And as if a light switch had been flipped, Brian's eyes went wide, and his already-pale skin whitened even more. The phone slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor.
Jill, at a loss for anything else to do, dropped to a knee and grabbed the device. "Brian..."
He just shook his head.
"Brian."
"Tell me... tell me I didn't just see what I think I saw." Brian's voice was barely above a whisper. If Jill hadn't been so close to him, she might not have heard him. "Tell me I'm imagining this."
"I..." Jill opened her mouth, then shut it again.
"Tell me that is not our father." Brian shook his head, lifting his chin. When Jill met his eyes, she nearly tore away her gaze. Brian's eyes were red, glazed over. His cheeks were quickly becoming the same color, which meant at any minute the waterworks would start. But knowing Brian the way she did, Jill knew he would lash out before the breakdown, and Jill stood with balled-up fists, ready to be the target of his short-lived rage. "Tell me, Jill. Tell me!"
"Ramon says it's not him," Jill whispered, lowering her head until long brown locks framed her face.
"Ramon says it's not him," Brian repeated with a huff and a chuckle. "Well, I guess that settles it." He grabbed the wheels on his chair with both hands, nails digging into the grooved rubber as the first tears began to fall. He shook his head again, but this time, he chuckled. "Come on, Jill, we both know you wouldn't have shown me this video if you really thought Ramon was right."
Damn, Brian knew her so well...
"How did—" Brian ran a shaky hand through his sandy blond hair. "No. Never mind. I don't wanna know."
"I couldn't tell you anyway." Jill shrugged. "I'm just as lost as you."
Mostly because as soon as Jill discovered Paul Andersen was once again alive, she also discovered that David Gregor had undergone Project Fusion for the sole purpose of trying to inflict as much physical pain on Jill as psychological and emotional. Two massive revelations on top of each other, and the entire thing threatened to overwhelm Jill to the point of shutdown. Even now, she felt the enormity of it all pressing down on her.
"So. Dad managed to cheat death." Brian buried his face in both hands, taking in as deep a breath as his lungs could hold. He went silent.
Jill was clueless, despite having years of experience dealing with her brother becoming an emotional mess. She crouched beside him, gently reaching out to place a hand on his shoulder. When her hand wasn't immediately brushed aside, Jill released the breath she had been holding. She gave Brian's shoulder a squeeze, then closed in to lightly wrap her arms around him. Brian's arms immediately lunged for Jill, clamping down around her midsection. Jill tightened her grip in response, cupping the back of her younger brother's head as he started to cry.
She couldn't tell how long they stayed like that: her on her knees, comforting her brother as he sobbed into her shoulder. She rocked him and stroked his back, staring up at the ceiling to keep her own emotion at bay. She had already shed tears over all this, and she was done with that. Brian needed Jill to be the strong one right now, and it had nothing to do with her powers.
"When's it gonna end?" he finally whispered.
Jill loosened her grip with a frown, cupping Brian's face in both hands. He stared at her, a sad smile cracking onto his features, and Jill found herself returning the gesture. If nothing else, he was looking at her, eyeplate and all, without hesitation. It was the first time she could remember her younger brother not flinching at the sight of it.
"I wish I knew," she offered. "But... I have an idea."
Something dark crossed over Brian's face. Something Jill couldn’t place. "Tell me it involves gutting that billionaire son of a bitch."
"Not quite." Jill ducked her head. "We need to dig up Dad's grave."
Brian blinked and leaned back in his chair. "Do what?"
"It's really our best bet at figuring out whether the man we saw on screen is actually him," Jill explained. "We open the casket and he's in there, we've got an imposter. If it's empty..."
"Then resurrection's real."
Jill shuddered at the implications. She dared not speak them into being. No matter what, science had clearly outpaced what Jill was used to. Either human doppelgangers were a thing to be reckoned with, or humanity had found a way to reanimate the dead. Either way, the implications were dire.
Brian ran a shaky hand over his stubble. "Or the execution was a hoax."
Jill blinked, because she honestly had not considered that possibility. On the one hand, why would she? Her contact with the mayor's office had been definitive in reporting the execution had gone off without a hitch; after all, she had witnessed it firsthand. But who was to say that wasn't part of the ruse? But that also begged the question: who benefited from making people think Paul Andersen was dead?
No matter how hard Jill racked her brain, she only came up with one name. The same name that always came up.
"But it all starts with exhuming the remains," she offered.
Even as he stared at the floor, Brian reached for Jill's hand. They squeezed in unison, their fingers intertwined. As much as Jill hated causing her brother pain like this, she was glad she didn't have to face this ordeal alone. The Andersen family hadn't been completely decimated, not yet, and she could never quite put into words how grateful she was for that. Even as she felt her brother shake with rage and grief, she was glad to be here, in this moment, with him. Even if the look he shot her gave her chills when he looked up again.
"Do it."
CHAPTER 39
The next day...
