, because that’d turn my joke into a not-so-funny incident of them kicking down our door.
“Yeah, I’m watching,” Reed said, all his ire toward me forgotten as he focused on the conversation. “I’m in Florida right now, but I’ve got a private jet standing by about twenty minutes away. I can be there in a few hours with a team.” He listened, then nodded. “All right, make the arrangements. We’ll see you then.” And he hung up and turned to Augustus and Taneshia. “We’re up. Get packed, wheels up in half an hour. We’ll meet Scotty there, and I’ll send for Olivia.” His jaw tightened. “Maybe Greg, too, since he’s offered to be on our reserve payroll in case of emergency.”
I recognized that as a sign of nothing good. “What?” I asked, and he didn’t answer, just stared straight ahead. “Reed … what is it?”
He drew a long breath, then let it out, slowly. “They have a suspect, and … he’s known to us.”
“Oh, man,” I said, putting a hand to my face. My list of rogues was pretty short these days, and one popped immediately to mind, someone who could move—well, mountains, or the earth, and definitely shake up an aircraft carrier within its berth if he were of a mind to. But I didn’t say this. Instead, I said, “Who?”
“They’ve placed Eric Simmons at the scene,” Reed said tightly, getting to his feet. “When confronted by the military police, he fled. They’ve got a helicopter over him right now, and they’re following him back to wherever he’s going.” His jaw tightened, my brother suddenly serious, no more trace of the mom combo. “They’re waiting for us to make their move.”
CHAPTER THREE
Simmons
Eric Simmons was getting away with it, and he could barely believe it. He’d crossed the bridge down into Norfolk with ease, before they’d even known what hit them, and now he was crossing the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, heading north into Maryland, where he’d disappear on the back rounds and vanish, heading north to Delaware. By tomorrow morning, he’d be safely tucked away in New York City. Maybe he’d catch a flight to Asia, wake up in Kuala Lumpur or spend some time surfing on Australia’s Gold Coast. It was summer there now, after all …
Simmons steered the SUV through traffic. It wasn’t his preferred car; he would have liked something smaller, maybe a little more eco-friendly than a gas guzzling SUV, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and the fact that it rode a lot higher than one of those cars made him feel like he was king of the road, looking down over the lesser drivers in their itty bitty cars like he was the mack daddy.
Oh, yeah. Simmons was making it.
The Chesapeake Bay Bridge dove down into the second tunnel ahead. He was about halfway through the four-mile length, just marking the minutes, planning to ditch this vehicle when he reached the other side, pull off and use a second getaway car that had been provided for him.
It was all going according to plan thus far, the tunnel darkness shrouding him, his beams and the lights on the dark wall letting him see just a little further ahead. It was kind of like this plan, really—all he needed to see was the next move, and the next. Sure, he’d had it all laid out, with help from his captors in Revelen, but he only focused on one thing at a time. Wrecking the carrier. Then running back to the car. Driving off. And now, getting to the change-out vehicle.
After that … getting the hell out of the hinterlands and back into civilization.
The light ahead was blinding, shining down as the tunnel rose back to rejoin the bridge. The tunnels served their purpose, though; Simmons figured there was a ship passing over his head even now, which was pretty cool. He was no fan of what those ships did to the environment, but he respected their power, their ability to move supplies from point A to point B around the earth. A
nd the fact that a multi-ton cargo ship could be above his head, literally, right now?
It gave him chills. Cool, man.
Simmons ran a hand through his long hair, and up he went with the slope of the tunnel, rising out of the water to rejoin the bridge. Halfway home, he thought, feeling like he’d already kind of won this race. After all, he was going to be rid of this car pretty, soon, before they’d get a chance to catch him and—
Orange glowed just above him, and Simmons squinted. There was a glowing spot. Something was at the entrance to the tunnel, looking down at him …
Something … human?
There was a figure on fire hovering just a few feet above the bridge surface as he emerged into the daylight, noticeable against the blinding sunlight only because of the subtly different shade they were projecting. It was not a daylight color, it was the color of a bonfire, of flames, of—
Sienna Nealon?
