It could actually be important though, I thought, and I answered.
“Is this Daystar?” a man’s voice said on the other end of the phone. Vaguely familiar.
“Yes. Who is this?”
“How are your ribs?”
There was silence for a few moments, when it clicked. Dr. Death. That slight accent, the smooth tone.
“How did you get this number?”
“Oh, a little Virus bird told me.” Damian. Fuck.
“So what do you want?”
“I think you can guess what I want. I want my associates released from your custody. And I want a sample of your blood for my little pet project.”
I laughed at him.
“I assure you I am not joking. You have until four o’clock tomorrow afternoon to return my associates, and one of them will have a vial of your blood.”
“Yeah? And if I don’t?”
“You won’t be happy with what happens next. Four o’clock, Daystar. Not a moment longer.” And with that, the call came to an end.
I sprang out of bed and carried my phone down to David’s lab. He was, as always, hunched over his keyboard. Jenson sat in a chair beside him, looking at her tablet.
“Hey,” I said, and they both looked up.
“What’s up?” Jenson asked, studying my face. “Something happened.”
“Dr. Death just called me at this number. Said he got the number from Damian.”
“What did he want?” David asked, taking my phone.
I relayed his demands to them, and they both said that he must be crazy. Which was obvious. “Can you trace it or anything?” I asked David.
He was already poking around in the settings of my phone. “You really should start using your official phone. We have all kinds of tracking and other stuff set up on those. Yours is pretty locked down and the tracker we install on the official phones isn’t here.” I didn’t bother mentioning that I knew the official phones had all that shit on them, which was why I didn’t use them. I figured that calling my fence from an official StrikeForce phone might just be the kind of thing that would piss her off.
“So you can’t?” I asked him, and he shook his head.
“What do you think he meant? About what will happen?” I asked.
David shrugged. “Knowing Dr. Death, he’ll try to turn more innocent people into super powered freaks. We’ll increase patrols throughout the city tomorrow, especially after four, so we’ll be ready. I mean… you’re not considering trying to meet his demands, are you?”
“Oh, hell no. I mean, does he seriously think I’d do either of the things he wanted?”
Jenson had been quiet for the entire conversation, and I looked at her. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Other than the obvious, I mean.”
She shook her head. “That demand. Coming to you directly with it. He could have brought it to Portia as our team leader. He could have called it in to any of us. And it’s so ridiculous… he has to know you’d never comply with it.”
I shrugged. “He’s a super villain. I think we can assume he’s nuts.”
She furrowed her brow and shook her head again. “It just kind of reeks of desperation. I wonder if there’s something going on. Something we’re not seeing. I mean, why the rush now?”
“Probably just got tired of waiting,” David said. “You know how these villain assholes are. They make demands. I’m pretty sure it’s part of the villain handbook or something, right after ‘how to deliver a villainous monologue.’”
“Yeah. He usually keeps a pretty low profile, though. Contacting us directly isn’t really his style,” Jenson said.
I shook my head. “Well. I’ll go fill Portia in,” I said. “I really wish we would have gotten this asshole last time.”
“Next time,” David reassured me. “We’ll get him next time. Which will probably be tomorrow, I guess.”
“Great. Let’s just hope he doesn’t manage to harm too many people before we manage it.”
“Stop, Jolene,” Jenson said.
“What?”
“Blaming yourself for not getting him before,” she said. “That’s on us, not you. And David’s right. We’ll get him this time, lock him up, and throw away the key.”
I nodded, then waved at the two of them and left, heading up to Portia’s office on the top floor. By the time I’d filled her in with all of the details and gotten her agreement that we should increase patrols, everyone on duty, it was into the wee hours of the morning and I felt dead on my feet.
Chapter Twelve
At our morning meeting, Portia filled the entire team in on Dr. Death’s phone call and his demands, as well as his threat. She went over the plan, to have everyone on the street around four to ensure that if he did pull anything like what he’d pulled before in Midtown, we’d be able to act on it quickly. The team was quiet. I knew each of us was thinking of the last time. Of almost three dozen still, lifeless bodies on the street near the art museum. Of the beating we’d taken afterward. Caine spoke up first.
“Somebody should be with Jolene all day.”
“I think I’m safe,” I said.
He shook his head. “This doesn’t strike anyone else as weirdly personal? Why go to Jolene with this?”
“Exactly what I said,” Jenson said.
“Because it’s her blood he wants for his stupid little injection project. We know that already from the files David cracked,” Portia said.
“For that, whatever. But why go to her about the prisoners? She’s not in charge here. She has no authority to set anyone free.”
“Well, she’s done it before,” Chance said. We all looked at her, surprised. She rarely talks, and it’s pretty easy to forget that she’s even there. “I mean… when Alpha was holding Amy and the others,” she added, then looked down and away.
“Yeah, but he doesn’t know that,” Caine said.
“Unless one of the people who decided to leave went to Dr. Death,” David said.
“That electro bitch. I knew we should have kept here here,” Monica said. “She hated you,” she told me.
“Thanks, Monica.”
She flipped me the bird, grinning. I shook my head and continued listening to Caine and Portia argue about how it should all be handled.