The Inner Harbor was not only Baltimore's crown jewel, a thriving downtown hub that justified the city's nickname—Charm City—it was also the most heavily-populated part of the city. Most of Pratt Street's congestion was a direct result of its proximity to the Inner Harbor, and the businesses along this corner of the Chesapeake Bay benefited from near year-round waves of tourism, as well as the influx of people flooding into downtown for Ravens and Orioles games. Very much a tourist trap, the Inner Harbor was also popular with locals... which made it the perfect spot for public displays meant to truly grab everyone's attention.
Two men wearing black ski masks and military fatigues kept to themselves in the shadows afforded them by the aquarium and the position of the midday sun. They were separated from the masses, who were too busy going about their day to notice their presence. Crouching, the two men surveyed the hustle and bustle of the Inner Harbor. Patrons streaming into restaurants for lunch, others coming and going along the many shops, overstuffed bags clutched in their hands.
The man on the left shook his head. Such rampant consumerism, such selfishness. Never mind that the city was overrun with corruption and greed; so long as the masses could distract themselves with the latest gadgets and a steaming plate of seafood, nothing else mattered. This was true all over the country, but that was for another day. America would have its reckoning after they had saved Baltimore.
Crawling before walking.
"Pathetic," he muttered under his breath, low enough that not even his partner heard him.
"OH, COME ON!" MITCH couldn't help but laugh, even as she rolled her eyes. "It's not really a honeymoon unless you leave the country."
"I don't disagree." Jorge Santos shook his head, taking a long swig of his coffee as the pair wandered along the sidewalk separating Pratt Street from the Inner Harbor. The tide was on its way out, and with the wind having shifted in the last hour, the accompanying stench was mercifully not as strong as usual. Even for those who had lived here for years, that smell was enough to keep people away. "But need I remind you Ramon and I live on a budget?"
Mitch arched a brow and shook a purple dread out of her face. "Even with that hefty raise he just got?"
"Government job's still a government job." Jorge stopped to polish off the rest of his coffee, tossing the empty cup into a nearby trash can. "No offense, Mitch, but in a perfect world, Ramon and I would be sipping exotic drinks
with tiny umbrellas for straws on some beach in southern Brazil."
"Which would give me the peace and quiet I need to get ready for school," Mitch added with a sideways grin.
Mitch was nearly ready to start her first semester at Coppin State University, thanks to a scholarship Jorge had helped her apply for not long after she had moved in with the couple. Her life had been a whirlwind in the weeks since her grandfather's murder, but not all of it had been bad. Far from it, actually. And while the detective who had been assigned the case couldn't have cared less what happened, Mitch had met Detective Gutierrez, who had not only shown far more concern for the murder, but for Mitch's overall well-being as well. Ramon and Jorge had taken Mitch in when she had nowhere else to go, and that stability had allowed her to begin pursuing dreams poverty had long ago forced her to put on the back burner.
College was first on that list. Just over a week ago, Mitch had begun going to therapy. To this point, she imagined most of her sessions would revolve around family issues—specifically, the fact that she had no family outside of her grandfather. But Mitch knew the fact that she was transgender was going to come up, and she dreaded that. Not because she expected her therapist to be hostile toward her. Rather, she was afraid her therapist would fall into the same traps as so many others. Ignorance was so rampant that even those with the best of intentions wound up doing more harm than good.
The last thing Mitch wanted to discuss right now were issues related to her physical appearance. It wasn’t a sore subject for her, because she simply didn’t care. There were far more important things to worry about in the world than what was between Mitch's legs or what she kept stowed away in her closet. If Mitch told people that was her name and what pronouns she wanted used, wasn't that enough?
As far as Mitch was concerned, other issues only mattered if she found herself wanting to sleep with someone. Which hadn't yet become an issue, and she didn’t see that changing any time soon.
Which was just fine with her.
More than anything, Coppin State represented a fresh start. Mitch enjoyed the proverbial clean slate and didn't want anything to get in the way of that.
"Looking forward to school?" Jorge asked.
"It's weird," Mitch said in between licks of her ice cream cone. "I grew up around Coppin, but never really thought that place could be like home."
The smile on Jorge's face was short-lived; movement caught the corner of his eye. He frowned when he saw two men emerge from the shadows, dressed in fatigues and wearing masks. But what really made Jorge's heart leap into his throat was the sight of the semi-automatic weapons hoisted over their shoulders—and the fact that they were now reaching for those weapons.
Grabbing Mitch's shoulder, Jorge dropped to his knees and shouted as loud as his voice could carry. His coffee spilled all over the pavement and his arm, hot liquid spilling from the paper cup.
Jorge barely noticed when it burned him.
"Everybody down!"
THE TWO MEN SAID NOTHING to announce their presence, allowing the never-ending spray of gunfire to do the talking for them. They had talked enough in those videos they had broadcast throughout the city, and clearly the message had not been received. The city had ignored them. Worse, some had antagonized them further. Instead of cowering in fear, this city was going about its business as if everything was normal. Humanity's sense of community and bonding apparently only went but so far, replaced with consumerism and the desire to keep to one's self. If something didn't directly affect them, they couldn't be bothered.
These men took no joy in seeing their bullets tearing through people, ripping through skin and muscle. The screams of those not yet hit, scattering for any cover they could find, were not music to these men's ears. There was a robotic precision to the spray of carnage. For The Collective, these people were little more than moving targets. The gunmen were so calm, they might as well have been at the firing range blasting away at clay discs.
