Powers

  Walker swiveled, walking backward toward the door with his palms raised in supplication. “You’re right. I don’t. Honestly? I don’t much care. What I do care about, however, is that you left her again—you think she really wanted you to leave? I made that mistake, friend-o, and it was the stupidest mistake I’ve made in the last few hours.”

  He stopped at the door and looked away, settling his gaze on Enki and Cross. He smiled, hand resting on the handle. “But, hey, the last time you left Deena, she ended up becoming the world’s greatest detective. So, again, I’m good with all this. Look, I just care about my partner, and I feel like an ass for not having stayed. Even with all the shit going down, with all your rules and threats, Captain … I never should have walked. That’s not what a partner does. He stays, even when the going gets tough. Even when he might end up as part of the story. He stays to support his partner. And now,” he announced, bringing the diatribe to a close, “I’m going to pack a bag and do exactly that.”

  “Walker.” Cross stepped forward, features stoic and severe. Enki touched the captain’s arm, and her grizzled, beleaguered superior shook it off. The room was silent, the entire bullpen having been drawn in to the tense and heated drama. Walker eyed Cross, waiting for the hammer to fall. But the captain placed both hands on his hips and motioned toward the door. “Call us when you know our girl’s okay.”

  Walker raised his hand in a stiff salute. He nodded at Enki, raising an eyebrow, and then was out the door.

  Standing alone at Walker’s desk, seething with anger, Aaron barely gave the dispersing crowd a second glance. Awash in humiliation, regret, and justifiable anger, he reached for the phone and, getting an outside line, dialed a number. Aaron Boucher stood there alone, toes tapping against the floor, anxiously waiting for the party on the other end to answer his call.

  21

  December. Tuesday night. 10:05 P.M.

  He’d managed to book a red-eye flight, arriving in Atlanta around six in the morning. Walker lurched about his spartanly decorated apartment, tossing clothing and assorted toiletries into a makeshift go-bag. He’d tried Deena twice since leaving, both calls heading to voice mail with all the others. He’d debated leaving a message but decided to let it alone. Some things had to be said in person, as he’d managed with Boucher to exceptional satisfaction. Walker couldn’t spend too much time basking in the glow of verbal triumph. Not when he had to get to Georgia—not when his only job was being there for Deena.

  I don’t have a job. I’m unemployed during the holidays. It felt weird to say, even in his head. Walker had been unemployed before. In fact, this wasn’t even the first time he’d been without work since becoming a cop. The roller coaster of the last few years had torn his badge away more times than he could count—some by choice, more often by decree. This time, however, he was glad to be operating on his own. He didn’t have to deal with the whirlwind of crazy that had descended on PHD. The Human Front allegations and mounting body count were no longer his headache. Even the specter of Joseph Monroe—what his death represented, the damage its truth would effect—that, too, was no longer his concern. He didn’t have to save the day or solve the murders. That was someone else’s problem now—Enki, perhaps, or Corbin Kirk, when he was back on his feet.

  But still … the guilt remained.

  The adrenaline high had worn away, and Walker slowed down, folding a T-shirt, pacing the bedroom as he considered next steps. Despite claims otherwise back in the bullpen, he was running away. Not from Deena but from her case. From facing past mistakes. He did know more about the Liberty killings, about what had happened in Atlanta than he’d let on, as he’d revealed to Boucher before thirty cops and a handful of hookers. Christian Walker—Diamond then and Blue Streak years before—hadn’t been blinded by glamour and idealism. He was aware of the corruption that had permeated Atlanta. Like Z, a former colleague who’d used his powers to criminal advantage, Diamond knew something was shady about the Citizen Soldier. But he’d left it alone, even after what happened in Detroit, no doubt due to the respect he still afforded the elder statesman.

  But perhaps he’d also left it alone because of his distaste for the opposition—men and women clamoring for the death of the powered individual. The Human Front. Malachi Crane and his pack of wolves. And sure, if a Power capped a few … even if that Power lived on the wrong side of the law … then what was the big deal? Sure, guys like Boucher—with anti-Powers vitriol and cries of corruption—yeah, they could be a hassle. But at least Boucher was a cop; Diamond had known, if push came to shove, that Boucher would do the right thing. The same couldn’t be said for THF goons. And so, Diamond—like Triphammer, Zora, and all the others—had looked the other way. He never questioned the Soldier’s directives (or, mostly, lack of directives) and did the job to the best of his understanding.

