Cold

by Robert J. Crane

  He did a little half-shrug. “I’m not going to argue to make you feel better. Yeah, you got set up. But at least we got more than we started that little sojourn with. And you didn’t know you were being baited.”

  “I had a feeling,” I said, still limping my way along down the white-tile hallway. “She teed it up perfectly, though, put a time limit on me—‘No, I don’t have a way to contact her outside of work; no, she won’t be back in for days’—I went hook, line and sinker for it, hard. And now I’m going to be walking like an Egyptian or whatever for at least the rest of the night.”

  He squinted at me. “Did you really just go with a Bangles song as your reference?”

  “I don’t know, it’s what came to me,” I said as we reached an open bullpen area. If there was any constant in my life it was that I was forever working in places that had bullpens. Something about the communal office effect seemed to be universal in law enforcement, which was where I spent my working life.

  Burkitt was working at a cubicle, and rose when he saw us coming, doing a hard lean against a cubicle wall so that it bowed slightly from his weight. “Sketch artist is probably going to be a few hours. She’s real thorough.”

  “It’s 7:30,” Holloway said, checking his old-school watch, the leather band snaking around his spray-tanned wrist. “I’m starving.”

  “Agreed,” I said. “Willie’s was good, but if I don’t get something to eat soon, my feet are going to be the least bloody thing in my near proximity. Regenerating the soles of both my feet is going to burn a lot of calories.”

  Burkitt shrugged. “You’ve got time. Takeout and delivery options near here are just so-so. If you want, you could run out and get something. I’ve got your numbers, so if anything breaks loose before then, I can call you.”

  “You don’t want anything?” I asked.

  Burkitt patted his belly, which wasn’t quite visible under his ballooning shirt until he put a hand against it. “I’m down fifteen pounds in the last couple months because I don’t eat after 5 pm. It’s a new diet I’m trying. Working so far.”

  “I’m on a diet where I need lots of red meat and scotch,” Holloway said, clearly unimpressed. He glanced at me. “Steakhouse?”

  “I’m in for the red meat, pass on the scotch,” I said, “but yeah, let’s do it.” I knew he was a scotch guy. I could practically smell it coming out of his pores.

  “I know a good one downtown,” Burkitt said. “I’ll text you the address.” He fiddled with his phone for a second.

  “Shall we?” Holloway asked, making an exaggerated motion toward the hall to the exit, as though I were a princess he was allowing to go first.

  “After you,” I said, and he didn’t stand on ceremony. He went, and I followed a few paces behind, curious as to whether this dinner would go as fabulously as all the rest of my interactions with Holloway. If so, mine was not the only blood that would be shed this night.

  22.

  “You know what the problem is with ‘your type’ of jobs?” Holloway asked after he’d consumed about half his second scotch.

  I just stared at him, not too surprised that in scotch-o veritas had revealed his true feelings about metahumans. It wasn’t like he was the first lawman to consider anyone unlike him to be ‘the other,’ or that he might have some animus against me because I was different than him. My feet were still wrapped in toilet paper and uncomfortably crammed back in my boots so as not to ruin them, and I ignored the low mumble of pain from the nerves in my feet as I sipped from my water. “Gee, I can’t think of a single thing wrong with ‘my type’ of jobs. There are definitely no adverse consequences at all.”

  Holloway laughed into his scotch, sloshing the liquid so that it almost slopped over the rim. We were sitting in an old-fashioned, wood-paneled steakhouse that reeked of mahogany or some other such rich scent. He’d drained his first round within a minute. The server reappeared with another a moment later, not even asking before bringing a refill. Holloway just had that look.

  “Here’s the thing about these jobs that I’ve learned in the last couple months,” Holloway said, as though he were some kind of expert after just that much time spent. Like I hadn’t been doing this for years. “It’s worse than dealing with normal criminals.”

  “You don’t say,” I deadpanned. “I thought dealing with people who can shoot flames out of their hands and control the very elements was bound to be so much easier than your ordinary, garden-variety crook.”