That was one of her tricks, covering herself in fire and coming at you, flying. Simmons squinted at the figure who just hovered there, about ten feet off the bridge deck, looking down at the traffic passing harmlessly below. A semi truck honked its horn, and the figure drifted into the other lane, letting the semi pass, albeit slowly because the driver applied the brakes, probably worried something bad would happen.
But nothing bad happened as the truck passed …
Nothing bad happened until the figure looked right at Simmons.
And then lit him up with a ball of fire.
Simmons threw himself from the getaway car by reflex alone, tearing at the door handle and hurling himself from the vehicle. Searing heat passed along his back as he hit pavement and rolled, slamming into the curb and then up, back slamming against the bridge rail. Simmons cringed. That hurt.
He pushed his eyes open and looked up; the flaming figure was still hovering there, and Simmons’s getaway car was burning, traffic slowing to a stop behind him, the honking already beginning. Everyone was keeping their distance, and now there was an ever-widening pocket empty of all traffic in front of his car, no one daring to pass that flaming wreck and come closer to the fiery person who’d brought his escape to a halt.
“Dude. Well,” Simmons said, cringing, looking up at the flaming person—no, it was a man, he realized on further inspection. The height, the way the flames hugged the body—he was a dude all the way, and that at least ruled out Sienna Nealon, thank goodness. “I guess you got me.”
Simmons wasn’t ready to throw in the towel just yet, but he was limited in what he could do against a flyer. Earthquake powers didn’t tend to affect anyone who wasn’t on the ground, after all.
“Get up,” the flaming figure said, his voice heavy with some kind of Russian or Eastern European accent.
“You got it, boss,” Simmons said, putting his hands up as he stood, wobbly, using the bridge rail against his back to support himself. “Hands behind my head?” He’d figured out the score now—this was law enforcement, probably that new FBI meta squad.
“No,” the man said and drew closer. “Your powers … earthquake?”
“Yep,” Simmons said. He didn’t see any reason to say no. It wasn’t like it was a serious question he could lie his way through.
The man came down to the ground slowly, feet landing on the pavement and searing the asphalt as he did so, smoke rushing off them and filling the air with the stink of burning tar. “Put your hands down.”
Simmons just stared at him, then looked behind him, as though seeking advice from the nobody that was there. Well, there were people in the cars, the traffic that was piling up behind them, but … nobody was out of their vehicles. No cops, no civilians … everybody just sitting there.
“What?” Simmons asked, trying to make sure he’d heard the fire-man right. “You want me to put my hands … down?”
“Yes.” The answer was immediate, the voice chock full of confidence.
“You got it,” Simmons said and put his hands down. He tried to think his way through this. He couldn’t exactly do a ton on the bridge with his powers, after all. If he tried, it’d collapse beneath him. “Nice play,” he said to the man on fire.
The fire-man strode toward him calmly and stopped about ten feet away. “And now … we fight.”
He was so matter-of-fact about it that it took Simmons a moment to decode what he’d said. “… Whut?” His head bowed slightly, he looked at the fire-man, and his mouth fell slightly open. “You wanna do what?”
The fire-man lifted a hand, palm-up, and beckoned Simmons forward with all four of his fingers, waggling them toward him. “We fight.”
“Uhmm …” Simmons’s mind was racing. This did not compute. “Dude. You’ve got me dead to rights. I can’t throw flame. I don’t even know if I have the speed to dodge it. You’ve got me, man. I’ll come with you, no questions asked. I’ll do my time.”
“No.” The fire-man shook his head. “We fight.”
“How am I supposed to figh—” Simmons started to say—
—And was interrupted by the fire-man crossing the distance between them and searing him with a punch to the face.
It cracked Simmons’s jaw, made him see stars. The searing of raw nerves across his cheek came screaming into Simmons’s mind as he realized that bastard had hit him. With a flaming punch.
Simmons fell to his knees and watched the fiery figure take a couple steps back. “Get up. We fight.”