  Thus, the guilt. The realization that he’d actually been wrong. As was Triphammer, as was Zora. They’d all fucked up, and now it was coming back to bite them on the ass, because the goddamn Citizen Soldier was a traitor. And truthfully, Walker did care. He couldn’t walk away, not until he assumed responsibility for his actions … or as the case might be, his inaction.

  He tried Deena again, and when the machine picked up, he tried Enki instead. Another drive to voice mail. Walker abandoned his bag and the half-folded, discarded clothes. He walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door, bathing in the bright light as he searched for a drink.

  Then the doorbell rang.

  At ten-thirty on a Tuesday night.

  Could be Enki, Walker thought. She may have followed me home, wondering if I’m okay, maybe offering to come along to see Deena. Another great partner—that’s probably why I couldn’t get her phone. Terrible Wi-Fi in these old lead-and-asbestos prewar buildings. He marched to the door, catching the knob on the second ring, and twisted it open.

  “Enki?” But it wasn’t Enki. It was a man in a hood. Shorter than Walker, which wasn’t unusual, but dressed in a coat, jeans, and a pair of bloodstained sneakers. The man clutched a crowbar, a fact that entered Walker’s mind at the moment he dimly remembered to slam the door. Unfortunately, it was a moment too late.

  The hooded man swung the crowbar, catching Walker on the side of his face. Christian stumbled back into the apartment, blood gushing from a tear at his cheek, jaw damaged as he fell onto the floor. The hooded man advanced, entering the apartment and closing the door behind. He lifted the crowbar, raising it above his head, but Walker regained his senses and kicked him in the gut. The invader doubled over and dropped the crowbar; Walker scrambled toward his bedroom, racing for the revolver he kept beneath his bed.

  He didn’t get halfway across the apartment.

  The hooded man grabbed Walker by the ankle, clamping down with a viselike grip. He grunted, never uttering a word, and tossed Walker into the television. Christian soared—having been lifted off his feet—and his back smashed into the flat-screen, shattering it into millions of pieces. He was in pain. Whoever his attacker was, whatever his agenda, it was clear that he possessed powers of some kind. Despite his short stature, the invader was strong and fast. He was on Walker before he hit the ground, reaching down to snake the large detective’s collar and towing him toward the kitchen. Walker grabbed for the masked man’s hands, hoping to break his grip, but his assailant wouldn’t be deterred. The hooded man used his free hand to pummel Walker’s face, tearing a gash in his cheek. Blood dripped onto the small knockoff Persian rug that Walker kept beneath a coffee table. The hooded man paid no mind; he continued their brief trek to the kitchen, dragging Walker along the way.

  Walker extended his arms and flattened both palms against the wall to either side of the kitchen. The hooded man bent down to pry one hand away and then the other, but not before Walker raised his chin and butted the invader in the face. The intruder grabbed his own nose and stumbled backward onto his ass, giving Walker the opportunity he needed to get to his feet and tackle the trespasser. They grappled in
the galley, and Walker understood that without powers, he was completely outclassed. He loomed above the masked man, sure, but couldn’t match his strength and speed—not to mention his vicious ferocity. Walker disengaged and scrabbled around the counter, grasping for knives or utensils. The hooded man had beaten him to the punch; he swung a meat tenderizer (a gift from Deena, who enjoyed a fine club steak tartare), bashing it into the side of Walker’s head, sending him sprawling back into the common area.

  Walker clawed his way onto his stomach and crawled for the bedroom, shoving aside the coffee table along the way. The hooded man followed, and so Walker tossed furniture and knickknacks in the shorter man’s direction, doing his best to slow him down. Finally, he clambered over the remains of the television—Walker’s palms dug into glass, jagged pieces tearing into knees and hands. He lifted a larger piece and, rearing up like a Neanderthal warrior (Not too far a stretch, Walker gibbered in his head; I was Gora), the battered detective launched himself at the hooded man and jabbed the glass into his shoulder.

