by Ekeke, C. C.
Before other cops could intrude, Illusionist waved his hands around. A massive green dragon illusion appeared out of thin air, plowing into more cars and officers across the square. Bullets passed through it.
Greyson watched the wholesale slaughter, doing nothing except for the gravity shield to repel stray bullets. Watching people convulse and burn by ShocKing’s hand awakened a long-dormant want to stop this slaughter. These poor service members didn’t deserve this.
Greyson smothered that weakness and remained still.
Of course, Tom and Big Izzy intervened. “Stop, assholes!” Tom vanished in an explosion of smoke, appearing behind Illusionist to headlock him. Both immediately fell over screaming.
Greyson stared in momentary surprise. The implant, he deduced. It’s keeping them from fighting. That gave Greyson another idea.
ShocKing left piles of charred corpses and burning cars littering the town square. He eyed Greyson greedily, a giant ball of fork-like energy building between his cupped hands. “Hirsch is MINE!”
Instead of repelling ShocKing, Greyson reached for Connie and tethered her gravity to him. She grunted as her body got yanked toward him, right as ShocKing unloaded another lightning strike.
The fork impaled Connie from behind. She shrieked. The illumination forced Greyson to shield his eyes. Despite every instinct screaming at him to stop, he kept Connie’s body as a shield.
When the blast waned, Connie sank in a smoking heap. ShocKing was too baffled to react.
Greyson stood over her. Had it worked? Connie wasn’t moving. His heart shivered.
Big Izzie staggered back. “Connie!”
Tom climbed back to his feet, just seeing what had happened. “How…could you?”
Illusionist sprang to his feet. “Rest easy, boy scouts.” He spread his hands, ripples of greenish energy coalescing above his head.
Greyson masked his heartache behind mock fear. “But who's keeping Mr. Silk company?” With a dismissive hand wave, he negated the Illusionist’s gravitational pull. Now the hollering criminal got flung as if shot from a cannon, vanishing into pitch-black skies.
Losing two long-time friends shredded ShocKing and Brickhouse.
Greyson made a lazy backhand motion, an invisible whip of gravitational force to smack ShocKing down. He wanted to take his time with that one. But his attention was drawn to Brickhouse screaming to the heavens. She came charging at Greyson with a right cross that could probably level buildings.
Months ago, an inexperienced Greyson would have stood paralyzed. Tonight, he enhanced his gravitational fields to mimic durability, catching the punch in one hand.
By Brickhouse's shocked reaction, she couldn’t fathom anything countering her immense strength.
That momentary confusion was all Greyson needed. “I didn’t forget you.” He swung his other fist with the gravitational force of a jumbo jet nosediving at MACH-2 speed. The blow struck like a thunderclap, doubling Brickhouse over. Another gravity-boosted uppercut knocked her head over heels.
Greyson moved in to finish her, when a jet of crimson soil whacked his jaw.
Suddenly, he was on his back seeing stars. Big Izzie stood over him, coated in red earth. A smoky expulsion beside him produced Tom holding dampener cuffs.
“You won’t kill anyone else.” His blue eyes shone from the hungry flames leaping around him.
Greyson wiped blood from his mouth. A tooth felt loose. “I don’t want to hurt you.” He meant it.
“Like you didn’t hurt Connie?” Big Izzie was in tears.
Greyson almost let them cuff him. They can’t stop you. He made his heart go dead and rose.
Tom tensed to teleport.
“Stop, you two!” The voice grabbed all three men’s attention.
Big Izzie gasped. Tom stumbled back. Greyson’s heart soared.
Connie, soot-stained, stood behind a kneeling Brickhouse. One of her hands intangibly reached through the other woman’s back. Brickhouse’s homely face contorted in pain.
“Connie?” Tom breathed.
Big Izzie was relieved...and confused. “How?”
“I increased my density,” Connie explained. She twisted her hand deeper into Brickhouse, who shuddered. “And my dampening chip got fried.”
Watching Connie filled Greyson with renewed admiration. “I knew she could take it.”
