Limitless

by Robert J. Crane

  “All right,” Philip said, buttoning his tweed jacket before he opened the side door to get out. “Quick and quiet is the name of the game, then. You take back door, I’ll take front.”

  She acknowledged him with a slight hiss that was almost a signature for her. Liliana didn’t speak all that much, and when she did, it was straight to it. He liked that about her, but it was hardly her biggest selling point.

  The knives: those were her biggest selling point.

  They were both out of the car in a moment, moving quickly but casually. They kept to human speed, but when they reached the door just off the short drive, Philip knocked while Liliana disappeared along the side of the house without a sound. She wore street clothes. In them, she looked surprisingly normal, as long as one did not stop to ponder the vast darkness of her eyes.

  Philip took a sniff of the wet air, a few drops of rain coming down on him as he stood outside the screen door, waiting for someone to answer it. He forced a smile onto his face. He was small of frame, and his glasses made him look even less intimidating, he thought.

  If only they knew, no one would ever open the door for him.

  The white door clicked open just a crack, inward. Philip kept the smile perched on his lips and angled his head to look in. There was a face there, that of a young man. Angus Waterman was his name. He was slightly paunchy and had a mane of red-brown hair. His eyes were small. He reminded Philip of a rat hiding in a hole and staring out at a threat.

  “Yes?” Angus Waterman asked. Philip had the feeling he was looking at him as one would stare at a door-to-door salesman. He was going to be ever so disappointed.

  “Mr. Waterman?” Philip asked and waited patiently for the answer. He already knew, of course, but this was the game to be played.

  “Yes,” Waterman replied, still looking cagey. “Can I help you?”

  “I doubt it,” Philip said smoothly, his smile broadening. “You can’t even help yourself, after all.”

  Waterman took a moment to register the surprise before he attempted to slam the door. Philip managed to brace a hand in and stop him. Waterman was a weak meta, his physical strength so low on the scale that a strong human might have been able to overmatch him with a little effort.

  And Philip was no human.

  The door flew back open, Philip’s hand pressing an imprint into the wood as if it were wet clay. Waterman ran. Philip already knew exactly how that was going to play out. He stepped inside and closed the door gently behind him. No need to make a scene, after all. He wiped his feet on the mat, listening without much interest. It was all so terribly predictable, unfortunately. Took some of the fun out of it.

  The scream was exactly as he’d known it would be when it came, the sound of Angus Waterman catching a punch to the throat. It cut off when Liliana landed a blow to the side of his head that knocked Waterman’s infantile brain into unconsciousness.

  Philip, meanwhile, stepped into the kitchen. The kettle was boiling, just as he’d known it would be. He took a moment and poured a cup, taking his time as he heard Liliana in the back of the house. Philip knew what Waterman’s future entailed, and it involved a stint wrapped up in a rug. “Hit him again,” Philip called as he stirred a lump into his tea. “Otherwise he’ll wake up in the trunk and make a frightful ruckus.”

  There was a short, sharp grunt of acknowledgment from the other room, followed by a dull thump. Philip felt a tingling sense of satisfaction and took his first sip of the tea. He made a face. It was quite cheap.

  There was the sound of a car outside, and Philip froze. He reached out to his surroundings and felt a sense of urgency as the realization hit him, something he hadn’t predicted yet.

  The police would be here in seconds.

  And they had help.

  Her help.

  “Liliana,” Philip called, icing the sense of discomfort he felt, “the police are arriving and shall be knocking momentarily. Be a dear and ready poor Angus for his journey.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the item Antonio had given him for just such an occasion. He could sense that it was going to make one hell of a bloody mess, but then, by day’s end, Angus Waterman wouldn’t be much in need of a house anymore. “I’ll need a moment to prepare for them before we set off…”

  Chapter 7

  I still wasn’t used to riding on the wrong side of the car or the wrong side of the road. We were in a town called Hounslow, on a street of brick homes that were called townhomes in America, sharing common walls with the residences immediately next to each house. There were breaks in between every other dwelling that allowed for tight alleyways. The space next to the house we were going to—domicile of one Angus Waterman, whom I didn’t remember at all—had been planted with a bank of trees. They didn’t have much space to work with, but it was a nice break between houses.

