Driven

by Robert J. Crane

  “Mayhem is kinda your signature,” Angel said, staring at the water bottle in her hand. “And a meta with eye beams cutting up cars and blowing up a gas station? Sounds like even more ‘you’ to me.”

  I sighed. “I am so misunderstood. Or maybe just … completely understood, actually.” Taking a long sip of my water, I stared at Angel as she leaned her back against the tree nearest mine. The rustle of branches, of leaves above, provided a nice cover for the distant city noises. We were blocks from 35W, but with my meta hearing I could pick up the noise of the cars passing on the freeway even at this distance.

  Angel was quiet for a few minutes. “So … we just going to lay low here for a while? Until the heat’s off?”

  I restrained a snarky laugh, but I was pretty sure she picked up the mood from the look on my face. “The heat’s never off for me anymore. It’s 24/7 heat. I’m baking to death.”

  She got one of those uncomfortable looks that people put on when you say something to them that they’re not quite prepared to address. If I had to guess, it’s the one that your acquaintances would get if you came up with something in the vein of, “I’ve got cancer.” She clearly didn’t know what to say, finally settling on, “Yeah. I’m sorry about what Harmon did to you.”

  “Even Harmon was sorry about what he did to me by the end,” I said, rubbing my head against the rough bark and feeling it against the strands of my hair. “But that’s probably a discussion for … well, never. And only tangentially applicable to what we’re dealing with here.” I let my eyes wander over the burnt ruin of my childhood home. It had been put to the torch the same night I ended up on the run. That had been a rough week.

  “You, uh … “ Angel searched for the thing to say, presumably something that’d make me feel better. I wished her luck with that. “I guess it probably gets old after a while, being on the run.”

  “Yeah, it got old after about five minutes,” I said. “Now? Almost two years later?” I let out a slow breath, and with it seemed to go all my energy for the fight. “I am so over it. I am sick of running, always running. Probably as sick of it as the FBI is of chasing me.” That thought elicited a smile. “I hear they have a tip center going, and that they get calls every hour of the day. It goes up after a sighting, you know—when I’ve just been seen on the news, like in January when I showed in Minneapolis to fight that Predator guy? They get inundated for a week or so after that and end up chasing down all the leads. Which are mostly shit, or cold, because I’m always frigging gone by the time they show up.”

  “Sounds like a thankless job.”

  I almost laughed again. “Yeah. I hear they gave it to a guy I hate.” She looked at me, curious. “There was this FBI agent named Li up here who hated me since before we even met. He arrested me back during the war, when I was coming back from London. We had to work together for a while, and, uh … I guess he never dropped the grudge and learned to love me for the adorable minx I am.”

  “Oh?” Angel asked. “What’d you do to him?”

  “Nothing, really,” I said, “unless Rose took the memory from me. He was college roommates with my first boyfriend, the one Old Man Winter made me—” And I held out my hands, pressing them against an imaginary person and making some kind of agonized zombie face to express my power in creative mime. “He blamed me for Zack’s death. More than Zack did, in fact.”

  “It was interesting to me the first time you started talking about dead people that were in your head as though they were still alive.”

  “They were alive,” I said. “To me. Up until Rose … “ I went quiet for a minute. It still stung, though not as much as it had before Japan. A measure of peace had come in the wake of watching what happened when you let the pain of the past eat you alive, or maybe just wear your skin like a cloak.

  “You’ve led an interesting life,” Angel said.

  “More than I remember now,” I said. “So … your tangled tale of past Cartel woe?”

  Angel just sort of stared at me. “Oh. Right.” A look of vague discomfort came over her, and she stared at the water bottle again.

  “Yeah. That.”

  She nodded after a little pause. “Okay. Yes. But … quick question. What do we do after that?”

  I looked around my old back yard. We were talking meta-low, and there was no real noise from the neighborhood, other than the occasional, random sound of someone walking by or taking out the trash. It was quiet, strangely peaceful …

  And still tense. Because I was hiding in my old backyard, on the run from the law, and figuring out my next move to both dodge the cops and get back on the case.

