Badder

by Robert J. Crane

  These were the judgments I made in seconds, and I defy you to figure out how to make better ones.

  I took the clothes off the shortest one, including his boots and that stupid reflective vest. I rolled up the cuffs of his pants and put them on, then did the same to his shirt. I laced his boots up tight, and sucked it up as I pulled his belt as tight as it could go. Fortunately (or maybe unfortunately, given that my waistline allowed me to wear a man’s belt), that fit fine.

  “Guess I need cardio after all,” I muttered under my breath. Usually that was the sort of line that would provoke a good gout of laughter and commentary from the voices in my head, but…

  I didn’t have any more voices in my head.

  Shit.

  I put the stupid cop hat on after cramming all my hair up underneath it in an unrestrained bun. The hat did a fine job of holding it back, fortunately, and I only hoped that it’d changed the look of me enough that people wouldn’t be shouting, “That’s Sienna Nealon!” as I passed. It was the most I could hope for at this point.

  I had several problems to solve, but the most pressing was that without Aleksandr Gavrikov rustling around in my brain, I’d lost my ability to retreat effectively. Time was, I could turn on the supersonic flight powers and be in Zimbabwe by now, all worries about Scottish police in my rearview.

  Without Gavrikov, though…I was a sitting duck for patrols like this. Well, maybe not exactly like this, but certainly any patrols that came armed would have a better chance of bringing me low now that I was as close to powerless as I’d been since that time I’d been gassed with a drug that suppressed metahuman abilities.

  Taking short breaths to calm myself, I started back up the hillside toward the road. I’d taken the other cop’s gear and tossed it aside after cuffing them both around the tree in their undershirts and boxers. “I miss undressing a man for the fun of it,” I said aloud, again forgetting that I had no audience for my brilliant wisecracks now. Which was a shame, because the edification of a laugh track in your life almost made me understand why stupid sitcoms put them in.

  Honestly, though, there were a lot of things in my life that I missed at this stage of the game, having been an international fugitive for however many months (like seven or eight, but who was counting other than the news channels?). Being able to have breakfast with friends. Sitting in my living room, watching TV without worrying someone was going to come bursting in to arrest me. Sleeping at night without having paranoid dreams about waking up in a jail cell—or not at all.

  My feet crunched the dewy grass as I came up on the road next to the police car. It was another shoe-sized car, like all of them over here seemed to be. I missed pickup trucks, and SUVs, and the glorious American cars that stated plainly that if you didn’t get the hell out of the road, we would run you over and you would die, instead of suffering a tragic injury to your big toe where it scraped the bumper.

  I missed home, I realized for the zillionth time as I opened the wrong door to the police car, and had to circle around to the driver’s side. Someone came by at about twenty miles an hour, and I waved to them as I turned my head away, trying to make sure they couldn’t see my face. They kept going, which I hoped meant that I’d succeeded as I slid into the driver’s side, which was, because it was the bass-ackward UK, on the wrong damned side of the car.

  It started up with a choking sputter, sounding a little like I’d turned on an RC car, and I sighed again, deciding it would be best to avoid getting in any high-speed chases. I scoured the car quickly, and found no joy in the form of hidden handguns or the like. I hadn’t expected to, but I still found it unfortunate, because I’d had one last night, but it had gotten lost somewhere in my fight with Rose.

  Rose.

  Here was a name that stirred questions and provided no damned answers. I was so tangled that even thinking about that red-headed bitch made me want to throw every thought of feminist cooperation and empowerment back in someone’s face along with a hard damned slap, the sort that wouldn’t just rattle their head but bust it clean off.

  Rose had played my friend and fan better than anyone I’d ever seen do it before. There was something about people that shone through, that hint of malice you could see when you looked in their eyes.

  There had been none of that for my pale, red-headed “friend.” I’d taken her power at face value, ignored the fact that I couldn’t read her mind because the story she presented seemed oh-so-logical, and because she’d taken a bullet for me. That was a commitment to the art of deception I’d never been prepared for. People who wanted to trick me usually kept their plans simpler.