  “You remember Angus?” Webster asked as we crossed the street. There were cars parked evenly down both sides, only a few scattered spaces available.

  “Not really,” I said. “I’m not that good with… uh… people,” I added, just being honest.

  Webster must have thought it amusing, because he let out a low chuckle. “Think he’ll remember you?”

  “Probably,” I said. “I do tend to make an impression.” I froze before the white door and noticed it was just a hint ajar, with a palm print pushed into the wood. I stared at it for only a second before I pulled my gun.

  “What the hell!” Webster started and took a step back. He looked murderously angry, and suddenly I was glad the pistol was in my hands, not his. “What is that?”

  “A Sig Sauer P227,” I said, keeping my weapon at low rest as I sidled up to the door.

  “You can’t have that here!” He muted his outrage to a respectable level in terms of loudness. The fury oozed with every word, though, unmistakable. “Handguns are illegal.”

  “Yeah, well, his door is open, and my mental alarm is going off because someone has clearly forced entry,” I nodded to the indentation in the door. “That’s something it would take meta-strength to do. Now, are you coming in, or am I entering on my own?”

  “You can’t go into someone’s house with a weapon drawn!” He was nearing apoplectic, but at least he was being quieter about it. “It’s burglary at least—”

  “Come in and catch me, then,” I said, and shouldered my way into the entry without looking back.

  “Dammit—” Webster said, but he was right behind me. And not preparing the handcuffs, thankfully.

  I slid into the entryway and found myself in a small room, only a few feet long. I could hear the scrape of shoes across the tile ahead and the faint hiss of water just done boiling. I doubted Webster heard any of it, and I was going to look like a real ass if it turned out that Angus had just left his door open and had made that palm print in wood himself.

  He hadn’t.

  I stared at the guy standing across the kitchen from me. He wore a black ski mask, in contrast to his neatly pinstriped suit and tie and the cup of tea he held oh-so-properly in his hand. Except for the mask, he might have been any distinguished British gentleman. A pair of older spectacles perched on his nose reminded me of Janus, but even through the mask, I could tell he was younger.

  “Hello, Sienna,” he said in a classic example of a sophisticated British accent. Every syllable was perfectly pronounced, none of the rough edges or balled-up phrases that fell out of Webster’s mouth. “I must say, I’m surprised to see you here. Surprised and pleased.”

  “Can’t say the same,” I said, surveying the kitchen as I came in. My pistol was still at low rest, but I could snap off a shot at him in milliseconds if I had to. “You’re not Angus.”

  “Indeed I am not,” he said as I made room for Webster, who followed behind me wordlessly. He had a baton in his hand now, and it took me a second to register that that must be what they gave British cops instead of guns. I gently thumbed back the hammer on my pistol and felt a lot better about my chances to stop this guy than
Webster’s.

  “Where’s Mr. Waterman?” Webster butted in. He still looked angry, but it had transferred to the man in the mask instead of me, which was a lot cuter. He had kind of a flush in his cheeks—

  Ahem. Never mind.

  “You just missed him,” the masked man said and took a sip through the slit that exposed two thin lips. “I’m afraid he has a rather urgent engagement that will be keeping him occupied from now until the end of his life, which shall be arriving very soon.”

  “You’re the murderer,” Webster said, voice gone cold. “You’re under arrest—”

  “You must keep him around for his looks,” the man in the ski mask said, looking me straight in the eyes. They say the eyes are windows to the soul, and if that was the case, this guy had a serious case of empty rooms lurking behind his. I couldn’t see anything in them, not a flicker, not a hint, save for maybe just a little scorn or anger; I couldn’t tell which. “Because he certainly doesn’t have a bloody idea what he’s up against, does he?”

