I made a noise to indicate how impressed I was. “Anything else I should be aware of on this road?”
“There’s historical markers all through here,” Chandler said. “Back where we had lunch? That town is loaded with them, because it was the sight of the Battle of Franklin, during the Civil War. This whole area’s been settled for so long, though, practically everything’s got a historical marker.”
“Hm,” I said. “That’s kind of interesting. If you’re into that sort of thing. Which I kinda am.”
Chandler looked down his phone. “Uhm...have you looked at your messages since I gave you back your phone?”
I felt myself deflate slightly. “No.”
“You probably should,” he said. “Mayor Brandt wants to meet with you.”
It took everything I had not to slump my head against the steering wheel while driving. “Tell me she’s not pissed at me, too.”
Chandler shrugged. “I don’t know. I can’t imagine she’s highly enthusiastic that you left the scene of the raid, though, without giving the police a statement or any of the other procedural things.”
“I wasn’t highly enthusiastic about it,” I said, now white-knuckling the wheel.
“Is it my imagination or is your job stress really taking a toll on you?”
“What, do I not still look like a teenager?” I asked as lightly as I could, trying to loosen my grip so I didn’t destroy the BMW by wrecking my ability to steer it while traveling at seventy-five miles per hour. I thumped the wheel with the palm of my hand. “It’s probably not your imagination. I shouldn’t have left the Metro PD holding the bag while I went to...cry in my total lack of beer. Brandt should be pissed at me. She certainly has every right to be.”
“I’ll tell her office that you’re driving and that you’ll call her back,” he said, texting.
I smiled. “Why not just have me call her back now?”
Chandler cringed. “Tennessee has a law against cell phone use while driving unless it’s hands-free.”
“Oh, fine,” I said. “Let’s just stick with practicing safe driving, shall we?”
“Good call,” he said, and we settled into the quiet, the hum of the tires on the freeway a soothing melody all its own.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
Reed
Another fireball shot over my head as the blackened blurring around my vision persisted. This happened sometimes when I exerted myself too hard, pushed myself to dispel a hurricane or push it off course, keep a tornado from touching down—something of that sort. I expected it was like a normal person running ten miles and then engaging in the heaviest weightlifting protocol they could, or running an ultra-marathon.
I was already exhausted when I dodged the first fireball. The fact that more were following, that whoever was shooting them sounded like a wounded animal, well—
It was a bad sign for a guy who was ready for a nap.
I kept deathly quiet, huddled under the burned-out window, back against the warehouse’s concrete block wall. Sirens were blaring in the distance, the sound of fire engines already on their way a hint that help, too, might be on its way.
On the other hand—no. Pitting the Murfreesboro PD against a pissed-off Gavrikov-type was a formula for disaster. A Gavrikov could blow up their cars with them standing right next to them. Could burn down this whole warehouse—
Which begged the question—why hadn’t they?
Another, weaker fireball flew out the window. It was aimed randomly, and petered out almost as soon as it went over my head.
The Gavrikov was weak. A probable explanation formed in my head: I’d caught the bastard in my vacuum of airlessness when I’d put out the fire. Without any air, the Gavrikov had been choked to either brief unconsciousness or as near to it as you can get without passing out. Being a metahuman, it hadn’t killed them, and they’d woken up reallllllly mad. Anger was fueling them, but their strength was now fading.
I could relate. My strength was definitely on the faded side of things. I huddled, waiting for the Gavrikov to finish their little tantrum, which was achieving absolutely nothing except to showcase their weakness.
While another fireball flew overhead, this one smaller than the last two, I tried to decide my course of action. If they got wise, they could still cause a hell of a mess in the warehouse by starting another fire or two. In a way, I’d been lucky they’d woken up mad; it had made them forget their original “Burn it all down!” plan. Which I’d have been hard-pressed to stop in my current condition. My right hand rested, knuckles down, in the dirt beneath the window, in the shadow of the warehouse. My skin was pale from exertion, and I didn’t even feel like standing right now, let alone leaping inside to face off with this guy. Or gal.
