“NO!” Hadi hollered.
“Oh get over it,” Ray-Bans sighed. When Hadi turned, he was greeted with the butt end of that same gun straight to the face. He immediately dropped to the ground in a pain-filled haze that eventually turned black.
Angelo Gustavo stood above Hadi Shahir’s still form. He was not in any rush, calmly stowing his gun in the leather holster hidden inside his jacket. He flexed his fingers inside the leather gloves, stretching the soft, black material so it creaked. He brushed debris and chunks of ash from his black coat, even adjusted his ridiculous sunglasses before leaning down to haul Hadi up over his shoulder. The poor kid was dead weight on Angelo’s shoulder, easily hefted like a rag doll but annoying all the same. It forced him to actual exert force, to work. He hated work, to be quite honest. He loved it, but hated it. It was an endless cylce with him.
He walked over to the car, dumping the bartender into the backseat like an unwanted coat. He checked the reflection in the window, smoothing his raven-black hair back from his face, checked for blemishes, then glanced at the bleeding body on the ground. A muffled scream and kick from the trunk reminded him of his other guest, forcing him to bang on the hood once more to silence the ungrateful cretin inside. The kid could be dead already; instead he was nice and cozy in the dark instead of out in the heat where the fire was. Angelo walked over to James Kendall and looked down with a smirk. The man had moxy, that’s for sure. In another life, the two might have been decent friends, even partners. In this world, however, the middle-aged agent was well past his prime. It showed in the grays growing in the man’s scruffy beard or at his temples, the crows feet at the corner of his eyes as he coughed and squinted against the heat. Old, injured and decrepit as he was, Kendall glared back at Angelo, choking on his own blood. His eyes were beginning to roll back into his head, but he still had the gall to glare; could’ve been the smoke too, but Angelo knew men like James Kendall. Smoke didn’t bother men like James Kendall. People like Angelo bothered men like James Kendall. It was delicious.
“Caught your little fire bird, Falcon,” Angelo smiled. “Your little Sparrow is next. I’ll make sure she suffers. Maybe I’ll even make those little brats of hers watch. Shame you won’t be there to see it. Another life, perhaps. See you in Hell, Kendall. Save me a good seat.”
He adjusted the lapels of his jacket once more, and calmly walked away from the dying agent. Once settled inside the car, Angelo adjusted the rear-view mirror so he could clearly see the billowing smoke and flames from the building behind him. He snorted, smirked, and snapped his fingers then put the car in gear as the entire building lit up like a match stick on the Fourth of July.
13
Hadi woke to the sensation of icicles stabbing his back and shoulders. By the time he realized there were no icicles, his entire body was numb. He shivered violently, arms tied behind his back beneath a torrent of water so cold he was positive it was being drawn directly from the arctic circle. Despite the numbness in his body, his head throbbed with constant waves of pain that nauseated him and made him incredibly dizzy. His vision blurred thanks to the water pouring over him but he put in the effort to see his surroundings all the same. Not that there was much to see - a bare, poorly lit warehouse with high beams all rusted over or covered in bird droppings. It was large enough to make the water echo as well as the footsteps that moved towards him. He looked up, feeling the fear knot his stomach further as two, maybe three figures moved in his direction. It was difficult to tell, but no less terrifying.
“Mr. Shahir,” one of the three said. The voice was odd: melodious and mechanical at the same time. Hadi blinked rapidly, hair falling into his face and water dripping into his eyes and ears. The figure was hooded but not very tall; a woman, perhaps. The person to their right was the agent with black hair and thick, bushy brows. The person between them, forced onto his knees and hands tied behind his back, was Amir. “You have a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Hadi said nothing, shivering or trying to breathe normally as the water filled his nostrils. The figure circled him, their footsteps reverberating in a cacophony of noise until stopping once more in front of Hadi, a little closer than they were before.
“I will admit that your involvement in all of this has been both fortuitous and regrettable. You’ve forced my hand in a war I was not quite prepared to fight. Do you know how that makes me feel, Mr. Shahir?” the figure asked. Hadi felt like spitting on him but settled for letting his teeth chatter instead.
