Vigilante Mine

by Cera Daniels

  Ryan took the moment of quiet to trade out filters. His office design, much like the infrastructure of the condo, kept the city's ambient noise from assailing him when they experimented with new tech. Still, during a switch, the tech went offline. He had zero defense against sound. His power raged out of control—always would.

  He'd learned to take every precaution. Anything from the buzz of a forgotten lamp to a fly on the ceiling could knock him on his ass for days. Amanda flitted back to his thoughts unbidden. Even though Zach had sworn the earpiece had been intact that night, Ryan's ears had overloaded. They'd worked on a new design for weeks in the aftermath. He shook the memory loose and focused on the present. Past the disorientation. Even now, his fingers were like lead. His lungs ached and the room wavered. Zach's purposefully shallow breathing buffeted him into the couch cushions as he made the switch with sluggish movements.

  The new earpiece chafed for a moment. Layer after layer of white noise sank in. Ryan could breathe again. He ran through the filters, but the real test would be whether or not he could still hear Amanda's voice when he cranked them to blasting. Satisfied by the initial results, he stood.

  Instant vertigo.

  "Which ones did you modify? I can't tell a difference." Ryan grunted and leaned on the wall for support, then hit the light switch. The room seemed to shudder into place.

  His brother's jaw shifted, grinding his teeth.

  Still pissed. Great. "All right, I should have called."

  Zach didn't move.

  "Just to let you know something was up."

  Not even a blink.

  Ryan noted his brother's pale cheeks and joined him by the window. "What's this really about?"

  Zach pulled his hands out of his pockets and signed slowly, "Something bad."

  He'd gathered that much. Few things sobered Zach like his spirit guide-granted ability kicking into full gear. Ryan studied the weary expression on his face. "Worse than yesterday?"

  "Yesterday I knew you'd make it out alive," he murmured.

  A chill tugged at Ryan's shoulders, insidious, spreading over his chest.

  Zach pivoted and slumped against the wall. With his gaze aimed at the floor, his shoulder-length hair concealed his face. "Maybe we should stay in tonight."

  "Too late. I already have dinner plans." Though he kept his tone light, inside Ryan reeled with concern.

  They'd tangled with their powers for years. Even after it became clear Zach's ability gave him a knack for sensing a vague, near-future danger or injury for a family member, even though it pissed Zach off, made him sick, and kept him guessing, he'd never suggested they stop.

  Never.

  "Who, Brennan?" His brother shot him a glare, but it lacked the usual venom. Instead, Zach's bronze eyes showcased his pain. "She's about as trustworthy on the identity scale as Klepto. The woman can't be herself for five minutes."

  "Our arrangement doesn't allow for her to be just Brennan."

  Zach shoved his hair back as if he were striving for normalcy. "You're not afraid she'll find too much?"

  "There's nothing to find." Ryan slipped into his jacket, but his hand paused over his keys. If the prospect of this dinner out with Brennan brought out his brother's danger-sense more strongly than yesterday's fiery encounter had, perhaps tonight called for Chinese food at the office. "She knows we're half Ohanzee. Anything she digs up related to our powers would be just a jumble of stories to her. Legends, nothing more."

  "She's smarter than that, or you wouldn't have hired her." Zach frowned. "I want to get a handle on the crazy shit we can do as much as you, but is it worth this risk?"

  "Yes." Ryan flicked the communicator on his new earpiece to life, then clapped his brother on the shoulder. "I'll be late if I don't leave for La Province now. You need to stop me?"

  "Whatever this is, it hasn't peaked. It's not that close." With the resolute statement, anxiety seemed to drain from his expression. "Go. Get out of here."

  "You'll be up for a while?"

  Zach snorted. "My spirit guide's a bat, bro. When do you think we sleep?"

  Amanda wrapped a towel around her hair and stepped into her bedroom. An afternoon in her home gym and a hot bath had done little to ease her frustration. Finding the vic, examining the scene, had exhilarated her mind. Chasing the syndicate member had pushed her body. Briefly, she'd even felt like part of the team again.