So...negotiation, then.
“Hey, look, the cops are on their way,” I called out. “Not sure what you’re trying to accomplish here, but if you make me, I’ll snuff your flames out again.”
No answer.
“I don’t want to choke you out—again—but I will, if I have to,” I said. No fire answered me, and I couldn’t hear them creeping around inside. “No one’s been hurt yet. But if you keep doing this, it’s going to go really badly for you. You’ve already figured out what life on Mars is like once today, right? Don’t make me suck all the air out of there again.” A total bluff. There was zero chance I could do that a second time. It was one thing to send down an F5 tornado, which was just pushing on elements of nature that existed to begin with.
Creating a vacuum zone of airless space where there was damned sure supposed to be air? Talk about doing the impossible. I was so tapped out a well-aimed cricket might have been able to knock me out right then.
“Come on,” I called, leaning against the brick. “Do the right thing.” I deemed there was a better than even chance that this firebug was already making their escape through some other sector of the cavernous Lotsostuff warehouse. There were certainly no shortage of windows and fire exits that were not proximal to me. I could hardly cover them all, especially since I could barely stand. “Dammit,” I whispered when there was no answer.
I flew up, carefully and gingerly, which, surprisingly, was easier than standing. Peering in the window, I found—
Nothing. Scorched boxes, burnt pillars. The remains of a fire and nothing more, a few embers burning weakly among the ashes.
No sign of a Gavrikov. No sign of anybody—
The crunch of a foot made me spin. Someone had stepped on something inside, and I blew myself through the window in stupid haste. Maybe the Gavrikov was as wiped out as I was. Maybe they were almost as powerless to resist as me—
I swept toward the noise on a tornado, hoping my speed and initiative would allow me to take them by surprise, dimly aware that they knew I was here. But haste, haste might be my friend. It certainly beat the hell out of standing outside and letting them fire, uh...fire over my head over and over.
Another crinkle of a footstep sounded, and I blew toward it. They were behind a shelf, and I flew overhead, cutting out the wind as I shot overhead then pushed my hands down toward them and brought with it a gale-wind—
I pushed the shadowy figure down, catching myself only a foot above them. They were trapped in a small vortex, pinned against the warehouse floor, a windy barrier erected around them. I doubted it’d entirely stop a fireball, but it might keep it contained for a few seconds until...well, I didn’t know what. This was not my greatest plan ever, and I chalked it up to the fatigue.
“I’ve got you,” I said, hovering over them. It was a man, that much was clear. In a sweated-through dress shirt and jeans. I’d pinned his body face down against the ground. I stared down at him, then used the wind to give him a gentle flip.
That caused me to raise an eyebrow.
Because I was looking into the contorted, angry face of Logan Mills, the owner of Lotsostuff.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
Sienna
“Anything else?” I asked the Metro Nashvi
lle PD investigator, a lady named Quint. She shook her head, then shook my hand, and off she went, leaving me alone just outside the scene of the trafficker house.
The police cordon was still up, the Metro PD was still working to clear the place of evidence and whatnot, working the scene. No one had seemed all that upset I’d left and come back, probably because I wasn’t really in their jurisdiction. I had a feeling there were some surly voicemails waiting on my phone, but I didn’t dare check that until I’d cleared this mess, which...
Hey, I’d cleared this mess. Lucky me.
The first voicemail was an acidic one from Chalke, which I listened to two seconds of before deleting. I could already tell where it was going, and it was nowhere good. “To hell with this,” I muttered, once again dropping my problems for a later time. Instead, I went looking for Chandler.
I found him chatting in the garage of the sex trafficker house with Captain Parsons, surrounded by cardboard boxes that had been broken open to reveal extra sleeping bags and mass-produced cheap clothes for teenage girls. I suppressed a pang of revulsion and anger as I wandered in. Chandler was deep in a story.