“Idiotic?” Hadi answered through his chattering teeth. The answer earned him a fist to the face that put stars in his vision.
“Cute,” the hooded figure chortled. “It makes me feel rushed, Mr. Shahir. I do not like being rushed. It takes the joy out of life.”
Hadi looked down at the floor, unwilling to listen to the hooded figure’s diatribe. He twisted uncomfortably from shivering so much, his muscles spasming painfully to try to keep him warm. That panic that he relied on to bring the fire was too overwhelming, too strong to command obedience. And, he was just too dammed wet. It was like the night in the alley, the night he’d tried to fight back and failed only this time, it was worse.
“The explosions, at your place of business, for example,” the figure continued. “Such a waste of a good harvest. Why? Because you had to involve the A.E.C.”
The figure snapped his fingers, drawing Hadi’s attention again. He heard the sobbing gasps of a woman and the wails of a baby that made his marrow turn to ice. Ray-Bans held his phone in front of Hadi’s face. The screen was split between a live feed of Nima and her daughter, and an image of James in the alley, still and pale. Hadi could not tell if that was a live feed or not for there was not enough life in the elder man to give him that hint. Hadi felt tears stinging his eyes and shook his head.
“Don’t,” Hadi pleaded. Or, rather, attempted to plea. The noise his voice made was pathetic and weak; a staccato croak that tried to form intelligible thought. “Please… they didn’t do anything to you.”
“They did not,” the figure agreed. “As I said, a regrettable crossing of paths. But, also fortuitous. You find yourself in the unique position of holding information that very few have.”
Hadi looked at Amir then back at the phone. Nima tried to calm her daughter with no success. They were in a gray room with flickering fluorescent lights like the shitty ones in the laundromat that needed constant replacing. Hadi saw no one else. Where was Saleh?
“What do you want?” Hadi asked, again through chattering, clacking teeth.
“The PeaceKeepers, Mr. Shahir,” the hooded figure said calmly, spreading their arms as if it was not truly as important as the figure was implying. “You have seen their technology, sat among them, listened to their conversations, seen where they hide.”
Hadi looked at his brother and then at the figure with a confused frown on his face. He didn’t know those people or their secrets. The closest he got to their tech was the bike James stole, and the only conversation he’d had - if it could even be called a conversation - was with that Valkyrie woman with the wings and crazy sword. That was about as helpful as Hadi could be, but that was not what the hooded figure wanted. They wanted more; they wanted detail and dirt - things Hadi did not have.
“I don’t know their secrets,” Hadi stuttered while shaking his head. The water beneath him was beginning to pool, creeping closer to Amir’s knees. He tried to scoot away but was shoved further into the icy water, wrenching him into a contorted position that brought a cry of pain from his lips. “Leave him alone!”
He felt a whip crack across his cheek that made another explosion of stars burst onto his field of vision. Amir tried to speak on his behalf but earned similar treatment, grunting in pain from what Hadi could make out.
“I do not take kindly to commands, Mr. Shahir,” the hooded figure continued calmly. Definitely a woman. Bitch. She pulled a gun from inside the folds of her long coat and pressed the barrel to Amir’s head. “
Your brother, for the PeaceKeepers.”
“Please, don’t,” Hadi stammered again then shook his head. “I don’t know. Some… some chick in leather armor is the only one I know. I don’t know where! I don’t know their secrets! Please!”
“That’s not very helpful, Mr. Shahir. Warlock.”
Hadi watched the screen, purposely put in his field of vision by the asshole with the Ray-Bans. It dragged Amir closer, if momentarily. Nima cried as Saleh was shoved at her from somewhere unseen and Farah ripped from her arms. The baby wailed, wriggling in the arms of a masked figure.
“Please…” Hadi sobbed. He was ignored. Saleh was shot first, Nima and Farah both screaming. Then, Nima was silenced and the baby left wailing on her mother’s corpse.
“Why are you doing this?!!” Hadi screamed. The burn came back, twisting his stomach, throbbing against his palm or between his shoulder blades.