  Now, she felt lost, like a piece of her soul had misplaced its tether.

  News 9 played in the living room. The channel boasted an overlay map of the city with a number of red dots. She froze.

  Victims.

  Eleven more recovered bodies, plus Old Town.

  "Oh, no."

  The reporter skirted details, but murders notable enough to link together on the evening news meant the same M.O.

  The landline rang. Dale's home number. She pounced on the handset in the kitchen. "They're all masked, aren't they? Sir, I—"

  "I lied to you, mija." Not her lieutenant, but his wife, Theresa. Disappointment cramped Amanda's chest as the woman launched into rapid-fire Spanish.

  "Too fast, Theresa. Who did what with a gun?" She gripped the handset hard. "Are you okay?"

  "Yes." A choked laugh. "I should be asking you. My Michael told me what he did today. He feels sick, but I could not make him change his mind."

  Amanda bit the inside of her cheek. Sick? What did that mean? Regret? "I appreciate you trying."

  Before she could ask what he'd told his wife about the public dismissal, Theresa added in careful English, "The man on the phone is real, mija. He was here, with a gun."

  "What?" Amanda blanched. "Why didn't you tell me before? Are you safe now?"

  "I am safe, yes. Before—" Theresa took a deep breath. "The masks, the precinct, he did these things. He made threats, he killed those men, and he'll kill more."

  "News 9 seems to think he already has." Amanda's pulse fluttered wildly. Ryan had been right. Dale had contact with the man who'd attacked their precinct, the murderer, and he'd lied about it to the team. Because Theresa had been in danger? Or was her lieutenant now being blackmailed? "Did you get a look at the guy? Could you ID him in a lineup?"

  "Not his face. But the way he stands, it's very . . . I've been around police officers long enough to know one when I see one, and this man, he believes he's law."

  An inside man. Amanda shook her head. Believing that would mean her primary suspect, the masked criminal who'd shot her, wore a badge. "He can't be one of our own."

  "Well if he is, you're in the best place you can be."

  "The best place? Home sweet home, without the means to stop him?" Bitterness lay heavy on her tongue. "That's not comforting, Theresa."

  "Mija, you are home sweet home, without this man looking over your shoulder. I have never known you not to take action."

  Amanda's lungs froze. Theresa was right. The suspension put her on the outside. If the killer was a cop, he'd have the power to misdirect the team from inside the precinct, he'd know their every move, and he'd cover his tracks. Her movements, however, would be unchecked.

  "The news reports don't give much information." She could find him, off-book.

  She could also be arrested for following a wild hunch—which, even if she turned out to be right, would still look like a personal vendetta—and interfering with an active investigation. While under suspension.

  The Police Commission would love that.

  "You understand my Michael's hands are tied."

  "By what?" Red tape? Was the killer watching him?

  Dale's wife dropped her voice to a whisper. "Charlie misses you."

  "Charlie? What does Charlie have to do with . . . you're not there anymore." Amanda dropped the phone to her lap, listening to the dial tone.

  Going after her attacker would be a point of no return for her career. But if she caught him . . . Amanda squeezed her shoulder as she stared at the television. Relek City's street map flashed up again, a new dot appearing o
n the east side. Her stomach churned. He'd keep on killing while her team slipped further and further from the truth.

  She scrolled through the phone log and punched the call button. "Charlie?"

  "She called you, didn't she." It wasn't a question.

  "If I were to catch myself a trigger-happy serial killer, where would I start?"

  The department's physical therapist was silent so long, she thought the call had dropped. Just as she pulled it away from her ear to check, he cleared his throat. "This is a good way to make the suspension permanent, Amanda."

  She muffled her snarl of frustration, but it rippled up her throat anyway. "I can't sit here while people die. Not if I can do something about it."

  "I told her I couldn't help you." His voice lowered. "I meant it. I have two kids in college. I'm sorry. If I thought I could do something without getting fired—"

  "I think the man who put me on the bench is behind this."

  "Lieutenant Dale?" Charlie's voice rose to an unbelieving pitch.

  "No," Amanda said. "The man who shot me."

