Masks (Out of the Box Book 9)

by Robert J. Crane

  “Those cannot be good for your hips. Or your skin,” Kat said. “Think of the grease!”

  I ignored her. “So that’s my plan. Who’s next?”

  28.

  After my conference call concluded, I typed up a basic report on my tablet with my assessment of the likelihood for conflict between Captain Frost and Gravity Gal. Frost could have been lying, but I doubted he was really into making this feud a thing, and Jamie—err, the Gal in question—seemed to have enough on her plate already without starting something with her crosstown hero rival. I put all this into my report, plus additional lines which were mostly padding (to really earn my pay, you know) and ass-covering (because it was for a government agency, duh) and then emailed it all to Welch and packed my crap. I figured I’d drop into the precinct in person after it had marinated in his inbox for an hour or so, just to let him know I considered this case nice and closed, and he could save that steady trickle of money he was sending my way for a real emergency. It wasn’t like the NYPD had all the money in the world, after all. As much as I liked earning my keep, this felt like a waste of their resources, and I was fully prepared to tell Lieutenant Welch so.

  I rode the elevator down to the lobby, admiring the fact that I’d made it through another case without inflicting physical violence on anyone. It felt like a personal victory, if nothing else, and as I stepped out into a light, still-sunny rain, I counted my blessings that I was getting out while the getting was good, because the thought of entering into conflict with Scott made me a little queasy. I was fully assured of my status as a preeminent badass, but I was under no illusions about what would happen if I got into a battle of wills with the Federal Government—they’d make it their mission to make an example of me, because law and order only works if you don’t allow big honking exceptions to wander your streets like deities.

  I should know. I spent years of my life trying to make sure the lid stayed on that particular cauldron.

  I was only a few blocks from the police station, and since my hair was fully frizzed anyway and I didn’t have any makeup on, I walked through the light summer rain with the sounds of the city alive around me. I heard sirens in the distance, but ignored them. They were most likely for an ambulance after all, though I listened harder for the next few minutes to see if I could hear more. I didn’t, and when I popped into the precinct, I found the place only slightly more alive than it had been yesterday evening.

  “What is this, lunch hour?” I asked as I stepped into Welch’s office. No one had stopped me on the way up, probably because I looked like I knew what I was doing. Also, the desk sergeant buzzed me through because he knew me. Helps having a familiar face.

  Welch looked up, his comb-over in perfect order today. “No, there’s a bank robbery going on in lower Manhattan. Guys with lots of guns. They’ve taken hostages, so we called in everybody we had. I’m heading that way in a few minutes myself.”

  I stared straight at him. “You’re … not kidding about that, are you?”

  He shook his head. “Serious as the grave. You come to elaborate on your report? Because I got the gist, and the gist was an empty hamburger bun.”

  I tried to decipher that. “Disappointing, especially during lunch hour?”

  “More or less what I meant,” Welch said, looking at the papers on his desk. “So this is a nothingburger, then? This beef between Frost and Gravity?”

  “Yes, there is no beef,” I said, my mouth watering. Dammit, I wanted Shake Shack again. “Just a hothead with ice powers and insufficient brains—and probably insufficient genitals, if we’re hewing to that whole beef theme.”

  Welch chuckled. “Fair enough.” He looked around. “Say … since you’re technically still on the clock, any chance you want to stick your nose in on that bank robbery?”

  “I’ll give it a glance on my way out of town,” I said, flashing him a smile. “This Frost/Gravity feud may have turned out to be nothing, but thanks for thinking of me. And let me know if anything else comes up—”

  “You’ll be the first one I call,” he assured me with a smile. “I’d rather deal with you than those FBI peckerwoods, after all.” He looked down. “Don’t you know one of—”

  I zipped out of the precinct before he had a chance to finish his question or look up. There were just some questions I was tired of dealing with—and Scott was definitely one of them.

  29.

  Jamie

  Kyra was already gone when Jamie woke up, which was probably fortunate, Jamie reflected. She’d woken up late, so the idea of hashing out their difficulties—or trying, at least—while she was supposed to be at work seemed like a failing proposition. It had left a little sting buried in her heart, though, a nettle that was worming its way into Jamie, one that she was doing her best to ignore as she walked into work and up the stairs, nodding to her employees as she passed each of them.

  “Running behind again, huh?” Clarice asked, meeting her at the end of the hall.

  “At least I don’t have a banker waiting for me today,” Jamie said. Her stomach rumbled, and she had a headache doing much the same to her skull. “Is there coffee?”

  “In the break room,” Clarice said, eyebrows knitted close in concern. “Why? You didn’t bring your own?”

  “Late night last night,” Jamie said. “And the morning came a little earlier than I expected. Or … later, I suppose. Anyway, I didn’t have time to brew a pot before I ran out the door.”

  Clarice looked her over. “I didn’t want to say anything, but since you don’t have any meetings to worry about … you mismatched your pants.”

  Jamie stopped in the middle of the dimly lit hall, looking down. “No I didn—” She let her head tilt forward. “These are the maroon slacks.” She put her forehead against her hand and felt her pulse beat in a hard throb. “I honestly thought they were black when I was dressing.”