“You said you and him were done.” Tom gestured in open disgust at Greyson, who didn’t take offense.
“I lied,” Connie said. “Hirsch and I are partners for life.” Her adoring gaze stirred Greyson’s loins.
He advanced. Tom and Big Izzy backpedaled. “We heard from a source that US Intel had been tailing us across Central America.” It had been two months after leaving Amarantha. The specter of extradition back to America had petrified Greyson. Once Connie had calmed him down, they’d devised a plan. “To protect ourselves, Connie and I pretended to break up so she could discover who was after us while I continued my mission.”
ShocKing reared up to his feet, lightning rippling up and down his body. “Your mission dies tonight!” He hurled a blitzkrieg of lighting forks at Connie, illuminating the square like daylight.
But Connie leaped back from Brickhouse, allowing Greyson to levitate her far above the fray.
Brickhouse’s screams reverberated off the buildings for a long while.
Once the light faded, ShocKing’s triumph withered. Greyson floated Connie to his side. One more corpse littered the square, blackened and shriveled. “Oh…my…God. Brickhouse!” He fell to his knees.
Greyson allowed no respite. A flick of his finger hoisted a burning police car high off the ground. Once in position over a grieving ShocKing, Greyson restored its gravity.
The crunch was stomach-churning. Connie turned away. Tom and Big Izzy lurched back.
Hearing ShocKing’s gruesome death was a rush of pure euphoria to Greyson.
He soaked in the elation, beaming at his former teammates. “And then there were four.”
Chapter 39
“I can’t believe you talked me into this.” Quinn sank low in the driver’s seat, wishing she had the power to teleport.
Therese, in the passenger seat, eyed her reproachfully. “This was your idea. I’m just taking a proactive stance.” She dressed like someone out on a jog in black track pants and a red long-sleeved tee, her brunette mane tied in low ponytail. She looked thrilled to be out of the condo on a mission.
Quinn would rather Therese have stayed home, not taking any risk. Yet, she couldn't deny her suspicions about Naomi Doyle, which had allowed Therese to talk her into this foolhardy weekend mission. The plan was to get close enough to Doyle so Therese could clone her cellphone.
Quinn nervously straightened her black shorts, checking out the windows to make sure no one was watching. “What if you’re seen?”
Therese rolled her eyes, unlocking the door. “Doyle doesn’t know me.”
Quinn grabbed her partner’s hand as another worry surfaced. “But your injuries.”
“Petit chère,” Therese’s tone was as patient as her smile. “I’m recuperating, not crippled.” She caressed Quinn’s cheek, making her a little woozy. “I’ve tracked countless targets this way.”
Quinn raised her brow. “Oh, have you?”
“How did you think Geist and I located you?”
“If not for that pretty face, I’d be creeped out,” Quinn admitted dryly. “In fact, I kinda am.”
Therese’s smile turned naughty. “Keeping you off-balance amuses me.” She gave Quinn a quick kiss, then scanned out the windshield. “Doyle’s inside?”
Quinn followed her gaze. “Looks like it.” She was parked across the street from Apple Farms, where Doyle had entered minutes ago with friends. The former intern had been smiling and gracious at work yesterday, screwing with Quinn’s head. Was she imagining this conspiracy? That didn’t explain Doyle snitching on Helena before joining Ad Sales. Like a reward…
“Gimme fifteen minutes.
” Therese slid out of the car in one fluid motion. Closing the door, she moved swiftly across the street.
Quinn spied Therese’s slight limp, and felt a pang of worry. The only thing to do was trust Therese and wait.
Twelve minutes passed before Therese emerged from Apple Farms. Quinn exhaled in relief as she re-entered the car. “Well?”
Therese tossed an iPhone into Quinn’s lap. “Cloned Doyle’s cellphone. As promised.” The pride in her voice was adorable.
A strange giddiness filled Quinn. “Let’s bounce.” She pulled out of her parking space.