  He seemed to mull it over, making short, mumbling noises in the back of his throat. "Because of the masks. I get it. How do you expect to pull a case like that together?"

  "I can't. Not yet." She paused, then decided to mete out a little trust to her friend. "A few pictures of the boards, a vic list, anything would be better than nothing right now. Details will help me fill out my grid here. I can find him."

  "You can't arrest him. You don't have a badge."

  "Once I have evidence, I'll be able to call in the cavalry."

  "You realize he could be part of the cavalry."

  "I'm aware of the risks." Amanda chewed on the inside of her cheek, then pushed him a little further. "You owe me, Charlie. You don't feel even a little guilty for keeping me on the bench? Knowing that I checked out? Give me something."

  "I hate this as much as you do. More. Things haven't been right since you got shot." He lowered his voice so much she had to strain to hear. "The vic they pulled out of here was a politician. Small time. Dead before he wound up at the center of the blast. They got an ID off his watch. Hell of a laundry list of dirty financials stuffed in his coat pockets, the mask, but not much else left."

  Information she could use. "What does a politician have to do with our snitch?"

  "I don't know, but I know you." A smile crept into his tone. "If anyone can suss it out, it'll be you."

  "You won't regret this."

  "I already do." He sighed and Amanda smiled. Charlie was on her side. "Give me an hour and I'll see if I can route something else your way. Any longer than an hour, don't count on me. Things are . . . bad here. And Amanda?"

  Her breath caught. "Yes?"

  "Don't get caught. By our guys, or his."

  After he hung up, Amanda yanked an atlas off her shelf and scribbled with markers until she had a map that matched the TV's infographic. She pulled up her laptop's web browser and researched until Charlie's hour had passed. When no contact came and the body drops showed no overt similarities, Amanda threw up her hands. No names, no patterns, no answers. She had theories, but no one to play sounding board.

  She missed Ryan.

  A self-deprecating laugh escaped. All her fuss over the Old Town file and here she sat, breaking the law to do the right thing. Amanda snatched up her phone handset again, put it back, and snapped a new cartridge into her Taser. If the masked bodies were messages, maybe it wasn't the location so much as ownership of each venue that mattered. Property tax leads could have an underlying connection. Armed with her civilian express rail card and bundled up against the cold, she headed for the door. She didn't need Ryan to brainstorm this one. Exactly one person had tax record access and the best hot cocoa on the planet: Mom.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Ryan held no envy for his brothers. None of their powers were a picnic. The McLelas name and prestige stacked strain on all of their shoulders, even as it provided the means to safeguard the city in their nighttime pursuits. Curse and responsibility, disguised for the cameras as luxury and confidence.

  He handed his keys to the valet at La Province and ran a hand through his unbound hair before stepping toward the media-frenzied entrance. The stylized provincial façade of the restaurant glowed with pride, and it was well-deserved. Best food this side of the country, private tables, discreet wait staff, only the finest wines. His forehead pinched as he closed in on the white and blue building. His date had already arrived. Brennan commanded the stage, owned every camera.

  Why wouldn't she? Today, the woman looked like a rock star.

  Literally.

  "Mina, is Mr. McLelas vetting you to perform at the fundraiser this weekend?" The News 9 reporter—one Ryan didn't recognize—crowded forward, but "Mina" ate up the attention with an artful flutter of her lashes.

  "Oh no, it's like I said: we're here to speak on more . . . personal matters." She winked at the reporter.

  Ryan's stomach dropped to his Oxfords. Dear Lord, I've created a monster.

  She waved at him over the clamoring news crews. "Hey, sexy!"

  The media parted and he took a few jerky steps forward. Not tonight. He didn't want the cameras, the carefully nurtured public persona, or the answers Brennan promised. His thoughts conjured Amanda in her sensible jeans and comfortable coat in place of Brennan and her black lace mini skirt, thigh high boots—

  Are those . . . piercings?