“I think Portia’s instructions are best,” I said. “Sticking me with someone all day long will just be an extra burden. Plus, I’ll be on patrol with Jenson and David after four, right, for the increased patrols? And I’m around here all day monitoring shit. I’m the least of our worries right now.”
“Agreed,” Portia said, and that closed the matter. We split, each of us going to deal with our assigned tasks.
I spent the day monitoring traffic cameras, social media feeds, anything that would alert us to something weird happening. We never bothered with traditional media for that kind of thing. They were always about a day behind what people managed to catch with their phones. In general, it seemed quiet.
I tried not to think about what might happen. We’d spent a good part of the day trying, again, to get Death’s buddies in the prison wing to tell us where he was. Or, I should say, Portia and Amy tried. I urged them to let me in to talk to them, but neither of them trusted me once things got frustrating. And they always got frustrating with Death’s crew.
As the clock inched closer to four o’clock, I started getting more and more tense. My stomach was a tight knot of stress.
At ten to four, Jenson and David came into the command meeting room. “Ready to patrol, Jolene?” Jenson asked.
I shook my head. “Go ahead, I’ll meet up with you. I want to keep an eye on things for a couple more minutes. Maybe it was a bluff.”
“Okay. We’ve got Wayne State and Midtown,” David said, and I nodded and turned back to the screen.
The alarm on my phone beeped at four o’clock. I clicked it off and kept my eyes glued to the monitors. Seconds later, my phone rang. Not the regular voice phone, though. The video chat app. Unknown source.
I took a deep breath and hit the “accept call” button. Death appeared on the screen. He seemed to be inside. I couldn’t tell where.
“I did warn you, Daystar,” he said calmly. “All you had to do was comply. This is your fault. This is what your foolish bravado earns you.”
“What?”
“Tell me. Do you know this woman?” Death asked, and then he pulled the phone back so I could see more of the background. It looked like a hospital. Clean white floors. And there, at the reception desk, wearing her usual pink scrubs, was Mama.
“Don’t even think about it,” I said, jumping up.
“Oh, my dear. I was having coffee and a chat with your darling mother at four o’clock. It appears… something awful made it into her coffee.”
At that moment, my mother fell over, and I could see bloody foam at her mouth. I screamed, and then I ran up the flight of stairs to the flight deck and took off.
“I did warn you,” Death said again, and then the call ended.
I flew faster. She worked at Detroit Receiving, which wasn’t too far from us. I don’t think I’ve ever flown so fast in my life. If she had to get poisoned, a hospital was the place for it to happen. They’d pump her stomach and she’d be fine.
That’s what I told myself as I flew, as I landed outside the hospital.
As I barely noted the crowd of doctors and other hospital staff in the lobby, the crush of bodies, the sirens. In the middle of it all, Mama lay on the floor, that awful pinkish-red foam covering her chin. I shoved someone aside and knelt next to her. A doctor was kneeling over her on the other side.
“Can you pump her stomach? You can save her, right?” I asked him. He looked at me in surprise. He was a young doctor, A glance at his badge showed the name Dr. Gupta, M.D., OB.
“She is gone,” he said softly.
“That’s not possible. This just happened. She ingested something,” I said. I knew my voice was getting louder, more desperate.
“She’s— ”
“Try something!” I shouted, and he stared at me.
He told one of the nurses to bring him some things. I stood up and watched as he and two nurses, both with red, tearful eyes, worked on Mama. After a few minutes, he waved them off and looked up at me.
“I am sorry, Daystar. I can’t do anything for her.”
I barely heard him. I stared at Mama.
“I know her daughter,” I said numbly.
“She should be told,” he said, and I nodded, unable to take my eyes off of her.
I forced myself to stand, and then I walked out on shaking legs and took off into the sky. I landed on the roof of a nearby office building and emptied my stomach, falling to my knees as my stomach heaved and my nose ran and I cried harder than I ever thought it was possible to cry. And then I screamed, long, and loud, and even to me, to what was left in me, I sounded like a wounded animal of some kind, screeching my agony over the streets and the blissfully clueless people who traveled them.
I stayed on my knees, that final image of my mother all I could see.
And then it was replaced by another image. Dr. Death’s calm, snide face as I watched my mother take her last breaths.
I got up and flew toward Command. I would get some answers. And I didn’t care anymore what it took to get them.
Part Two
Wrath
Chapter Thirteen
I arrived at Command and walked through the flight bay entrance without acknowledging any of the people I passed. I maintained my stony silence down the elevator, through the lobby, and into the prison wing. I stormed through the men’s wing. I knew Maddoc wouldn’t know anything. No, Daemon had always been the one who’d seemed closest to Dr. Death. I let myself into his cell, and he sat in his chair, watching me.
I didn’t say anything for a few moments, not wanting him to hear my voice shake. Not wanting to cry. Not now. I swallowed.
“You are going to get one chance here. Just one, and if you don’t answer, the pain will start. Don’t fuck with me because I’m really not in the mood.”
He didn’t say anything, just sat there watching me.
“Where can I find Dr. Death?”
