He paused, hearing Amanda's voice. “I don't want him to know. He's liable to do something rash."
"Maybe someone should do something rash,” Athena's voice responded.
Ben grinned at hearing that. Wonder who they're talking about. He leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, and listened intently to the rest of the conversation. Amanda told her story in as few words as possible, voice empty of inflection. She may as well been describing a trip to the grocery story.
Her grandfather? Ben could scarcely believe it—but, then again, he hadn't seen his own grandfather in years. He stopped that line of thought. His father and his grandfather—maternal side—hadn't gotten along at all. The old man thought Ben's dad was a stuffed shirt who hid behind religion because he didn't have enough nerve to live in the real world. His father thought his mother's father was a two-bit hustler and obsessive gambler. A sinner from the get-go.
Both had each other's number.
Ben's grandfather had taught him ‘the dip’ when he was just a boy—barely old enough to see over the wheel when his granddad would let him steer the car while he worked the peddles. By the time he was ten Ben could pick nearly anyone's pocket and make it seem completely natural. He never told anyone about it. No reason anyone else needed to know.
He rarely got greedy. A wallet liberated here or there, the money carefully removed, then mailed back to the owner with no one the wiser kept him in drug money through most of junior high and high school. And no one suspected a thing.
He'd learned all sorts of screwy things from the old man. Things no ten year-old kid from a small town in Podunk, Oregon should be learning. How to pick locks, how to spot a card sharp, all sorts of intriguing things most kids would've ran right out to show their buddies.
Not Ben. He never let anyone know what he could do. Until Scorpius. They'd meshed remarkably well. A lot of what the recon Marines did wasn't all that different than the almost legal end of Grandpa Talbot's spectrum. Sneaking, scrounging, evasion. "Spook shit," Scorpius had called it.
"There was a time,” he'd said, "not too long ago, that a single Marine was considered to be the equal of a whole squad of Army grunts ... even Special Forces. We were trained to work covertly, to improvise based on changing circumstances.
"I'm one of the last of that tradition." And now, without ever joining the Marines at all, Ben was the inheritor of it.
Sometimes, he thought, the trick is to be overt, not covert. And I think this is one of those times.
He turned around and walked out of the hospital.
* * * *
The receptionist had already been having a hard day. She'd been on the phone with a canceled appointment for half an hour, trying to convince the guy it hadn't been personal—just one of those things. It had been, but he was a neurotic fuck and wanted to raise hell about it.
She finally got rid of him and the phone rang, coded from the security desk. She answered it but there was no one on the other end of the line. Frowning, she started to stand up—this sort of thing was one of the things they took seriously around here—and the big blonde kid walked through the main office door with a baseball bat over one shoulder.
He flashed her a friendly-looking smile. “Where's the big man's office?” he asked casually.
She blinked at him. “I can't tell you that."
His cobalt eyes went a little flat. “No reason to be a hero. I'm not interested in hurting anyone. I just want to talk to the boss man, Grey."
"You can make an appointment like anyone else,” she said, raising her chin defiantly. She supposed she should have been scared of him, but something about his demeanor suggested that she was in no danger.
Ben took a deep breath, shrugged, and headed around the receptionist desk toward the hallway on the right. She stood as if to intercept but stalled suddenly as his gaze met hers. An atavistic shiver ran through her and tripped herself back into her seat. He vanished around the corner.
She lifted the phone but, for a second, couldn't think of what to do next. Her heart was pounding in her chest. He hadn't frightened her—not really. But something about him had.
Ben didn't just start opening doors. Each of the solid portals were marked with the names of the occupants. He strode past several, searching for the corner one. Bingo! He tried the door handle. It was locked. His lips twisted into a smirk and he spun the knob. It broke free with a muffled crack. He thrust the door open and stepped into a rather large workspace sparsely furnished and made even larger by the huge tinted windows on each side of the corner beam. A sprawling oaken desk dominated the room. In a chair behind the desk sat a wrinkled old man with wisps of silver hair rising in vaporous tufts from the visible pallor of his scalp.