  “I think we go car shopping next,” I said, “but first … tell me how you clashed with the Cartel … because I think, based on the fact we have two supervillains drawn into this mess now … that whatever happened, it must be kinda important.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Reed

  Iwas in the middle of watching the movie Brawl on Cell Block 99 with Isabella when the call came in. I recognized the number and groaned internally before answering. Isabella paused the movie, and I stood, pacing away from our comfortable couch so I could take my uncomfortable call. “This is Treston,” I said, my shoes clicking against the tile as I walked into the kitchen. Not so much to keep my conversation private from my girlfriend as to not bombard her with it if it got heated.

  And sometimes, with this clown … it got heated.

  “Minneapolis police are reporting a metahuman incident in South Minneapolis,” came the restrained voice of Agent Li of the FBI. He always seemed like he was about two seconds from losing it on me, and part of me wondered if that was a function of the fact he didn’t really like me and was stuck working with me on his bosses’ orders, or if he was just like that with everyone.

  “Okay,” I said, taking his lead and skipping over pleasantries like, “Hey, how are you doing? Having a good night?” and going right to business. “Do you want me to deploy a team?”

  “Not yet,” Li said. “I’ve got a description of the suspects here. Two females, age 20-30, one Latina with brown hair and highlights, one pale with blue hair and facial tattoos. The pale one is apparently around 5’ 4”, 5’ 5”, and spoke to our witness in an incredibly sarcastic manner even as she was fleeing for her life from two people with superpowers chasing her.”

  My pulse fluttered a little as I listened to that description. Angel and Sienna, I had a feeling. “Huh,” I said. “New players?”

  Li took a second longer to answer, which told me he was probably composing himself. “Sounds more like an old player to me. And the description of the Latina makes me think of your gal Angel.”

  “Pretty sure she’d take umbrage to you callin’ her ‘my gal,’” I said, “as would my girlfriend.”

  “Uh huh,” Li said, smug as ever. “So you don’t know the blue-haired girl with the tattoos and the attitude problem who acts like a smartass under pressure?”

  “No, but she sounds like my kind of person.”

  “She tossed an improvised bomb and blew up a gas station. That your kind of person?”

  “If she was on the run from superior powered people and thought to do that to save her life and the lives of others? Yeah,” I said. “Sounds like my kind of person.”

  “Yeah. Sounds like it to me, too,” and boy did he manage to make that sound like a terrible thing. “If this is her … you know I’m going to get her.”

  He was laying his cards out on the table, so I turned over a few myself. “I’m sure that’s what you tell yourself, but I gotta ask—after like two years of having her at number one on the most wanted list and having her juke you at every turn … how do you maintain such blind faith in your own awesomeness? Because—damn, Li, that is some top-notch arrogance you are toting around, and your results just don’t justify it—”

  “For a lot of that time she was being hunted by your boy Scott,” Li was starting to lose his restraint now, a steely edge present in his tone, “who I
think we both know wasn’t giving us his best effort.”

  “Okay, well, assuming you’re right, that’s about six months of it. What have you been doing for the last year since they put you in charge, big man?” Now I was just having fun.

  “Watching her trot the globe, just outside my reach. Scotland, the Gulf Coast, Minneapolis, Japan—we’re only a few steps behind her and catching up fast.”

  “Yeah, you’re really running,” I said dryly. “I mean, if you’re right, she showed up less than half an hour from your office tonight, and you still didn’t apprehend her. You are so totally on target with this one. Did you know she has a lifespan of like, five thousand years?”

  Li’s voice tightened. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Only a little. You want to hear my theory?” Dead silence. I assumed assent. “See, I think it’s going to go like this—she’s going to evade you for the rest of your life. Not hers, yours. And when you’re dead, and everyone else who’s chasing her is dead, she’s probably just going to stop running at that point and live her life like a normal person. Because why wouldn’t she?”