  “Do you?” I asked, not looking away from those cold, pitiless eyes.

  “I’ve long been an admirer of yours, Miss Nealon,” he said in that cultured tone. “You were the first of us to really open the worlds' eyes to what we’re capable of.” He chuckled lightly, an utterly humorless sound. “Of course, it was such a dramatic display that I don’t think they really know what all of us can do, even going on two and half a years later. In any case, it seems rather fitting as I go public with this endeavor of mine to let you know that I’ll be killing you—”

  I raised the gun and squeezed the trigger without waiting for another word. The pistol roared twice with the fury of the .45 ACP rounds nestled in the magazine. I saw Webster blanch next to me, ducking away from the gun as it belched fire out the barrel.

  But the masked guy? He dodged both shots, disappearing into the darkness of the hallway behind before I’d even finished my double tap.

  “After him!” Webster said, rushing forward. He recovered quickly. I strong-armed him back, catching his chest as I slipped into line with the hallway where the masked man had disappeared. It looked empty, but appearances could be deceiving. I heard movement in the back of the house and took four hurried steps across the kitchen after him—

  And failed to notice the tripwire hidden in the darkness until my ankle caught it.

  The world exploded around me as a bomb went off with the fury of thunder and lightning striking all around me. I barely had time to register what it was before the flash of flame lit the room, then the world dissolved into smoky darkness as I fell to the ground, pain dragging me into unconsciousness.

  Chapter 8

  Philip had already made it out the door when the bomb exploded, catching that little twat in the blast. Antonio had called it his version of a claymore mine, whatever that was. All Philip cared about was that she was down, the little bitch, and she wouldn’t be following him.

  “Come on, come on,” he urged Liliana. She followed in his wake, Angus Waterman rolled into a long, unsightly rug on her shoulder. Philip licked his teeth nervously, striding down the side of the house, feeling tree branches claw at his arm as he passed. It was a curious sensation, like someone was dragging wet fingers across the outside of his coat. He noticed it, detached from the sensation, as he followed the path.

  He pulled the ski mask off and pocketed it just before he came into the open in the front of the house. He paused, running fingers through his lightly mussed hair, smoothing it back into place. The street was quiet, not a hint of movement anywhere. The grey sky hung above, foreboding, as though it could hint at the destruction he’d just unleashed in the house behind them.

  “Is she dead?” Liliana asked in that flat voice of hers. Did she have a hint of nervousness in it?

  Well, who wouldn’t? “No,” Philip said, not stopping as he stepped off the curb. “She heals quickly as well, so we need to remove ourselves from the situation before she gets a chance.”

  “When will she be up again?”

  Philip felt a brisk charge of annoyance prickle across his skin. “I don’t know.” That wasn’t exactly true, but he didn’t have time to delve into it at the moment. “Soon enough. We need to be fully prepared before we face her.” Liliana did not argue with him. She knew better.

  There was no sign of traffic, no sign of anybody. The bomb going off in Waterman’s house had left his ears ringing slightly, but his hearing was better than most, and he had been closer to the blast than anyone in the neighborhood. “Let’s go.”

  They crossed the street and Philip opened the boot. Liliana dumped her burden inside without much in the way of ceremony or mercy, unfurling the carpet to spill Waterman out. He hit his head on the metal edge of the boot as he fell, probably compounding his unconsciousness. Philip reached out, waiting to see if that would cause a problem. Once he was sure it wouldn’t, he glanced up and down the street again, then made for the passenger door while Liliana slammed the boot closed. The sound echoed up and down the quiet Hounslow street.

  “Did you kill the copper with her?” Liliana asked as she slid into the driver’s seat and started the car. Philip could smell the faint hint of something burning and wondered if he’d started a fire with the bomb. That would be delicious, but alas, not fatal for the girl in question.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. He knew the answer by instinct, of course. “He’s merely rattled, like a soldier in a war zone. He’ll be out the door in about thirty seconds. I suggest we be around the corner by then.”