  “You’ve made worse mistakes,” Clarice said with a shrug. “And like you said, no handsome bankers visiting you today, so no big deal, right?”

  “I guess,” Jamie said, getting back up to speed. “Are there bagels with that coffee? Because I skipped breakfast, too, and I’m not fully sure, but I think my stomach might be entering a full revolt.”

  “Sounds dangerous,” Clarice said with thin amusement. “Is that your not so subtle way of telling me you need me to get you something? Because I am technically your assistant, and can do this—”

  “I don’t like to ask,” Jamie said tentatively. “I know you have a full plate—”

  “Oh, and yours is empty?” Clarice asked with the due amount of sarcasm. “In more ways than one, apparently. Get to work, I’ll get you a bagel and coffee.”

  “Thank you,” Jamie said, shooting her a wan smile. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Clarice.”

  “Well, the doors would shut here, I’m pretty sure,” Clarice said with a smile of her own as she peeled off, turning around and heading for the break room.

  Jamie stopped, watching her go, feeling strangely stricken. They may just do that anyway, she thought, with a sudden, paralyzing burst of fear, but she didn’t dare give voice to that thought. Instead she shook it away, trying to clear the headache, and headed for her office, feeling as if a cloud of smoke was still lingering around her.

  She flicked on the fluorescent lights and listened to them hum as she slid behind her desk. She created a little gravity well around each turner for the blinds and shut them all, cutting off her view of the hallway as she leaned back against her chair and put her feet up on her desk. She frowned at them, realizing her shoes were utterly mismatched with the maroon pants, and she took them off. She didn’t like to feel idle enough to put her feet up on her desk anyway, especially when there were mountains of paperwork to claw through.

  She was almost ready to start tackling the first task of the day when her phone buzzed with an alert. A bank robbery in lower Manhattan, with hostages. She blinked as her eyes scrolled across the text and she glanced at t
he paperwork crowding the edge of the desk.

  Paperwork could wait. Hostages couldn’t.

  Jamie was out the window before she even fully realized what she was doing, not that full consideration would have stopped her in any case. Minutes later she was launching herself along on a gravity channel toward Freedom Tower again, the wind in her face renewing her energy far more effectively than her office work ever could.

  30.

  Nadine

  Nadine was sipping her coffee in her abandoned office when she heard the sirens. She hadn’t moved to a different office even though this one was now open to the elements. It was a sunny day and it hadn’t gotten hot yet, and it wasn’t like she was doing anything, so why move? The FBI was watching her regardless, so what was the harm in letting everyone else on Wall Street with a view have an opportunity to gawk at her?

  And gawk they did. She could see their faces whenever she turned around. The more cowardly ones looked away quickly. The bold (or stupid) ones didn’t even try to hide it. She was used to being stared at—mostly by men—and it didn’t bother her.

  When the first sirens echoed through the canyons of the New York streets, she almost didn’t dare to hope. When they got louder, trilling from a few streets over, increasing in volume and strength, she broke into a smile that she hid by turning toward her desk. Maybe this was it. This could be the start of her return to power.

  Now all she had to do was wait, and soon she’d rule the Street again, and the looks of contempt and the derisive whispers and gossip would be replaced by admiration, adulation, and worship once more.

  31.

  Sienna

  I found the bank in question pretty easily. It’s hard to miss twenty police cars bounded by a street cordon in lower Manhattan.

  As I came drifting down slowly, I saw the cops already moving back and forth behind the cover of their cars. They had a mobile command center set up about half a block away, parked unobtrusively between the massive number of standard patrol cars. A SWAT truck was parked at the end of the block. I stared at it for a second, a little curious, because I didn’t see any SWAT team members up near the bank. Maybe they were trying to keep the black-tactical-garbed cops off the street and out of the view of the robbers.

  I set down outside the command post and waved at the officer in charge. He had a walkie-talkie up to his ear and frowned at me, waving me off from inside the truck. I shrugged and wandered down the street toward the bank, where the cop cars were set up like barricades to obscure fire in the event this thing went to hell fast. I could see the getaway vehicle parked out front, a black Ford Expedition with dark tinted windows. A cop was leading a bomb-sniffing dog away, presumably because he hadn’t found anything of interest.

  The patrol officers were all crouching down, so I did the same, taking a peek at what we were dealing with. The bank was a storefront at street level with two paned-glass windows that looked in and a stone facade that blended with the rest of the Financial District architecture. The glass was reflective, but not totally, and I could see that on the left side was an office that appeared empty. On the right-hand side I could see the teller line that snaked its way up to the counter, completely empty, with a little motion in the window that suggested to me a robber was waiting in ambush on the right side of the entry door to unload on anyone who came in. It was not a bad setup. If there was an alley out back, they probably had a man stationed there as well—if they were smart in addition to being well funded.

  How did I know they were well funded? Because Ford Expeditions aren’t cheap, and if they went to the trouble to either buy or steal one for the purposes of this robbery, it suggested they were more than petty bank robbers who were just looking to make a quick buck and vamoose before the cops showed up.