The trigger cocked back but there was no further explanation. Hadi twisted violently in his seat, water splashing everywhere, steam rising off his shoulders. He watched Ray-Bans follow the little white plumes upward, watched Amir do the same but continued to beg.
“I don’t know!!” Hadi hollered, fighting the bounds until he was hopping in the chair that held him down. “I swear I don’t know! Please!”
“Last time, Mr. Shahir,” the figure continued, clearly losing her patience with him. “Where are the PeaceKeepers?”
Hadi could only shake his head and look at Amir. Amir looked at him, worry and fear in his eyes but odd resignation too. He knew what was coming, probably even knew why. Amir was smart, had so much ahead of him. Had. They both knew it was coming.
“I’m sorry,” Hadi croaked. It took less then a heartbeat after for the gun to fire. Amir collapsed in a pool of brain matter and blood that leaked into the drain beneath Hadi’s feet. He was aware of yelling, screaming until his throat was hoarse but little else until feeling heat. It was everywhere, all consuming. The screaming ceased being his own and started resonating from the man with the Ray-Bans who turned to run; the man who’d killed Lindy and James, and countless others. Hadi refused to let him go, directing his rage at him and him alone. The flames brought down iron beams and melted them into twisted piles of molten metal. The hooded woman vanished into the smoke. The water no longer felt like ice, but rather like lava pouring down Hadi’s back.
Eventually, Hadi realized that his hands were free though he could not recall how or why. He moved in a daze to Amir’s body and carried him out of the warehouse as the entire building - the entire city - went up in flames.
~
News reports cycled through the fires that tore through half of Chicago the week before Mother’s Day. Hundreds of people were injured, twenty confirmed dead, billions of dollars in damage. It was part of the horrendous acts of a serial arsonist that would later go down as one of the worst in Chicago’s history. Protesters marched to city hall, demanding justice, demanding safety from the ‘freaks’ that made such horrible things happen. More hate crimes were being committed daily, all of them against innocent men and women, even children that the angry populace deemed to be ‘abnormal’. James watched it all in disgust from the stiff new couch in an apartment that still smelled like new paint. He sat with a tumbler full of bourbon and five dossiers spread out on the matching coffee table. Everything was so… sterile. There were no personal touches, no mismatched pillows, or crooked picture frames on the wall, no comfy recliner; no Gen licking his bare toes. He hated it.
James downed the contents of the tumbler and then refilled it from a bottle at the corner of the coffee table. He set the bottle down, rubbing his chest with a grimace before grabbing his phone. Valerie continued to check in on him like she was his mother. He sent her a quick update, giving textual proof that he was still, in fact, alive, then punched a number into the cell phone and brought it to his ear while taking a long drag off a cigarette held precariously between two fingers while recollecting the tumbler of bourbon. He needed more hands. His left arm was still held in a sling and he wore a brace on his knee like the old man he was, plus the dull ache in his chest from the long line of stitches that were needed to remove the bullet Angelo had been so kind to gift to him. Ass. He wanted to feel better knowing that the idiot did not actually make it out of the warehouse where the fires originated, but such unadulterated hatred just wasn’t part of who James was.
IT’S HAZE. LEAVE A MESSAGE, the recording stated. There were so many messages from James he was positive the entire thing was full of his voice. He left at least one a day since being released from the hospital but never got a response back.
“Hadi, it’s James. Please call me. I need to know you’re ok. I need… Just call, ok?”
He hung up and threw the phone on the couch beside him. The new refill of bourbon was downed in a single gulp then refilled again. He changed the channel to something less caustic, settling on a mockumentary about mermaids. He enjoyed his cigarette and bourbon while looking over the dossiers. They were all Evolved that managed to drag themselves onto the ‘wanted’ list. Virgil Krisken aka “Crush” was one of them. Hadi, now being dubbed “Hellfire”, was another; neither had been seen since the fires.