“So he says to me—” Chandler’s tone was animated “—he says—”
“Chandler.”
He turned to face me. “Oh, hey. All done?”
“All done,” I said. “You want a ride back to your car? Or the TBI office?” I shrugged. “Whichever.”
“Yep, Marsh took my car back to the office,” he said, and exchanged a quick handshake with Captain Parsons. “See you soon.”
Once we were in the BMW, Chandler opened his mouth to ask me something, but I cut him off. “Hey, do you have your playlist on your phone?” After hashing over my statement about what happened in the trafficking house—complete with graphic detail about what I saw, all emotion carefully stripped out—I really didn’t feel like talking. But I still felt strangely obligated to get Chandler back to his car, especially since he’d waited for me. Which was weird since I hadn’t made him abandon his ride for a Lyft out to Franklin.
“Oh, sure,” Chandler said, fumbling with his phone, then screwing around with the screen in the middle of the dash between us. A couple minutes later, and the first chords of a ballad started piping through the BMW speakers.
I frowned, screwing my nose up in concentration. “Hey, I know this one.” I took a finger off the wheel and snapped it. “This is ‘Wolves,’ by Garth Brooks.”
“Yes!” Chandler seemed pleased I’d gotten it. “You know it from your mom’s Garth Brooks phase?”
“Yeah.” I listened as Garth’s silky smooth vocals launched into the first verse. “Also...I always liked this one.”
“Well, it’s about the weak getting picked out of the herd by wolves,” Chandler said. “It sounds right up your alley.” He must have caught a look from me, because he backpedaled. “Because you’re strong, I mean. Not because you’re a wolf.”
“I am kind of a wolf,” I said, turning my attention back to the road. The sun was already descending toward the western horizon. “I don’t generally prey on the weak, though.”
“I think you’re more of a sheepdog,” he said, then his lips tightened into a tight pucker. “Maybe I should just stop with the dog analogies.”
I couldn’t keep the amusement out of my voice, nor the slight smile from breaking through on my face. “Are you saying I’m a bad bitch?”
“Yeah, no, that’s not what I—”
“Chill, Chandler. I’m just messing with you. I’m not easily offended. Easily annoyed, yes. Offended, no.”
We settled back as Garth launched into the first chorus. I was pulling onto the freeway, heading around the ring that girded Nashville. Older buildings were passing, and I listened to the music without the benefit/drawback of Chandler talking for a few minutes, and was a little surprised when it wended to its close.
“You know what I like best about that song?” I asked. “It’s reflective of the brutal reality of nature.”
“Do I want to know what you mean by that?” Chandler asked cautiously.
“Probably not, but I’ll tell you anyway—I like that it doesn’t sugarcoat the fact that we don’t all make it through.” I kept my hands settled on the steering wheel as we came to the first split that would take us around to the TBI HQ. The Nashville skyline was visible just to my left, the sun reflecting off some of the glass and steel buildings as it sunk lower and lower in the winter sky.
“Well, that’s glum,” Chandler said.
“But accurate.”
“But...glum. And kind of in opposition to our job. We’re supposed to protect people, after all.”
I chuckled. “No. We’re supposed to do our best to protect people. But you know as well as I do that most of the time—for the serious stuff, anyway—we don’t even get called until the first body has already reached room temp. And that’s if we’re lucky. Lots of times we don’t find out about these things until years later. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll always bust my ass and risk my life to protect people from harm. But reality doesn’t allow it. We don’t watch them every second of their day, for good reason. They’re on their own until some triggering event brings us into their lives. The smarter among them realize that, and ready themselves.”
Chandler’s eyes were wide, and he hesitated. I could tell he was wondering whether he should ask the natural question. Of course he did. “What do the dumber among them think?”
“That there’s such a thing as ‘safety,’” I said. “That they’re entitled somehow to make it through life without getting—I dunno, murdered. Which, hey, that’d be sweet. I am in favor of that concept, but it’s so utopian as to defy reality. There isn’t a guarantee that we or anyone else can make. I kill all the wolves I can, but there are still wolves out there. Still trying to get into the herd. Some see it, some don’t. I wish more did.”