  Walker’s assailant grunted and then blindly lashed out with his right arm. He connected with Walker’s chest, smacking the injured cop and sending him crashing through the bedroom wall. He landed on the bed and then bounced off, landing next to the far-left nightstand. Excellent, Walker thought, struggling to catch his breath. Just where I needed to be. Something hurt inside; a broken rib, maybe several. He hoped he hadn’t punctured a lung. He really couldn’t breathe … and he worried that the wheezing might give him away as he scrabbled beneath the mattress. His fingers connected with a small briefcase, and Walker dragged it out, undoing the latches to reveal a handheld machine pistol—semiautomatic, loaded, and ready for emergencies like this. The last few years, Walker had been ambushed in his apartment—as he was now—by an assortment of Powers, crazies, girlfriends, and would-be gods, both cosmic and mythological. In fact, Satan himself had targeted Walker … or so the whack job had him believe. Not that a gun would do anything against the Prince of Hell, but it might put a small hole in a short, little Power with a shard of glass through his left shoulder.

  Walker pulled himself to his feet. He raised the pistol and turned to face the demolished bedroom wall. With any luck, half the building had heard the commotion and called a cop or three. Enki wasn’t coming, and Deena wasn’t, either. Walker was alone until this was over … or until some well-meaning, concerned citizen managed to convince 911 that the building was falling apart around them.

  Not on my watch. Not if I have to feed this guy the bullets myself. Determined to make that happen, Walker advanced on the wall—

  —only to have someone other than the hooded man tear the pistol from his hand.

  Surprised, Walker glanced right. A second, taller masked man cocked his head and examined the weapon. Exerting little effort, the second intruder twisted the gun into an unrecognizable lump of metal. Walker lunged, but like his shorter associate, the man in the hood was faster. He slapped the broken detective into his equally broken wall. Walker landed on his back halfway between both rooms. He looked into the common area and spied the first man, massaging his shoulder.

  The second man stepped through the bedroom door—it was still intact, swinging on loosened hinges. He stared at Walker and then up to his colleague.

  “Couldn’t have left some fight in him?” Walker didn’t recognize the man’s voice; muffled by the mask, the hooded man had erred on the side of caution and spoke through a vocal synthesizer. The words were electronically amplified, reverberating throughout the apartment. “I know I’m late, but that’s just rude.”

  The original assailant stood up, brushing away dust from his battered coat. “This is taking longer than you suggested,” he replied, voice digitally altered, as well. “Let’s finish it already.”

  The second man returned his attention to the gasping detective. “Hear that, Walker? My colleague wants you to go out with a whisper, not a bang. Now, me? I disagree.”

  The man hunkered down into a crouch, hands hanging between his knees. He reached out to tap the broken plaster. “See, I think you deserve to go out the way you do everything. The way you screw up your relationships. The way you solve cases. The way you flew above the city, inspiring others down below.”

  He gloated into Walker’s ear, laughing with a shrill, sibilant whisper. “Magnificently. Good night, Christian. I’m sure you didn’t think we’d forgotten you.”

  With that, the hooded man grasped a portion of the wall and tore it apart, throwing chunks of plaster against a beam that ran perpendicular to the building. A load-bearing beam, Walker recognized.

  Shit, he complained to the universe, frantically pleading for a bit more time, I wasn’t fucking serious about the whole building-falling-apart thing.

  After that, all that Walker heard was the screech of shifting iron and the crumbling roar of thousands of falling, broken bricks. That, and triumphant laughter.

  Then, mercifully, the enveloping rush of silence.

  22

  December. Wednesday morning. 7:10 A.M.

  Deena sulked and waited in the austere, glass-enclosed suite that served as the central boardroom for the Human Front. Snow dripped from her hair and her coat, pooling on the floor and the wide, oval table that dominated the space. She glanced out across the hallway—most of the offices were still dark; business wouldn’t commence for another two hours. Or maybe everyone was just away visiting family for the holidays. Still, she’d assumed the organization would be in lockdown following Malachi Crane’s blatant—and, to be fair, ballsy—shot across the prow of the government and authorities he’d rebelled against for most of his life. That’s what you get when you assume, she thought, sanity and good sense pinwheeling away with every passing moment she spent soaking in this tastefully decorated fishbowl. You make an ass out of every shit heel you meet. Even yourself.