“Ugh, this again,” he said, shaking his head. “Don’t you people ever come up with any original material?”
I waited a beat, and then I sent an energy punch at his face. His head rocked back into the headrest, and I heard his nose crunch. I watched as he shouted in pain, as blood gushed down his face.
“Let’s try that again. Where can I find Dr. Death?”
“Fuck you,” he shouted.
“Wrong answer.” I sent another punch at him, this time an uppercut to his jaw. His head snapped back sharply, and I heard his teeth snap together. He shouted, then moaned in agony.
“Where can I find Dr. Death?”
“I don’t know!”
I took a breath, and hit him again.
“Are you scared yet?” I asked him, echoing the words he’d said to me when we’d first brought him in, smug little snot. “Because you should be.”
His eyes were wide, his face a mask of rage and pain.
“Where can I find— ”
“He has an apartment downtown! In the Westin building on Shelby. Jesus Christ, lady,” he begged.
“What is the apartment number? What floor?”
“Penthouse,” he said.
Just then, Portia and Jenson hurried into the room, asking me in loud tones what the hell was going on.
“Keep your fucking mouth shut now,” I told him. I shoved past my teammates and stormed through the hallways to the nearest flight bay, and I took off toward Shelby.
Movement. Action. It would keep me from falling apart. I could do that later. Or not. All that mattered now is getting vengeance for my mother’s death.
I thought of her house, nearly perfect, sitting there empty, and I almost lost it. I forced the thought back and brought my focus back where it needed to be.
Vengeance.
Payback.
The Westin came into view. The penthouse had two large balconies, one looking out over the river, one looking toward the skyscrapers downtown. I landed on the balcony near the river and sent a blast of power at the French doors. They shattered, blowing inward with the impact.
I just caught sight of Death running down a hallway, and I stormed after him. I shoved my way through the closed doorway at the end of the hall, and I heard a gun start firing, over and over agin. Some automatic bullshit. I felt several impacts, but kept stalking forward, trusting that my body armor would do its job. And he wasn’t a very good shot. He was shouting, screaming. Begging.
I hated him more for that. My mother never would have stooped to begging. I stepped forward and grabbed him by the front of the throat. “Time to come out and play, doctor,” I snarled.
He held up his other hand, the one not holding a gun, and blew something into my face. I was distracted by the acrid odor, the way my eyes started stinging, and it was enough for him to wrench his way free of my grip. I quickly turned on my mask’s air filtering components and tried to catch my breath. Whatever it had been, it was nasty shit. I swore I could feel my throat closing up, and every breath brought a stinging pain in my nose and throat. My eyes continued to water as I stumbled out of the room and down the hallway back toward the living room. He had his phone in his hand, in the middle of dialing.
“What the hell are you?” he muttered, shoving it back in his pocket. He picked up another gun, and as he started shooting at me I had to wonder how many of them he had stashed around the place. This one was bigger, stronger, and each bullet that hit my body armor threw me back a little bit.
Not enough to stop me, but still. And I knew I’d be bruised to hell.
I punched out toward him, and the gun went flying from his hands.
“Poison? Guns? That’s all you’ve got?”
“The poison is my power, you crazy bitch. And you’re supposed to be as dead as your mother right now
,” he snarled. He tried to run, and I punched at him again and he went flying into the dark mahogany book cases at the end of the room. He slumped to the floor and groaned. I walked across the room and picked him up by the front of the throat, lifting him high into the air.
And then I started walking.
“Put me down. Stop. Help!” he shouted, and I rolled my eyes as I moved toward the windows. “Please, for the love of god just stop,” he begged, sounding every bit like the slime ball he was. I wordlessly carried him through the living room, to the windows. And then I threw him, the sound of shattering glass punctuated by his terrified screams as he started falling fifty-some stories.
I jumped through after him and flew, catching him about halfway down.
“Do you really think you’re getting off that easily?” I asked, and he begged some more.
I tried to think of where I could stash him while I dealt with Mama’s funeral arrangements. Wayne State’s campus caught my eye, and I had an idea. I flew him toward the freeway, toward the off-ramp, to the row of rundown houses that still stood there. At the end of the block stood the charred remains of the house Darla, my little firestarter friend, had once lived in. I swung around, then landed in one of the barren, empty lots behind it. I clamped a hand over Death’s mouth and shoved him, hard, into the gaping back door of the house. He tried to scurry away from me, and I kicked him hard in the ribs. He tried to get up again, and I tossed power at him, catching his ribs again. He landed with an “oof” and a pained groan.
“How are your ribs?” I mimicked, throwing his snide words after I’d nearly had him near the waterfront back at him. He stayed down while I rifled through the pouches on my belt. An emergency dampener, which was barebones — it dampened but didn’t track, which was perfect. I didn’t want anyone else finding him yet. I activated it, then pulled out a roll of heavy duty tape and placed three strong pieces over his mouth. I tied his ankles together with some thin but very strong rope we kept on hand, and then I used the electro cuffs we usually used to secure prisoners for transport. I pulled his hands behind his back, around a sturdy steel pillar, then I secured the cuffs.
One More Day (StrikeForce Book 2) Page 15