The buzzing beside him nearly made James drop his tumbler. As it was, he spilled bourbon all over himself and two photos. He cursed under his breath and grabbed the phone, slamming his thumb on the green button four times before it actually answered.
“Hadi?” he said expectantly. When it was not, he sagged. “No, I have not heard from him, Agent Z. -Yes, ma’am. - - One hour.”
James hung up and let his head hang back. Well, at least she’d given him time to recover before pulling him under fire for his little stunt with her bike. At least he wouldn’t have to look at the stupid dossiers anymore. He closed them, cleaned up the spilled bourbon, and stood to go change his shirt when the phone vibrated again. He sighed, leaning over to pick it up without looking at the screen.
“Falcon.”
“The name doesn’t suit you, Jimbo.”
James frowned, not immediately familiar with the voice. “Hadi?”
“He doesn’t want to talk to you, Agent Kendall.” The voice was a little gruff, pitched low, but definitely one James was familiar with. Virgil.
“V? God, Virgil, where are you? Wha-”
“We’re safe. You won’t be able to find us. The phone can’t be traced so don’t try. We just wanted you to know that we’re safe.”
“V wait a minute, please don’t hang up, ok, just… tell him I’m sorry. Please? Will you do that for me? Will you tell him?” James begged. Silence. “Virgil?”
“Yeah,” Hadi said on the other end. “Me too. Bye, James.”
14
James eyed the hologram that stood beside him in the elevator at PeaceKeeper headquarters. Somehow, it felt odd going down into the bowels of the city rather than up to a higher point in Prison Tower, as the Chicago field office had been dubbed. That God awful building was blessedly shut down as a direct result of the fire fiasco and scheduled for demolition in order to ‘preserve secrecy’. Bullshit. Secrecy was lost the second Angelo set foot among their ranks. How long had he been a mole? It was something they would never learn, James wagered. All of Illinois now fell under the Milwaukee field office jurisdictions and a small contingent of PeaceKeepers - James hadn’t realized how large that organization was until recently either - had been left behind under cover to monitor the comings and goings inside of Chicago proper. Still, the hologram made James uncomfortable. It was of a boy, no older than twelve, in Victorian era dress complete with page-boy cap and suspenders. When the elevator stopped, the boy turned to regard him with a placid grin and too- large eyes. He freaked James out.
“The PeaceKeepers will take you in conference room six, Agent Falcon” the little creep said, his voice sweet but slightly mechanical. James offered a grimacing grin and stepped out. Much like the Chicago field office, everything was white, technologically advanced, and boring as
all get out. His last visit was too brief for him to recall many details except that everything was white. Such an odd color to choose for the building considering how often the elite team of Evolved must come in injured. Maintenance must be a real bear, James thought as he walked along the hall, noting the screens that popped up when he passed them. Each one displayed a number as well as a seating arrangement with occupant count and where, at the table, those occupants were. Two of the rooms were occupied, the glass frosted over for privacy. James only shook his head and proceeded to room number six.
He raised his hand to knock, but heard the hiss of the door pressurizing as it opened. It was very.. Star Trek in nature without any of the color. Inside the room was a horseshoe-shaped table with thirteen men and women sitting around it. Zephyr sat in the middle, her chair slightly elevated above the others. James only knew Ronin, the woman in black, and Neurophage, a man in his early thirties with wire-rimmed glasses and flaming red hair. The others simply stared. The older gentleman that invaded James’s brain space stood behind Zephyr rather than sitting with the rest of the team. Interesting. Slightly terrifying, but interesting.
“Sit down, Agent Falcon,” Zephyr instructed, though there was no chair for him to sit in. He glanced around all the same and moved into the center of the room. Then the chair appeared, hissing its way up out of the floor behind him. He watched it, looked at the assembled team, and finally took a cautious seat as if expecting the thing to sink back down into the ground beneath his weight. It did not.
“I have to say, I was expecting a court marshal, not a firing squad,” he mumbled wanting to get this over with. Valerie already looked at homes out in Washington where she was stationed that were near Puget Sound. He always wanted to live on the Sound. Zephyr arched a brow, however, and smirked.
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