Opposite him, in a chair obviously designed to be uncomfortable, sat a small pudgy fellow with a striped necktie and a bullet-shaped head sticking out of the neck of an ugly blue suit. The pudgy fellow stood and it was fast. Fast like a vampire. Almost. Fast like Rachel Flynn, maybe.
Ben swung the bat. It crashed into Bullet-head's shoulder and hurled him across the room to ‘bong’ off the glass. He dropped to one knee, shook his head, and started to stand. Ben brought the bat down in the middle of the desk. The bat detonated into a shower of dust and slivers. The desk cracked.
He whirled, foot jacking up, then hammering out—catching Bullet-head square in the face. He struck the window crown-first this time. With a terrible cracking sound, a thin line danced across the huge sheet.
"Baraz! No!” The old man slammed his palm down on the desk. It barely made a sound but it might as well have been a whip-crack. Bullet-head—Baraz—jerked himself upright and shot a razored glare at Ben before shifting his attention fully on the man behind the desk.
The glass continue to crack, but slower now. “Who the fuck are you?” asked Thomas Grey, founder, President, and CEO of GreyCorp—Shea Industries’ most successful competitor. He was an ancient, wizened creature, like a withered up old Crypt Keeper, but his eyes burned with a savage light.
Ben reminded himself that this guy was formidable in his own right. Unless he planned on smashing his skull to pieces on the spot, he'd most likely make a dangerous enemy. “Ben Dalmas,” he answered. “I'm a friend of your granddaughter."
Grey steepled his fingers in front of him and pressed them to his lips. The fire in his eyes cooled somewhat. “I presume this is about the incident late last night?"
"Is that what you call it? An incident? You tried to kill her."
"That was a mistake. The employee who fired his weapon has since been terminated."
He didn't mean it as a euphemism for ‘fired.’ Ben didn't care. “Fine. Leave her alone.” He flexed his hands into fists, knuckles cracking loudly in the room's heavy stillness.
"She was my granddaughter long before she was your friend, young man,” Grey responded tightly.
"I don't give a shit. If she wants to talk to you, she'll let you know. Otherwise—I'll be back."
"You may be tough, but I doubt if you're that tough."
"Try me."
"Not now I won't. One more shot to that window will send Baraz and several hundred pounds of glass showering down on Tacoma Ave. I don't want that on my conscience. Do you?"
Ben didn't answer. He met Grey's gaze and held it. “Who says I have a conscience?” he said, without inflection. “I mean what I say."
He shifted his gaze to Baraz. “Don't even think about it. I even smell you coming I'll rip your fucking face off and wear it as a Halloween mask."
He turned and walked out.
Security caught up with him just off the elevator in the lobby. He just tossed them around a little and scooted out the door. He wasn't worried about the cops. Somehow he had the impression that Grey wasn't the kind to want the law involved.
* * * *
An hour later, up on Sixth Avenue, Ben stopped into a coffee shop and bought a bagel and a latte. Caramel. The only kind he drank. He stepped out into the mist and stood in the doorway,
eyes scanning both sides of the street. Thought so. Picked up a tail.
Now—what to do about it? He could lose him, confront him directly, or let him follow for a while. For a moment he wasn't sure which one he'd enjoy the most. So why choose? Let's do all three.
Baraz felt frustrated. He'd taken the boss's cue and trailed the guy as he wandered up and down Sixth Avenue—looking for the same person the girl was last night, maybe?—then, after a few passes up and down the street, his target looked like he was trying to rabbit.
Baraz had done this a time or two. He followed his dodges, slipping through shops and out the back doors. He dropped the act and actively pursued. He wanted to talk to the guy anyway.
Then he was simply gone. Swearing loudly, Baraz found himself on a side street beside a café, leaning against a dumpster and grinding his teeth. “Son of a bitch."
Ben crept up to the edge of the roof. Baraz had both hands stuffed into the pockets of his pea coat, collar pulled tight around his stubby neck. He walked with his head down, as if depressed or deep in thought. Didn't like being ditched? Too bad.