  Rose, though—she’d gone for the gold. She’d stayed by my side long past a time when she had ample opportunity to kill me without resistance. She could have snuffed me in my sleep, multiple times. She had enough power she could have turned me into free-floating atoms any one of a hundred times I turned my back on her.

  But she didn’t. She didn’t even give me a sour look, nor a kick in the duff, not even a cross word…until she was ready to end the charade.

  Shit, that was some deep planning. It bespoke of a hostility that was almost otherworldly in origin, the kind of white-hot hate and scary levels of self-discipline that I hadn’t seen outside of…well, Mom, I guess.

  And Rose was a succubus.

  “Shit,” I said under my breath, lowering my head. She was Scottish-born—if her story to me could be trusted, which…I guess it couldn’t. So maybe she wasn’t Scottish at all. She’d said that her meta powers came from her drifter father, but now I had to doubt that, too. I’d thought she was young, younger than me, but now every single thing she told me about herself was thrown into doubt. Her name might not even have been Rose, for all I knew. It could have been Frito Bandito.

  But probably not that. I’d given this Rose problem some thought while contemplating the underaxle of a truck last night, and the number of conclusions I’d come to was roughly zero. All I had was that she hated me enough to run the longest con of all the long cons I could remember, short of maybe Sovereign or Old Man Winter, and all in order—in her words (if they could be trusted)—to “know me.”

  Why the hell would she want to know me?

  Who the hell was this girl?

  And, I wondered, not nearly the last of the questions I had, but the one bubbling most fiercely in my upset, rumbling, hungry stomach…What was she doing right now?

  5.

  I drove along a scenic Scottish road, and by scenic I meant mostly covered in trees with the occasional overlook of a lake, or loch, I suppose they called it, because when you’re at the northern rump end of a country, why not just call things whatever the hell you want?

  The sun was barely visible through a thin string of clouds, shining down on the loch like it was going to be a quasi-beautiful day for everyone but those of us being actively pursued by law enforcement. I stole glances at the sparkling loch while driving and trying to orient myself, because I had no idea where the hell I was and even less idea of where I was going, save for, “the hell outta here,” and as quickly as it could be arranged.

  Fortunately, I had an idea about that, and was debating how best to execute said idea. I had stolen a cell phone from one of the cops I’d mugged (yeah, I mugged them, let’s be honest about what happened), several, actually, both personal and work ones, and luckily a couple of them were smartphones. I was under no illusions about how long I could actually hold onto them; I planned to get the info I needed and ditch them into the nearest loch as soon as I could find a scenic overlook that would allow me to pull off and do some web browsing.

  I found it about a half mile ahead, a little paved area that was fenced to keep anyone from tumbling their ass down the hill and into the water, and nosed the car into a parking space and shifted the little go kart into park, phone already in hand. I dialed a number from memory, one that was international, to a burner phone that would have to be, well, burned, after this call.

  “This is Fritz,�
� a male voice answered on the other end of the line. He spoke in a thick accent, Germanic in style, though I’d never heard him speak German.

  “You’re not keeping banker’s hours today, Mr. Fritz,” I said. Truth was, he never kept bankers’ hours, even though he was, in fact, a banker. My banker, in fact, in cozy Liechtenstein.

  “Ms—” he started.

  “No need for names,” I said coolly. I wasn’t sure how sophisticated the Brit version of the NSA was, but they were probably monitoring cell phone calls for my voice, and I didn’t need a name tagged to go along with it. That would just speed up the ID process.

  Fortunately, being a banker to the wealthy and somewhat criminal, Fritz caught on quickly. “I understand you’ve had a spot of trouble.”

  “You could say that,” I said, tensely, looking at the lake—loch, whatever—and trying to use its placid surface to give myself a peaceful feeling that was not so strangely lacking in my life today. “I need cash and transport the hell out of this country.”