  I edged sideways, trying to get a better look in the front window on the right. The haziness of the pane’s reflection made it increasingly difficult to see the deeper I tried to look into the bank. I caught a glimpse of shadows that looked the heads of people, all in a line, with someone standing tall over them. I squinted, using my meta-enhanced eyesight to try and make something of the scene, and when I realized what I was looking at, I felt a little chill run through me.

  There was a robber with a high-capacity rifle, probably of the AR or AK variety, and he had his hostages all kneeling in a line in front of him, from tallest to shortest. His barrel was extended to just a few scant inches from the first victim in the line, and the trajectory was perfect for him to fire through and get multiple kills with a single shot. If he was good on the trigger and quick to adjust his aim, he could probably kill them all within three seconds.

  “Holy hell,” I muttered to myself. These were no amateurs. They’d planned this, and if they were setting up in-case-of-emergency plans for their bank robberies, it didn’t suggest good or happy things were looming in our future.

  I ran at a crouch back to the command center, where I swept into the open truck and caught a dirty look from the officer in charge just as he was bringing his walkie-talkie down from his ear. “What?” he asked me, like he was put upon for even having to lay eyes upon me.

  “I’m Sienna Nealon,” I said.

  He stared at me dully. “No shit.”

  I stared back. “… And you are?”

  “Forsythe,” he said, flicking his badge, which was hanging out of his front suit pocket, with a long fingernail. “I’ve got a lot going on here, Nealon, so—”

  “I agree,” I said, “so I’ll make this quick. Do you have a band of professional bank robbers working in the five boroughs right now with this MO? We’re talking at least five guys inside, maybe more, with probably AR or AK weapons platforms who regularly use expensive getaway vehicles?”

  Forsythe gave me a glare. “We’re not idiots here, Nealon. No, there’s no gang like that working the five boroughs, or active in the entire state—the whole fifty states, as near as we can tell. Trust me, we’re professionals, and we’ve noticed all the same things you have, the abnormalities, the skill of their preparation—”

  “Did you notice that they’ve got the hostages lined up tallest to shortest, with a rifle lined up to take them out with three to five shots in the event you decide to breach?” I asked, folding my arms in front of me.

  He paused. “That … wasn’t something we observed. How did you—”

  “I have superhuman senses,” I interrupted. “Did you get a match on the plate for their vehicle?”

  “Are you gonna tell me how to run my scene and investigation?” Forsythe asked, more than irritated now. “I’m just curious so that I can start screaming to HQ now.”

  “Have I given you an order yet?” I asked, firing right back at him. “I’m an observer with some experience dealing with a harder-edged, more prepared class of criminal. I guarantee I’ve killed more professional mercs and guns-for-hire than you have, and these guys? That’s what they are. They are professional guns, with probable military experience, carrying out an op. You want to piss all over this scene, mark your territory, go for it. I’m just trying to help, and I fully recognize I’ve got no authority here, so if you’d like, I’ll just see myself out.” I threw a thumb behind me.

  Forsythe gave me a simpering smile. “We’re the NYPD, okay? Not the JV team out in Iowa, okay? We’ve got this.”

  “You know what they have in Iowa that you don’t?” I asked as I started to step out of the van.

  “Pigs and chickens?” Forsythe asked.

  “Yep,” I said. “And also, humility enough to realize that they don’t know everything.” I gave him a smartass salute. “Best of luck, numbnuts.”

  I started to fly off, rising into the air, fully intent on heading back to my hotel and picking up my suitcase, but something stopped me. And no, it wasn’t guilt, or shame, or some sense of obligation. Those were all overwhelmed by a flaming desire to go back to the command center and turn Forsythe’s head into a piñata for my fists. Sometimes restraint means having the wisdom to fly away bef
ore you commit homicide. Dr. Zollers taught me that.

  No, the thing that stopped me was almost like a tug on my shoulder, like someone had put an invisible hand on me and dragged me backward. I spun to face the empty air behind me, and threw up my hands to guard against what seemed to me like an invisible perpetrator before I caught a glimpse of the responsible party, still a few blocks away over Wall Street but heading north fast.

  “Neat trick,” I said as Gravity Gal—Jamie—lurched to a stop a few feet away. The way she moved over the skyline was weird-looking; sometimes it almost seemed she was walking on uneven, invisible legs over the rooftops, and other time she was zooming like she was flying—like me—just zipping toward a destination with the wind whipping through her hair. “What’s up?”

  “You leaving?” Jamie asked as she settled into a hover mode right in front of me. She had some bags visible through the mask’s eyeholes, and her stomach rumbled loud enough that a meta in the Bronx could probably hear it.

  “The guy in charge of the scene here is not a great reflection on the NYPD,” I said, pointing down at the command center. “He basically told me that they had this under control, and he didn’t even pat me on the head first.”

  Jamie tilted her head slightly. “Is it more or less condescending when they do that? Because I’m honestly not sure.”

  “Probably depends on the situation,” I said. “You here to throw a monkey wrench in the NYPD’s plans? Because they are facing some hitters here, guys who might actually be ready for the SWAT—” I looked down to where the SWAT van had been parked a few minutes earlier. “Huh.”