  Li’s teeth sounded like they were grinding across the open line between us. “I’m going to get her.”

  “Only if she lets you,” I said. “And from where I’m sitting? Looks like she’ll outrun you forever. Let me know if you need me to send a team for any of these … meta problems … you’re having. I gotta go finish watching my movie.” And I hung up, because politeness was out the window with this tool.

  “Was that the FBI?” Isabella asked me as I returned to the living room and lowered myself slowly beside her. My pulse was hammering, and I didn’t trust myself not to accidentally sling my body onto the couch and bust it with my meta-strength-propelled ass.

  “Yeah,” I said tautly. “Got a meta incident in Minneapolis we might need to help with.”

  Except I wasn’t going to help. If this dickweed sent me a request, I’d file it right next to the ad circulars that kept being deposited in my mailbox—in the garbage. Hell if I’d have any part in helping the FBI to catch my own sister.

  “It sounded a lot more heated than some normal meta capture,” Isabella said, watching me.

  I forced a smile. “It’s nothing. Really. Just Li being Li.”

  “You sure?” She was still watching me, and I didn’t think she bought it, but she was apparently not in the mood to call me out about it.

  “Let’s just watch the movie,” I said, and she started it again, settling back against my side. It was a good flick, but I missed most of the rest of it, caught up in my own thoughts of what kind of trouble must have come her way to possess Angel to link up with my fugitive sister—and then proceed to get into all manner of crap right here in Minneapolis.

  Where the FBI was watching for her.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Sienna

  “Well … that’s interesting,” I said as Angel wrapped up her tale of intrigue. “A couple nice twists that kept me guessing.” I looked around the darkened backyard, our only light creeping over the fence in thin shafts from my former neighbors’ porch lights.

  “And the ending?” Angel asked.

  That question caused a little bile to rise in the back of my throat, and not just because I hadn’t eaten in hours. “Sounds like a refrain in a song I’ve heard about a million times.”

  Angel chose, wisely, not to comment on that. “So … now you know. What next?”

  I rose slowly, weariness closing in on me, telling me to sleep, while residual adrenaline from our recent sneak pushed back and kept me wanting to go on. “We need a car, so … that’s probably next priority. Then …” I shrugged, then slung the big bag over my shoulder. I’d changed wigs and clothes while Angel had talked, so now I was neon-green-haired, still sporting the facial tattoos, though I suspected they were aging to the point where I was going to have to wipe them off soon. I’d need to clean my face before they started to smudge too bad, or they’d be less a disguise and more a giant flag arousing suspicion everywhere I went. “I don’t know what then.”

  “We need to find Miranda,” Angel said, getting to her feet and dusting off her jeans. Her look was serious and bespoke her concern for her cousin. “Whether she’s laying low on her own or in the hands of those cartel jokers—”

  “I agree,” I said, holding up my hands in a posture of submission to her point. “But we’re not going to find her without a car unless she’s lurking very nearby, because I dunno about you, but I’m kinda tired of running. Literally, in this case. That backyard sneak sucked. I want air conditioning and some tunes.”

  Angel nodded. “Okay. Where do we get a car?”

  I thought that one over. “Probably steal one from the neighborhood, right? I mean, it’s either that or find a car lot, and I’m all about the simplicity in this case.” I shuffled uncomfortably. “I mean, it sucks for whichever of my neighbors it happens to, but …”

  Angel broke into a grin. “Remember that guy a few streets back that was going to call the cops?”

  I was picking up what she was laying down. “Oh, yeah. The guy who freaked out when you set off his light.”

  Angel’s grin did not fade. “He had a nice Mazda parked out on the driveway. Looked well taken care of, not a new model. Easy to jack.”

  “I like this plan because it includes nominal revenge on someone who was kinda being a dick,” I said.

  “I knew you would,” she said. “You remember how to get back there?”