  “You’re being an asshole, and I respect that, being one myself,” he said, scotch back in hand, another quarter of it disappearing down his gullet. “Game recognizes game. But hear me out—your ordinary criminal, when they get cornered, they’ve got two avenues of recourse.” He put the scotch down. “Surrender or pull a gun. Right?”

  “Sure. Or do the hokey-pokey.”

  “Or that,” Holloway said. “But one of your kind—well, the options are nearly limitless. They can still pull a gun—” he gestured to my hip, where my Glock imprinted against my jacket “—or pull from a possible gallery of powers that defies the damned imagination.” He shook his head. “Like this assassin, for instance. If we catch up to her, what can she do?”

  I thought about it a second. “Pull ice out of the air around her and throw it, shoot it. Freeze your skin, blood and bone if she lays a hand on you. Coat her skin in ice armor strong enough to resist bullets and punches—”

  “See, that’s some crazy shit right there,” Holloway said. “These are things which should not be possible in the natural world. You don’t see any animals with that ability.”

  I eyed his drink as he started to raise it up for another sip, which would probably end it. “You don’t see animals with tumblers of scotch, either. Which is just another factor that separates us from them.”

  “It was a hard climb to the top of the food chain,” Holloway agreed, “and it feels like there should be some benefits for us for getting there, you know? Which reminds me, we should expense this meal.”

  I’d seen the menu, and after three scotches—the third arrived again with nary a word said by the server as he dropped it at the table—I had my suspicions that any effort to expense this meal to the FBI was going to involve some element of fraud. The prices weren’t utterly ridiculous, but neither were they anywhere near the per diem we were expected to adhere to as government employees on the job. I just shook my head and returned to the subject at hand rather than pursuing the topic of financial malfeasance on our part. “Metas may have more immediate danger to offer, but ever since this serum came along, it’s a threat that’s part of our world, and we’re going to have to deal with it.”

  “But I don’t have to like it,” Holloway said. “Like crooks with guns. I don’t like that, either. I deal with it, though.” He made a motion of shooting with his finger. “But I wish they’d go away.”

  “Yeah, it’s always a totally great thing when the state has an unchallenged monopoly on force,” I said, nodding. “That never ends badly—except the hundred million people it killed last century.”

  “Oh, you’re one of those,” he said, snorting through his next drink. “Big surprise, you not liking authority.”

  “You love it, though, don’t you?” I asked. “Maybe it’s because I’ve had the boot put on me, but I start to get skeptical when someone tells me that my government can solve my problems.”

  “There’s a chain of command,” Holloway said. “That’s how a civilized society works. We protect the people. That’s why we have authority.”

  “Look, I don’t inherently hate authority,” I said. “I just don’t trust it to avoid being corrupted. I tasted the consequences when a dangerous man turned that power against me, and it cost me two years of my life.” More, if you counted this detour I was currently on. “I think my question to you would be—why do you trust it so much?”

  “I came out of the military,” Holloway said, straightening up in his seat as the server delivered a giant slab of meat
to the table in front of him. He started cutting into it, and there wasn’t even enough pink left to blush my cheeks, the savage. Overcooking his steak—another mark against him in my book. “You learn to obey the orders given, period.”

  “See, I’ve met military guys who came out with a different feel,” I said. “Maybe they got the bad commanding officers or something, but they walked away with an inherent suspicion of authority, and the people who would tell you what to do.”

  “You can’t have no rules,” Holloway said around a big bite of overcooked meat. “That’s chaos.”

  “Hey, I’m no anarchist,” I said. “I’m all for rules and order—but there need to be limits on us, on what we can do if we’re trying to keep that order. Otherwise you’re kissing your freedom goodbye for that order, and you’re basically living under tyranny.” And you came about an inch from it, if not for me, I thought but did not say. The Harmon secret was going to be one that would probably die with me and my friends, since it resulted in the death of the last President of the United States.