“Owww.” Simmons held his jaw. Now his knees were complaining, too, because he’d dropped after that first hit. “I don’t know who you think you are, man, but I’ve got rights—”
“Get up or I will kill you on the ground like a beggar,” the fire-man said, and Simmons looked up at him.
Cold, dead eyes stared back from behind a veil of fire. Black in the midst of an orange, crackling head. It was like looking at a demon.
“Okay, okay,” Simmons said, still cradling his jaw. Man, it hurt. This dude had done a number on him, and not a good number, like four. This was a two hundred or something. He struggled to his feet on wobbly legs. He could feel the blisters already rising on his jaw.
“Now … we fight,” the fire-guy said again, and he came at Simmons, a little slower this time. Simmons put up his hands, but took a punch to the forearm and screamed, falling back as it made contact. He screamed, stumbling away, trying to flee the pain, but it followed him.
And so did the man on fire.
Fire-man hit Simmons in the gut with a flashing punch, doubling him over and giving him fresh burns on his abdomen. All the air rushed out of Simmons’s lungs and was replaced by searing air as he sucked in a half-breath, unable to choke a full one down. He was gasping from the pain and from getting the wind knocked out of him, and Fire-man was just standing there, inches away, the heat so intense Simmons thought he might burst into flames from proximity.
His gut was burning, and Simmons looked down. Angry welts and charred skin showed through a hole in his shirt. “Ohh, man …” Simmons muttered, trying to keep the pain bottled up.
He looked up in time to see another punch coming, and this one laid him out on his back. Simmons’s eyes sprang open and found fire-guy standing over him, merciless, those black eyes just staring down at him. “Get up,” came the command.
“I don’t … think I can …” Simmons moaned. So much pain. He had second and third degree burns on his wrist, his face, his belly … what did this guy expect from him?
“Fight, or you will die,” Fire-man proclaimed. “You have to the count of ten.” That thick Euro accent was like a cloud that hung over his words, and it took Simmons to a two count to realize what he was doing. “… Three … four …”
“Okay,” Simmons croaked, rolling over and grabbing the bridge rail. He used it to lever himself to his feet, back to Fire-guy. What the hell was this? Simmons hadn’t been beaten like this since the time Sienna Nealon had decided to use his jaw for a punching bag.
He was on his feet a few seconds later, and right at the nine coun
t he shoved off the bridge, trying to mimic a boxing stance. That seemed to be what this guy was going for, after all, some kind of battle to the finish. Simmons wasn’t that excited about obliging him, but he didn’t want to die, so he just went along for another round. He would have tapped out if he could, just laid down on the mat if it were up to him, but no, Fire-guy apparently wasn’t cool with surrender.
What was this guy’s problem? A little quiver of fear made its way through Simmons’s legs, and he wobbled even more. There was no way to beat this guy, but … surely he couldn’t actually be serious? He wasn’t actually going to kill him, a defenseless person …
… Was he?
The punches came a little slower this time, but Simmons still couldn’t ward them off. “Come on, man!” Simmons cried as one of the hits glazed his shoulder, sending up a stink of burnt shirt and scorched flesh. He kept from crying only barely, and fire-guy kicked him in the leg, burning his pants at the shin and making him double over. Simmons couldn’t even stop himself; this was MMA-type stuff, which he liked to watch but God, it wasn’t any fun when someone was coming after you with it.
A hard crunch to the back of the neck dropped Simmons face-first to the pavement. Blood coursed out of his lips and nose, and his head rang through the pain of fresh burns on the back of his head. How hot did this guy have to be to burn him so bad with hits that were lasting less than a second?
Hot. Really hot.
Simmons’s chin was against the asphalt, and he could smell it burning where fire-guy was standing over him. “Get to your feet by ten count, or you die,” that cold, inflectionless voice said again.
“O … okay,” Simmons said, drooling and dribbling blood. He tried to cradle up, to pull to all fours, but his body was just overwhelmed. Nothing wanted to move—not his legs, not his arms, and not his head, for damned sure.
Simmons was done.
He wanted to just curl up in a ball and have it be over, but he couldn’t even motivate himself to do that. It was like every part of him had quit at once, and when he heard the countdown, “… six … seven …”
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