  Ryan's chest ached. He needed a hot cup of tea and space to think. Breathe. He wanted Amanda. He might be winning her confidence in little bits and pieces, but she still shut him down at every turn. His detective didn't want any more lies, and he had two major ones standing in the way: Klepto, and this farce playing out in front of La Province.

  There weren't any "bimbos". Just one actress with a makeup kit and an extensive repertoire.

  Zach was right. This arrangement had to end.

  Rock star Brennan launched into his arms, the aggression and neon purple hair so different from the normally coy women she portrayed that it caught him off-guard. He missed the moment when she went from clutching his lapels to kissing him full on the mouth.

  The cameras didn't.

  Amanda slapped the remote against her thigh. Ryan McLelas's sex life was none of her business, but the televised kiss had her blood seething. The sooner she cleared the image out of her head, the sooner she could focus on the atlas pages spread across her mother's glass coffee table.

  "There's a serial killer on the loose and make-out sessions are news." She scrawled a blue "x" on an offshoot of Finley Street and tried not to think about almost-kisses.

  "Turn that junk off and talk to your mother, girl," Meredith Werner, aka Mom, plopped a whiskey sour on a coaster by Amanda's elbow. Condensation from the glass clung to her fingertips and she wiped them on the knees of her brown slacks. She turned a suspicious set of baby blue eyes on Amanda as she joined her on the sofa. "What's the emergency?"

  "I'm not jealous of bimbos." Amanda's cheeks instantly heated and she scrubbed at them with her palms. "Ignore me, Mom. It's been a long day."

  "With that young man?" A manicured, platinum blond eyebrow lifted at the screen.

  Amanda flipped to a news channel. More lips. She mashed the power button. "Not in the way you're thinking."

  Her dreamy look said she'd already jumped on the grandbaby train. Without a word, Mom brushed imaginary crumbs from her cream-colored turtleneck. Then she motioned toward the screen and opened her mouth.

  Amanda thrust the map in front of her to stall the girl talk. "I need to know everything you can find about the properties surrounding these marks."

  "Computer trouble at the office again?" Her mother fingered one corner of the paper, glossy lips turning down as her glance darted to the darkened television. "This is your case?"

  "I'm looking into some leads. Tax records are your territory." Amanda didn't want to lie, but neither did she want to face her mother's disappointment. The
loss of her badge could wait. "I'm trying to figure out why these locations were chosen. The end goal."

  Mom nodded and the tight curls surrounding her head jiggled. Amanda had escaped the crazy-curly end of the gene pool. She'd once thought the height was a disadvantage too, until she'd joined the force and had to make use of every inch. Dale. Her so-called team. Racing to catch a killer who'd be pointing them in the exact opposite direction. Amanda reached for her whiskey and polished it off in a rush.

  Her mother rose to pull open the computer desk. "This could take a while. You've got quite a few places to look."

  "I've got time." She didn't have a choice; she needed information to track the killer. Worrying about his activities while she spent hours digging it up was as unproductive as lingering over the shreds of her career.

  "Is that so? Then while you're waiting, you can tell me about Mr. McLelas." She punched a few keys on her keyboard.

  "I gave you an opening. I know better than that." Amanda pressed the heel of her palm to her forehead. A man who scored with a different woman every night had no place in her brain. "Mom, I really don't want to talk about him."

  "All the more reason why you should. Besides, I shared my whiskey stash."

  "And it was delicious."

  Mom jotted some notes on a pad of paper. She swiveled around on the bar stool she used for a desk chair and pointed at Amanda. "Any other night, I'd be bartering for answers. I know this one's on a time crunch and you'll be running off soon, so I won't bother you about men." She swung back to her computer. "But don't think I'm not putting it on your tab."

  Amanda fled the living room in search of the imported chocolate. With Mom, the twenty questions tab gained interest with each passing hour. She'd have to cave a little, or there'd only be more questions. "He's involved with a case at work."

  A snort came from the other room. "That's all you'll give me? I bet the media would even give me his shoe size."

  "He's a hopeless flirt." Amanda filled a pot with milk and set it on to boil, desperately trying not to think about the size of Ryan's feet. "But he's . . . earthier than I expected. You don't see it with the media."