“Wouldn’t that steal the joy out of their lives?” Chandler asked, a little quietly. I guess I’d gotten to him.
“Not many people ask why cops tend to get super grim after years of service,” I said, musing off tangent from what he’d asked. “You know what I mean? The veterans with the dark sense of humor like mine. The ones that have seen, oh, everything?”
“Yeah, I know the type,” he said, keeping his eyes off me.
“You can’t see what we see on days like today and not be awake to the dangers around you,” I said. “I’m not talking about pushers on the corner, or even the addict who needs a fix, lurking in the parking lot watching as you wheel your groceries to your car. I’m talking about the worst of us, the ones that have always preyed on humanity, from the days when we lived in caves until now. They’ll never change, no matter how much we try. In some ways, they only get meaner as we get weaker.”
“I’m really sure I don’t want to know what you mean by us getting ‘weaker.’”
“Our society has snowplowed the biggest problems of humanity out of our way, Chandler,” I said. “Come on. We’ve destroyed so many fundamental challenges of our survival we don’t even remember they were challenges. Our ancestors of fifty years ago wouldn’t be able to believe the world we live in. All the collected knowledge of humanity can be accessed through a piece of plastic and metal in my pocket. If I’m hungry, I can stop at a corner gas station and get a meal that would have been better than anything King Henry VIII ever supped on—”
“I think it might be pushing it to say you can get that at a gas station. Maybe Arby’s.” He looked up at me. “And we still deal with stuff. Loss. Death. Pain. It’s not all sunshine and roses. We have our struggles. Some of us have larger ones than others.”
“On the plus side, nature isn’t as effective at killing us as she used to be,” I said. “But you’re right. My point is just that...whatever. I’m a cranky old lady who’s seen too much shit and listened to too many people complain about things that seem so trivial by comparison. So lacking in a real world understanding like the kind afforded the girls that came out of
that house earlier today.” I shook my head. “They’re going to struggle to trust another human being in our so-called civilized society. And they should, after what they’ve been through, which is what I’d quantify as ‘real shit.’ As opposed to—I don’t know, whatever people are whining about on the internet today.”
“Yeah, I think you got that crabby old lady thing down,” Chandler said, looking down at his phone. “No more Garth Brooks for you, ma’am.”
“Johnny Cash?” I asked.
He snorted. “How about ‘When the Man Comes Around’? Or is that too on the nose?”
I chuckled. “Maybe something a little brighter. Got anything with a little more...I dunno, kick?”
Chandler thought about it for a moment. “Yeah. I know just the thing.”
The blazing tear of a fiddle opened up over the BMW’s speakers, and I listened, sure I’d heard this but not sure what it was exactly.
“‘The Devil Went Down to Georgia,’” Chandler said by way of explanation.
“Talk about on the nose,” I said, as Chandler gave me a funny look. “Going by the opinion of my boss, you’re only one state off.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY
Jules
Everything was nearly ready.
The Ryman looked perfect. Jules had been a little hesitant to hire out this place, specifically, because of the price tag, because the size of the group was going to be small—but hey, he’d leaped out in faith.
And it looked like it was going to pay off.
He’d gotten a surprising level response back from the local criminal underworld. He figured they’d all have taken the invite as him—a low-tier player—trying to aspire beyond his station.
Nope. Apparently the news that Sienna Nealon was hitting criminal hotspots all over Nashville had them worried. The Russians, the Triads, the Eastern European types, the local Mafia, Dixie mafia, the bikers—hell, everyone had fallen over themselves to RSVP to his little soiree. They were scared already, which was good for him. Most of them had even said yes before he’d put down the security deposit. Which was also good, because he didn’t know if he was going to get that back.
Music: Out of the Box 26 (The Girl in the Box Book 36) Page 24