  “We protect these peons, okay?” Holloway pointed his fork in a rough circle around us at the other diners, and his voice carried. “They owe us. You think we overreach? I’ve been with the bureau fifteen years now, and I say screw you. You don’t have any idea, Miss I-been-here-six-minutes.”

  “Technically I was with the bureau for five years and change before this. Albeit loosely.”

  “None of that counts in my book,” Holloway said. “You ran your own show back then, you weren’t really part of us. And when they tried to bring you in line, you bolted.” He chewed a stubborn bite. Shouldn’t have cooked it so hard, moron. “I know that’s where you’d rather be right now. With your brother. Freelance law enforcement.” He looked like he wanted to spit right there. Maybe from the overdone steak, I dunno. “Your loyalties were clear before. Seeing what you did to our agents in Revelen, though—”

  I almost did a spit-take with my water. “‘Agents’? That’s what you call that criminal bunch of Suicide Squad wannabes?”

  “They worked for us.” He leaned in, gesticulating with his fork. “They were on our team.”

  “If they were five days out of prison when Chalke sent them after me, I’ll eat your overdone, shoe-leather steak. Which is a crime again decency, by the way.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Holloway’s face was red—like my steak. But much, much less appetizing. “They were on our team.” He sat back, dabbing at the corners of his mouth like he’d left crumbling pieces of burnt meat behind on his lips. “Like you are, now. I didn’t like them, but they were part of the—”

  “Tribe?” I asked, using my knife to very carefully cut off a beautiful piece of pure, red meat with a blackened edge. “They were of your tribe, so you’re mad at me for whooping their asses when they tried to murder me?”

  “They had the lawful authority of the Unites States government behind them,” Holloway said. “Like you do, now. Hope you don’t run into anyone who feels about you the way you did about them. Especially since you were in prison not that long ago.”

  “Not to go all Godwin’s law on you,” I said, cutting another even piece, “but the SS had the lawful authority of Germany behind them when they started rounding up undesirables. Same with any oppressive regime worldwide, whether it’s Stalin’s or Mao’s or Robert Mugabe’s. Lawful authority shouldn’t impress you all on its own. And,” I said, popping the steak into my mouth as Holloway’s face went from red to purple at my vicious comparison, “I kinda expect the people we’re after are not going to come quietly just because I say I’m with the FBI.”

  “Yeah, well,” Holloway said, draining his third scotch, “I guess we see where each of us stands.”

  “Indeed, we do,” I said. “You’re standing in a place where you should have ordered the damned chicken instead of ruining a perfectly amazing cut of meat by scorching it to death like a Gavrikov. I mean, really—what’s the point at that stage of burn? You could be eating cardboard and you wouldn’t notice. Is that the reason for all that scotch?”

  Holloway looked like he was going to blow up, but his phone rang before he could construct a response. He fumbled in his pockets for it, ultimately coming out with it and answering without even asking if he could take it—you know, in the name of politeness. “What, Burkitt?” he almost shouted.

  I could hear Burkitt loud and clear on the other end. “The sketch is done and we’re running it through the database. Get back here ASAP.”

  23.

  Olivia

  “Uh, hi,” I said, not really sure what else to say. I was staring at the black, blurry figure, vibrating a few degrees off normal. I didn’t know the science behind how they did that, but it seemed very much like they were internally spasming their muscles. I wondered—would their abs be sore from this tomorrow?

  “Are you nervous?” the shadow asked, blurry. “You seem nervous.”

  “Ahhhh…” I stared at the blur. “Well, I have to admit—confronting blurry people destroying downtown Vegas is a new experience for me.”

  “I’m not destroying anything,” the blur said, voice a strange kind of harmonic resonance akin to someone speaking through a tuning fork. I couldn’t tell if they were male or female, only that they were human. Presumably. “I’m just making a little mischief.”