  If he thought my request strange, he didn’t deign to mention it to me. “Anything can be arranged for the proper…incentive. What sort of transport were you thinking?”

  “Private plane,” I said, thumbing on the other officer’s smartphone so I could browse while I chatted. Luckily, neither one of them had bothered to set a passcode. Silly of them, really. “I’m about an hour outside Edinburgh, apparently. How long will it take you to get a private plane—a trusted one—to, say, the airfield at…” I started to scroll my Google results for “airfield.”

  “I have an airfield near Lochty, assuming you want to stay out of Edinburgh, given the circumstances,” he said casually, like he arranged illegal transport for fleeing felons all the time. For all I knew, he did. He didn’t technically work for the bank itself, after all. I’d have to call my actual banker, Nils, and arrange payment after he quoted me a fee. “It is just a field, though, a grass strip in the middle of nowhere. Does that work?”

  “That works,” I said. “Also, for planning purposes, I might need some, uh…toys.” I really didn’t want to be specific here, because if I said, “I need grenade launchers, rocket launchers, machine guns, a nuclear bomb, etc.” I was pretty Brit NSA would be all over that shit, no matter how lousy they were at their job. A fricking third world knockoff NSA consisting of two guys and one of those old long-range microphones would pick up on that kind of conversation.

  “I see,” he said, still cool about the whole thing. “Have you run into a difficulty that is beyond your usual abilities?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “You could say that. I need some special shopping done. From the kind of markets that, uh…well, would be easier in the US, but most difficult in Europe.” I hoped that was subtle enough for the Brits, but clear enough for him.

  “I believe we can accommodate such a request,” he said. “For a modest fee.”

  “Tell me how much you need, and I’ll call Mr. Nils and have him wire the money.” I braced myself, because I knew this was going to hurt.

  “I think five million should cover it,” came the answer a moment later. “Top to bottom.”

  I wanted to say it was highway robbery, but I was sitting on the shoulder of a highway and I had zero ability to throw flame, light nets, fly, heal my wounds rapidly, or turn into a dragon if need be. If someone came along to highway rob me right now, my recourse was to beat their skull in. I didn’t like that, because I’d come to enjoy having other abilities at my fingertips for when trouble (inevitably) came a-callin’.

  “Done and done,” I said. It wasn’t like I’d earned that money, and I could smell the danger I was in right now. A private plane out of the country and some serious hardware for five mil? I’d pay that price, get the hell out of here, and regroup, make my plans for revenge, and come back to bushwhack Rose when she least expected it. Or else find a way to lure her to me and into a trap, throw her off her game and finish this fight that way.

  No matter how I played it, though, getting hounded by Police Scotland until they ran me to ground? Not an effective way of dealing with my Rose problem. Thorny little bitch.

  “A pleasure as always,” Fritz said, and then he hung up, presumably to deal with the problems of arranging a private plane for an international fugitive and lots of guns to be smuggled into a country that didn’t really truck with that sort of thing.

  My next call was also from memory, and was answered on the third ring by a curious voice. “Hello?”

  “This is, uh,” I started, hoping he’d recognize my voice. “Well, I hope you know who.”

  “I think I recognize your voice,” Nils said. “And I somehow thought I might hear from you today.”

  “You’re a smart guy when it comes to knowing your customers and their needs, Mr. Nils,” I said. “I need a payment to Fritz. Five mil.”

  If he was surprised at the sum—larger than I typically moved, but I had somewhere near half a billion still sitting in his bank—he evinced no surprise. “I see. I will arrange it immediately.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I might have chitchatted more, but neither he nor I were chitchatty people, and I suspected he was as busy as I was. “By the way, this number—”

  “I assume it won’t be in service much longer?” he asked, but he did so in the manner of a man who already knew the answer.

  “Safe bet,” I said. “As always.”