  Liliana nodded once, already turning the ignition key. That was something Philip had long admired about her. She was ruthlessly efficient. Probably the product of her Cold War-era training. She had the car moving seconds later, and they turned the corner just in time by Philip’s reckoning.

  “What now?” Liliana asked.

  Philip felt a gentle sense of euphoria fall over him. He’d just poked the Met squarely in the eye with a sharp stick, and it gave him more than a little thrill. They had no idea what they were dealing with, not even a hint. “They’ll move quickly, so we’ll need to be quicker still. They’ve guessed what we’re up to, but the structure of the situation will work against them.”

  Liliana’s dark eyes found him as they drove on. “You mean the fact that they’re hiding?”

  “That’s the structure of the situation, yes,” Philip said. He could feel his lips curl. “Now they think all we care about is killing these swine.” But there was more. So much more. “That could work to our advantage.”

  Liliana gave him a perfunctory nod to say she understood. She didn’t truly, though. He’d seen that much from looking into her eyes. “What about Waterman? Do you want me to start on him?”

  “Start, but not finish,” Philip agreed. He took a sniff of the car interior, and he wondered, not for the first time, if someone had been smoking in here. Probably Antonio. The bomb maker seemed like the sort to indulge every now and again. “Make sure the old man watches it all.”

  She made that hiss again, the one of acknowledgment, and settled into silence. That worked well for Philip, though, because he had plans to make. Plans that now included that girl, Sienna Nealon. He hadn’t seen her coming, and that was a rare thing.

  But then again, a surprise like this…knowing who she was and what she’d done…it was quite enticing. The very idea of besting her, killing her… it would make the ending of this whole thing all the sweeter.

  Chapter 9

  I awoke in pain. Lots and lots of pain. Screaming, flames-licking-my-body pain.

  For the record, there were no actual flames. It took me a while to realize that, though, with the haze of smoke and debris scattered all over the place.

  Angus Waterman’s kitchen looked like someone had come through with a sledgehammer and liberally smashed to pieces all the parts of the décor they disliked. There were holes in the walls, the doorframe had been widened by several inches, and the old white refrigerator bore battle scars.r />
  And did I mention the pain? Oh, the pain.

  I wanted to scream, but I didn’t. Pretty sure I was making a wailing noise of some sort, though. I sat up and looked down my body to see that I was missing a leg.

  Yep. Missing a leg. It was just gone. Below the knee, it had disappeared.

  I noticed stains on the wall as the world came into focus and the smoke began to clear. It took my addled, agony-burned brain a moment to realize that the stains were my blood.

  “Wolfe,” I gasped, interrupting a sound that was akin to a cat yowling. “Need… your help.”

  Normally I could have gone without vocalizing the thought, but missing a leg was throwing me off my game.

  “Dear God,” Webster said, his voice artificially exaggerated by what I assumed was the ringing in his ears. “Hold still!”

  “Not really in a state to go anywhere just this second,” I said through gritted teeth. I pulled the power of Wolfe, a serial killer whose soul I had absorbed years ago, to the front of my mind. I could use his power when he was with me like this. I could hear his thoughts, too.

  He was exceedingly violent, so one of these things was more useful than the other.

  This time he stayed blissfully quiet, probably figuring I wasn’t in much of a mood to deal with him. He was right: I wasn’t. Not with the agony that came from the bones growing back where my leg had been.

  “You’re bleeding very badly,” Webster said, still talking louder than I thought was necessary. In spite of all the damage, there wasn’t much noise at this point. I heard an engine starting somewhere in the background. It was either that or my back teeth grinding against each other.

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” I muttered. I could see the bone of my shin growing back, extending down into the empty space my right leg had once occupied. The explosion had mangled my left as well, chunks of meat missing where I’d had a calf once upon a time. The holes were knitting themselves even as Webster fretted over me, doing little to nothing by my reckoning.