  I glanced around Fremont Street somewhat theatrically. “I think this qualifies as more than a ‘little’ mischief. Look at Binion’s.” I pointed. “That place is trashed. Like ‘frat house on the morning after a kegger’ trashed.” I was not speaking from personal experience, having never attended college myself.

  The blur zipped behind me, and I turned to watch them. They weren’t making any aggressive moves toward me, which seemed strange after what they’d just done to Veronika. “Hm.” The blur’s voice went a touch higher, looking around, admiring their handiwork. “This…is nothing, though.” They turned to look at me, and somewhere in the blur I caught a flash of dark eyes. “The convenience stores? Nothing. I could do more, you know.”

  “I’m sure you could,” I said, glancing back to see if Veronika had picked herself up. I couldn’t even see her, just the hole in the wall where she’d vanished. “The question is…do you want to?”

  “Kinda,” the blur said, looking right at me. “You’re a cop, right?”

  “Oh, no, I’m not, uh…exactly, no,” I said, feeling a hot flush up my cheeks. “I’m more of a…contractor.”

  “You’ve got powers?” the blur asked. “Like her?” They pointed in the direction Veronika had flown.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I…yeah.”

  The blur zipped a couple steps more toward me. “What kind of powers?” There seemed to be a genuine curiosity behind the distorted voice. “Cool powers? Like your friend?”

  “Veronika and I aren’t really friends so much as co-workers,” I said, feeling a twisty emotion in my belly like I desperately needed to correct that record lest this heinous criminal think…uh…whatever of me. Why did I care? I didn’t know, but it seemed foolish in that moment. The thought occurred—in my life, how many times had I cared about someone’s opinion when they were just as much a dipstick as this person?

  Politeness, though. Manners. These thoughts kept me talking nicely.

  “Uh huh, uh huh,” the blur seemed to coo, harmonically. “What kind of powers do you have?”

  “Oh…they’re…nothing, really,” I said, waving them off, fake laughing a little for social reasons, maybe? I didn’t even know why I was doing what I was doing. I felt really hot, uncomfortably so.

  “So, they’re not exciting?” The blur let out a hiss of air. “Boring, then. Yeah. I’m bored. Okay, time to go.”

  The blur shot toward me.

  “Wait—” I started to say as they zoomed from zero to a hundred miles per hour in a millisecond.

  I didn’t even get the full word out before the blur reached my personal bubble. It didn’t occur to me until they’d launched into mo
tion that, really, mine was sort of the perfect power to go against this particular villain. Because the moment they reached arm’s length of me—

  The speedster got caught in my personal bubble, their momentum magnified by a factor of ten, a factor of a hundred—

  They orbited around me like they’d been trapped in my own personal gravity well, zipping past, and shot out of it into the air behind me. They shattered through the ceiling of Fremont Street and into the sky, a vague, “AHHHHHHHHHHHHH—!” trailing after them.

  I stood there in the silence for a moment after they’d gone, just staring up at the newly minted hole in the roof. A little tinkling glass forced me to spin around—

  Veronika was pulling herself out of her hole in the wall, blood dripping out of her nose and a few other cuts on her skin. A bruise had already started to form on her forehead, but the look in her eyes was pure murder, both hands already glowing bright blue with searing hot plasma. “All right,” she said, “where is that son of a bitch?”

  I blinked at her a couple times, then pointed at the hole in the ceiling. “But…way past the roof at this point,” I said. “Like…miles away, probably.”

  She slumped back onto her haunches, all that meanness and fight just gone out of her in a second. “Well, good,” she said, the plasma burning off, her hands returning to normal. She mopped the blood trail under her nose, smearing it. “Because I think I need medical attention before we try for round two.” And with that she keeled over backward, dead to the world.

  24.

  Sienna

  “Sitrep,” Holloway said, looking like he was going to keel over as we made our way back into the FBI bullpen. I’d driven as he’d grumbled something about me being an anarchist. I was amazed he was still upright after mainlining three scotches in twenty minutes or so, but he definitely wasn’t functioning on a very high level.