  That isn’t how it goes, is it?

  Before she could elaborate to herself, Crane appeared as if from nowhere, his pumpkin head beaming with a cutaway, raggedy smile. Two bodyguards flanked the door, waiting just outside to prevent any trouble. Smart, she acknowledged. Trouble’s my middle name. Well, that isn’t true. My middle name is Olivia, but let’s just keep that to ourselves, boys.

  “So,” Crane began, voice thick with oil. “Detective Pilgrim. You’re back from Atlanta. Did you bring me a souvenir?”

  She wasn’t surprised. Deena had tried to keep her trip under the radar, but the Human Front had their claws in every city, informants in every cop house and hospital from Carlsbad to Key Biscayne. Hell, Waldo’s doctor or one of the nurses—that bitch, the one who’d nearly gotten between her and Aaron—probably owned the private line to Crane’s little kingdom. Fuck, as far as she knew, Aaron could have made the call himself. Deena didn’t know who to trust anymore. But that’s why she was here, dripping on the carpet of Satan’s war room.

  She’d boarded a plane late last night, hitting the snow-dappled tarmac again around 5:45. Deena hadn’t traveled alone; she carried documents and records from Waldo’s private files, carefully hidden away in a storage locker on the Atlanta piers. She also carried hours upon hours of testimony—her father’s words, implicating Monroe as Liberty, suggesting that Aaron Boucher couldn’t be trusted, either. First, she’d stopped at home and uploaded her recordings to the cloud. Then she’d showered and changed, her mind still a whirlwind of betrayal and insecurity, after which she’d taken a circuitous path to 500 Fialkov Way. There had been reporters still camped out front—the Media Watch never stopped—and that was the last thing Deena had wanted. She’d been keeping this under wraps, playing the cards close to her chest. Launching herself up the stairs, elbowing past PNN, Channel 7, and all the rest would only serve to catapult this very personal evidence onto the world stage. And though it would probably come to that, Deena wasn’t yet ready for that yet. First, she needed confirmation. She needed Crane to corroborate Waldo’s accusations and admit—on paper, on digital device, whatever—that Jo
seph Monroe was Liberty. That members of the Human Front were, indeed, paid off by the nation’s Top Cop to subdue and murder individuals who had legally been granted their freedom in a court of law … or who hadn’t been given the chance to be convicted in the first place. She needed Crane to exonerate Aaron Boucher of any involvement with the Liberty killings. She needed to know, to believe in the man she once loved. She needed to confirm that the man who had been the catalyst for her life behind a badge was truly clear of all wrongdoing … and that everything she’d heard in Atlanta was just a series of far-fetched allegations.

  And so Deena had shivered on the outskirts of the media encampment, waffling between paying off a cleaning lady for entrance and simply storming up the stairs, hurrying through the crowd and into the building. Thankfully, the decision was taken out of her hands: moments after arriving on scene, Deena was approached by two of Crane’s sinister aides and escorted into the offices via a side entrance.

  Now here she sat, face-to-face with the embodiment of intolerance, hoping to confirm the words of a crooked cop. What the fuck am I doing? Why not take this to Cross—or to Walker, if I even knew where the hell he is? Why am I here, talking to this demented pumpkin, depending on this hateful scarecrow to be the arbiter of truth?

  “Tell me,” he began, settling in at the head of the table, “how is your father? Road to recovery and all that?”

  She flinched and then decided to fuck it all. She slapped her phone down on the table and set it to Play. Waldo’s voice, wheezing and addled by pain medication, drawled throughout the boardroom. The file played, and twenty minutes later, Crane reached out to shut it off. He sniffed once and then clasped his hands on the surface of the table. Crane stared at her, curious yet dismissive, waiting for Deena’s opening salvo and truly looking as if he didn’t give a shit if it ever came.

  “Why not cooperate?” she began. “Your pals did. Quince, the Rammlers. They all took the Soldier’s deal. Why not you?”