  “Oh, yeah. It’s not far.” I matched her grin. “Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Mazda drove pretty smooth. We’d lifted it without any trouble, the only issue being the driveway light that clicked on Angel as she did her work of unlocking the car with a little flat tool she carried. I didn’t ask her why she had a carjacker’s tool and she didn’t offer to tell me, mainly because I was watching from across the street. She picked me up a couple minutes later, after she got the ignition going, and off we went, not a sign of Mr. I’m Calling the Cops as we drove off.

  “Where to?” she asked as we approached the 35W interchange. North would take us to Minneapolis. South would bring us down to Bloomington, the largest suburb in the metro. South would also take us to MN Highway 62, a nice east/west cutover that could bring us to St. Paul or Eden Prairie, respectively, and if we kept going south eventually we’d hit the road that ringed the entire south side of the Twin Cities, Interstate 494. Technically, it ringed the entire Twin Cities, but the north half of the loop was designated 694, presumably to avoid confusion. Which I don’t think was successful, because I just had to explain that, obvs.

  I pondered my reply. “I dunno. Where would Miranda go if she were in trouble?”

  Angel kept her eyes nailed to the road, street lights shining down, the Mazda’s headlights cutting through the darkness in the places where the street lamps didn’t quite do the trick. “I don’t know. When we were still in Houston, we had a plan in case the Cartel came calling. But … you know, time and distance from the threat makes it start to seem … “

  “Unreal,” I said. “And preparation fades.”

  “We were on new ground here,” Angel said, shaking her head even as she watched the road. “It just … seemed like it was in the past.”

  “If only,” I said. “That’s the problem with the past. It keeps coming back to haunt, you know?”

  “Starting to see that, yeah,” she said, and looked at the dashboard. “Looks like Mr. Call the Cops didn’t believe in keeping a half tank for emergencies. We’re on empty.” She pointed at the gas gauge.

  “Figures,” I said. “Histrionic about some lady crossing his yard, unconcerned when it comes to being sure he’s prepared for an emergency. There’s a station up ahead, on the other side of the interchange. We can pull in and fuel up. I’ve got cash.”

  Angel nodded and did just that, signaling her turn and pulling up to one of the pumps. “Let’s hope this doesn’
t turn out like the last gas station we visited,” she said, and waved me off when I offered her money. “I’ve got my wallet, we’re good.”

  “I’ll wait in the car and try not to spark anything up,” I said as she got out.

  “Hah,” she said without any actual mirth, slamming the door shut. I couldn’t blame her for being a little touchy; that had been a pretty big boom I’d made. Not top five, probably, but maybe top ten. Definitely top twenty.

  Damn, I made a lot of explosions. Less than when I could throw fire out of my fingertips, but … still. Lots of booms.

  Angel was pumping gas when someone came popping up next to us in a Honda that had been lowered to the point where I was pretty sure a centimeter of snow would cause the front bumper to act as a plow. I had no idea how this guy was driving without sparking everywhere he went, but somehow he was managing. He got out next to me, dressed all in a grey suit with a dress shirt beneath it that was pink as bubblegum. It shouldn’t have worked, but it kinda did, and I might have mentioned that to him if I’d had my door open and wanted to draw attention to myself. He got about the business of fueling up his car, and I watched him out of the corner of my eye while I waited for Angel to finish up.

  I heard our pump stop, and Angel started to put the nozzle back where it belonged. I was listening while I was thinking, and simultaneously watching the guy next to us, just in case he decided to go nuts or reveal himself as an agent of the enemy somehow. Crazier things had happened, though I rated that risk pretty low after watching him for a minute.

  An alert dinged on his phone, and he reached into his coat to pull it out while his pump continued to run. I paid a little closer attention, even though this was a pretty normal state of affairs. I’d been to places where they didn’t let you set your pump to run, they made you sit there and pump it yourself the whole time. Barbaric. Also a waste of time. Not quite as bad as Oregon, with their whole, “You’re an idiot and clearly not capable of pumping your own gas, morons!” ethos, but still … barbaric.