This was just the next step, one The Collective had not seen itself needing to take. Step one had failed; the message had fallen on deaf ears. Law enforcement's reaction had been predictable, both in how much bluster they had thrown around and in how ineffective their efforts actually were. Public decapitation clearly did not hold the sway their leader had thought, so they were left with something more drastic, timelier.
Sometimes, the blood of tyrants was not enough.
The shower of bullets was indiscriminate. Only those who were quick enough to run and find cover were spared to this point. But the masked men had prepared for that, bringing several magazines' worth of ammunition. It was only a matter of time before local and federal law enforcement would storm the Inner Harbor; public shootings like this were so commonplace anymore that every city likely had an emergency plan in place. The plan did nothing for the dead scattered along the Inner Harbor, their bodies ravaged and torn apart. Blood ran along the cobblestone, a river of red inching toward the bay.
The masked men did not look at their victims. Who they were was inconsequential. Let the survivors cower in the shadows. Let them sob into their phones as they called for help. The Collective would execute as many of them as they could. Not everyone would fall today, but that was okay. With any luck, even those who managed to get out of here with their lives would never forget the lesson. Either everyone was free, or no one was. There was no salvation now; a place as dirty and corrupt as Baltimore deserved to be wiped off the face of the Earth. Just burn the whole thing down and start over.
The masked man to the right replaced his magazine before opening fire again. His first victim was a man who had turned to run along Pratt Street. Three bullets tore through his back, and he was dead before he hit the pavement. The older man with him, frozen in shock, never saw the bullet buried in his forehead.
CHAPTER 40
"They've upped their game," Jorge whispered, peering over the edge of the table that served as their cover.
Mitch's frown deepened. "You know these freaks?"
"They call themselves The Collective." When Mitch gave a shrug, Jorge arched an eyebrow. "Holier-than-thou, this-place-is-corrupt-and-needs-cleansing zealots. How have you not heard of them?"
"Therapy, getting ready for school." Mitch also peered over the edge of the table. "No time for TV."
"And you don't read the paper?"
"We have to do something," Mitch muttered, her eyes dancing along their surroundings. Like anyone her age read the newspaper.
The gunmen had their backs to the duo, oblivious to their presence or the fact that they weren’t so busy cowering in fear that they were forming actual coherent thoughts.
"Does staying alive and waiting for law enforcement count?" Jorge asked as sirens wailed in the distance. They grew louder as they whined, the sound so loud it was as if every emergency vehicle in the city was heading for the Inner Harbor.
Jorge glanced overhead. The news helicopter had already arrived on the scene. Because of course it had. What did it say about this city that the media was on the scene before police and paramedics?
"How many more bodies will there be by then?"
Jorge grabbed Mitch's shoulder and turned her to face him. "And what if you become one of those bodies?"
The sirens grew louder still, and when Jorge glanced to his left, he saw the familiar red and blue lights hauling proverbial ass along Pratt Street. With any luck, this nightmare would be over within minutes. Unfortunately, the body count will have been far too high by then. He hoped that count would also include the two jackals who started this entire mess. But time wasn't a luxury Mitch—or anyone else—had. Those weapons were far too powerful, the spray of bullets too rapid.
"I know a bully when I see one," Mitch said with a shake of her head. "These Collective asses? Nothing more than bullies with an arsenal."
"And you see what that arsenal's doing to people."
Mitch didn't respond, instead crouching behind the table and peering through the edge. She studied the masked
men as they moved. Each step was methodical, practiced. What appeared to the naked eye as a random torrent of bullets—no different from what Mitch used to do whenever she got to play a game like Call of Duty or Halo—was actually a thought-out and carefully executed plan. Nearly every bullet fired hit a target, rather than falling harmlessly to the ground or burying into a nearby wall. If Mitch was going to put a stop to this, she had one shot at it.
She cringed. Bad choice of words.
"Mitch..."
One of the masked men was just a few feet away, his back to Mitch. It was now or never.
She sprang to her feet, emerging from her hiding spot and throwing herself at the masked man. It was a tackle so true, a hit so firm, that were her football-playing cousin still alive, he would've fist-bumped her for the technique.
"Mitch!"
Mitch shouted at the top of her lungs as she drove the man face-first to the ground. Gunfire drowned out Mitch's voice, but when she landed on top of the masked man, he lost his grip on his weapon. Mitch scrambled back to her feet and kicked the gun as far away from the man as she could. SWAT vans and fire trucks screeched to a halt, but even as the doors burst open, no one stormed out.
Because there was still one active gunman.
Mitch dropped into a crouch, turning the man she had tackled over before yanking off his mask. Gritting her teeth, Mitch punched the man in the face. His nose broke and a spray of blood poured from his nostrils. Mitch went to throw another punch before she felt cold metal pressed against the back of her neck.
"Well, now," the other masked man said, "looks like we've got ourselves a hero. One who ain’t made of metal."
"If you're gonna pull that trigger, go ahead and do it." Mitch glared at the unconscious man under her knee. The coward holding her at gunpoint wasn’t worth eye contact. "Save the fucking speech."
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