  “Til next time, then,” he said.

  “Thanks,” I said, and as soon as the call was disconnected I broke the phone in half, looking around to make sure no one was watching, and rolled down the window and tossed it into the loch. I finished my browse, finding out that there was a nearby town just up the road, and then broke that phone in half too. I’d been careful not to plot any trips, instead figuring out where that Lochty airfield was by visual inspection only, then after busting that phone followed it with the two police cell phones, which were just plain flip ones. I thought about tossing the radios too, but those couldn’t be tracked (that I knew of) and I’d been listening to the low-level chatter of their manhunt, hoping not to hear anything like, “She’s stolen a police car and is on Route Blankety-Blank, on the shore of Loch Rainyland.” Because that would be bad.

  The last of the things I needed disposed of now gone, I popped the car into gear. Still getting used to driving on the other side of the road, I eased back out into the light flow of traffic along the scenic lane and took a left. Hopefully the village ahead would continue to provide me a respite for trouble, and I’d be able to grab what I needed, swap cars, and get the hell out of Scotland before anything else bad happened.

  But somehow…I had a feeling it wasn’t going to be nearly that easy, because with me? It never was.

  6.

  The Scottish village wasn’t really much of a village. It was more like a collection of houses that were grouped casually together with a church, a petrol station, as they called them, and little else.

  Luckily for me, there were woods nearby, and I took full advantage, ditching the cop car after I wedged it between two trees in a parallel parking situation right out of Austin Powers. I didn’t do the parallel park myself, of course; I actually picked up the car and moved it there, partially to take this particular instrument out of Police Scotland’s arsenal, and mostly to test my own succubus-level strength, because it had been a while since I’d done anything without Wolfe power.

  I was still strong enough to lift a car, so that was good. And it wasn’t even the full height of my powers, luckily, because I had a feeling that if the dread that was building in my belly gave way to an actual reason for being rather than just a nervous residue of the ass-kicking I’d received last night, I’d be needing that strength.

  Hiking back to the village only took a short while, a quick run over uneven ground. I surveyed it while remaining hidden in the trees, trying to figure out where I’d do my respective misdeeds.

  I needed, in this order: another car, preferably one that wouldn’t be missed for a
while; clothes to disguise me; and possibly some petty cash and/or a meal. Because I hadn’t eaten since either yesterday or the day before (sad that I couldn’t recall), and my stomach was whining in hunger as well as fear, though it was getting hard to tell the difference.

  Making my way out of the trees, I tried to walk as casually as possible. I was up on a high approach to the village, and it seemed likely someone was going to see me at some point. There I’d be, a police officer strolling down out of the heights. I wanted to try and make it look casual, no big deal, just out on patrol without a police car anywhere in sight. To that end, I didn’t run, I just walked like I had all the time in the world, because furtive movements would do a lot more to give me away than casual action. The entirety of Scotland was now in a manhunt for Sienna Nealon. Watching a lady cop walk out of the hills was weird, but it would be a lot less weird than seeing one come darting out of the hills like she was trying to play spy. That kind of thing got the cops called on you, even if you were a cop.

  I strolled down into the backyard of the nearest house and vaulted the fence lightly like I owned the place. I’d read that in Scotland there was something called the “right to wander,” which meant you could basically cross private property without consequence so long as you didn’t mess with someone’s cattle or do something similarly dickish, and so I just kept my hands at my sides and walked like I had nothing going on this morning as I strolled toward the small blue house ahead.

  Other houses were a ways off, probably fifty yards to my left and right. There were only about ten homes in the entirety of the village, so if someone saw me, I was under no illusions about how fast word of my appearance would travel. Hell, it was probably already fully spread through this place.

  Coming up to the somewhat ragged back door of the house, I gave a polite little knock, then tilted my head to look at the picture window to the right of the door. A dog barked inside, and I could hear its claws drag the carpet as it scampered toward the back door to…I dunno, lick me to death or something.