Now he'd turned the tables. He followed Baraz for a considerable distance, keeping mostly to the rooftops until he could move farther back from the road and lurk in the shadows of the micro-mall at the corner of Sprague and Sixth, ducking behind the KFC and using it to disguise his silhouette as he watched the bullet-headed man trot across the street against the light.
He jogged across the road, dodged behind the lube place, and slipped in front of him. He sprinted up to a Laundromat a few blocks ahead and cruised around the back. He slid down the opposite side and waited in the cool darkness.
As Baraz came abreast of him, he lunged out, grabbed him by the collar, and slung him into the building's brick façade. He tumbled free and lay there on the ground a minute, holding his head. “Geez, you bastard. You didn't have to do that."
"Uh-huh. I think I did. Why were you following me?"
"Orders."
"No shit?” Ben crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at him. “Your boss doesn't listen too well, does he? I told him to back the fuck off—"
"—of Amanda ... not you."
"What are you, a fucking lawyer? Don't split hairs with me, asshole. I'm really not in the mood for bullshit."
Baraz rolled himself up onto his knees. “Screw you, buddy. You bust into my boss's office, damn near throw me through the window, threaten both of us, and have the nerve to tell me that you're not in the mood for bullshit?"
"Yeah. So what? Amanda's laying on a hospital bed because of your boss. She could have been killed."
Baraz pushed himself to his feet. He wasn't moving like he was stunned now. He was moving like Ben would have after a similar blow. Easily, muscles loosening by the second, and amazingly free of pain. A meta? Certainly possible, here in Freak City. “But she wasn't. And the situation has been handled."
Handled. Another euphemism? “Yeah. Now I'm handling it. My way. Leave Amanda alone."
"Not my call. Not yours, either.” The other man rolled his shoulders and took a step toward him, almost floating into position.
"You really want to do this?"
"Yep. I really want to do this."
They orbited each other for a few seconds then, just as Ben was getting ready to make his move, two cars seemed to appear from nowhere. Two cop cars. They both hit their lights and one squawked out, “Let's everyone take it easy, all right? Hands on your heads. Right now."
Shit!
* * * *
Amanda set the phone down and clenched her teeth, turning to stare out the recovery room window—overlooking K Street. “Son of a bitch!"
"Trouble?” Breed stood in the doorway, leaning just a little against the left-hand side of the frame.
"Like you don't already know. Ben's been arrested. He apparently marched into my grandfather's office and tried to throw his assistant out the window."
"Assistant, my ass. That's Baraz. He's Grey's dog-robber. His go-to guy. His freakin’ right and left hands."
"So what else you know about him?"
Breed shook her head. “Not a hell of a lot. He showed up a couple of years back—Grey took him on as an assistant to his former Chief of Security. Within six months Baraz had the job. Within a year, they'd hired a new one and Baraz became his second hat. We don't know dick about the guy. We've snooped his prints, came up with zilch. The guy might as well not exist as far as the U.S. government's concerned."
"A man with no past?"
"Not even a parking ticket."
"Maybe he's an import."
"Only possibility left."
"Okay ... so how is he important?"
"He was picked up with Ben—they were about to start brawling there on Sixth Ave.” She pronounced it like most natives, the short vowel sound like ‘Axe,’ except with a ‘v’ at the end. “A couple of uniforms showed up to break it up. The old man's filing charges."
"Shit. Is there anything you can do? He's really not your jurisdiction."
"It's tricky. We can't really go advertising that, now can we? He's not a meta—and won't test as one."
"If he wants out, you guys can't hold him."
"You think I don't know that? Hell, we couldn't hold me. Grey isn't giving us a lot of options. We either have to ‘out’ Ben and turn the whole thing into yet another freak show, make some kind of deal with Grey, or go through the motions and pretend to put him away until we can slip him out of there somehow."
"You've got to be shitting me.” She sat up with a groan. “Damn, that hurts. Where are my clothes?"
"What? You're not going anywhere."
"Wanna watch me? I'm not lying around here like a turkey on an serving tray while Ben—that idiot—takes one for the team."
"Like a turkey on a—"
"Hey, I was stuck for a simile for a sec. So sue me.” She threw her legs over the side of the cot and gingerly lowered herself to the cold tile floor. She started rifling through the drawers, popped open the large cabinet. “Well, hell. They keep your clothes, don't they?"
"Sometimes. Keeps people from doing what you're trying to do."
Amanda craned her neck and looked down her back. “Hey, what's a little ass showing, anyway? Screw my clothes—let's get out of here."
Five
Jaz liked walking Sixth Ave. She knew a lot of the shopkeepers here and, in the late evenings some of the restaurant people would leave food out for her. Sometimes other strays got to it first. Since most were bigger than she was, she let them.
She never stole from anyone who was nice to her. Just the assholes. It was a Rule. Only steal from assholes. Or strangers. Never from someone who trusted you—or liked you—or didn't treat you badly, at least. Everyone else was fair game.
Some of the shopkeepers weren't so nice. One pudgy little mouse-haired lady who looked like she should have been jolly ran one of those new-age type bookstores and about lost her mind every time she saw Jaz anywhere near her shop. And I thought those goddess types were supposed to be nice to everyone.
Unfortunately Jaz didn't have much use for anything out of the bookstore, even if she could've gotten inside to swipe something. Sure, she could read, but she'd rather curl up in some well-lit hole with a Mercedes Lackey book or something like it. Not some silly ass fake spiritual crap. And that's all the woman seemed to carry. Toilet paper with titles on the spine.
The Big Yawn.
Her whole family had been Islamic. Her mother, her uncle, and—presumably—her father, as well. Not that she knew anything about him. But he'd been married to her mother, even though Uncle Abdul had called him a ‘waste of air’ any time he came up in conversation. And that was the kindest thing he had to say about him.
Of course, Uncle Abdul was also a waste of air.
Her mother never commented on her father at all. Only in retrospect did it seem a little weird. When her mother was still around—when that bastard Abdul was still around—she'd been little. Not too
little to miss the big blow-up though.
Her mother had been seeing some guy on the side. The way Jaz figured it, she was entitled. But Uncle Abdul flipped out. Told her that she wasn't going to be whoring around and shaming the family. Her mother had given in without a fight. Jaz, who'd been ten at the time, had thought she was a coward, but, then again, Jaz had been pretty westernized by that point. Uncle Abdul didn't even object to that. He had his reasons. As she knew all too well.
She forced herself to stop thinking about it. Now wasn't the time. She was looking for something to eat. A sharp stabbing pain in her stomach gave her an unnecessary reminder that she hadn't eaten since the night before, since the night manager at the Tacoma Ave Mickey D's tossed a bag of Big Macs out to her.
If it got any worse she'd have to go dumpster diving for something to eat. She groaned at the thought. It wasn't bad enough she had to sleep under bridges and in abandoned and condemned buildings. She had to eat trash, too?
Sometimes, yes.
She didn't like going into the alley, but she was hungry. Sometimes, if you were quick enough, you could get to the better stuff before the rats—human or otherwise—could get to it. It was easier now, with all the goblins out of town. The grapevine said they'd all taken a trip to California, to cash in on some big movie deal.
She should be so lucky.
She crept up to the big green dumpster, sniffing experimentally. It wasn't as bad as it could have been. It was late in the year, and cold. The smell was only mildly nauseating. The black plastic lids were closed. She glanced around, found a stiff piece of cardboard, and pushed one side open.
Suddenly she was weightless. Something had her by the back of her ragged black jacket and she felt like she was flying. Then she was staring down from the roof of the restaurant. She gave a loud shriek and threw herself forward, not caring if she tumbled into the dumpster below. Even if she broke an arm or a leg. Just to get away.
Someone laughed in her ear. Not a warm breath. Cold as a midwinter freeze. “Scared yet?” it asked. “I like it when they're scared."
Freak City Page 6