Once they returned home, giddiness became doubt. Quinn sat on her couch staring at Doyle’s cloned cell on her coffee table like a filthy object.
“Maybe I’m paranoid.” Quinn had grown so used to worst-case scenarios that her brain immediately went there with Doyle.
Therese sat cross-legged on the floor typing on a tablet. “Maybe…” she murmured.
“Or maybe,” Quinn rationalized, “Packer hatched a plot to oust Helena.”
“Maybe…”
Quinn scowled at her. “Not helping.”
That drew Therese’s full attention. “I cloned Doyle’s phone, no?” she retorted. “You got suspicious over Doyle no-showing the day Helena got fired. Then she has a new position and is dating Packer’s son?” Therese pointed at the cellphone. “Now you’ll know for sure.”
She’s right. Quinn needed to grow some ovaries and examine the dang device. Then she’d know for sure about Doyle. “Fine!” Quinn grabbed the cell and started skimming through the texts.
She saw nothing useful besides discussions with friends and lovey-dovey texts with Scott Packer. Doyle nicknamed him Hot Ginger. Gross.
Then Quinn went to WhatsApp, finding a long thread between Doyle and ‘DP’.
Naomi: EIC is requesting me regularly.
Naomi: I can get closer to EIC when her pet reporter is on PTO this week.
DP: Are you adding the powder to her coffee and water?
Naomi: Yup: 1/16. That should get her addicted quicker to the oxytocin.
DP: Good. The sooner EIC’s gone, the sooner we can discredit the PB investigation.
Naomi: And her investigation into you.
Quinn’s jaw dropped. EIC was clearly Helena. And DP had to be Dave Packer. “Oh. My. Effing. God.”
Therese looked up again. “What?”
“Doyle was Packer’s toady,” Quinn stated shakily. “She got Helena hooked on oxy…since May.” Saying that aloud didn’t make it any more believable.
Therese’s shoulders sagged. “I’m working with Clint to learn more about this Doyle woman.”
Quinn nodded mutely. Guilt over avoiding Helena for days reignited as she kept reading Doyle’s texts. More mundane yet meticulous updates on Helena’s activities. Early June yielded more.
Naomi: Problem. Bauer drove EIC home. I think she knows about the addiction.
DP: Scale back dosage to 1/16.
Quinn’s skin prickled in goosebumps. Doyle was watching us in the parking lot? Disturbing as this was, she landed on a more recent exchange from two weeks ago.
Naomi: Bauer and EIC are on the outs over the Seraph/Blur affair.
DP: Perfect. Get EIC back on oxy pills.
Quinn almost vomited out her lunch. She forced herself to keep reading.
Naomi: God, it was easy to get EIC hooked again. McGowan gave me pointers.
DP: Don’t get cocky. EIC’s not gone yet.
Naomi: I ‘suggested’ better ways to help with EIC’s pain. She begged me for stronger drugs. HA!
Naomi: DONE! Almost told her how much fentanyl to take, but she downed it all before I could finish LOL.
Naomi: Pictures.
Three attached pictures showed Helena in her robe sprawled on her couch, eyes rolled back.
DP: Well done. We will wait until late tomorrow or day after before telling HR. This, Hale leaving, dropping readership, and the sexual harassment claim should be enough.
Naomi: SHIT. Bauer’s here! I snuck out the back just in time. What should I do?
DP: Go through the front. Act surprised. Use part of the spiel you planned for HR.
Quinn tossed the phone to the other side of the couch. She needed to soak her brain in bleach to clean the filth she’d just read. “I can’t read any more.” She shook her head, feeling pure revulsion. “Jono was in on this.”
Therese rushed to her side, arm around her waist. “There’s more.”
Quinn wasn’t sure if she could take more. “How?”
Therese’s grimace promised darker surprises. "Clint combed through Doyle’s digital footprint.” She showed Quinn her tablet, revealing Doyle’s education and work history. Aside from some retail positions, SLOCO Daily was her primary job. Therese swiped left. A new position before the internship appeared. “She digitally scrubbed something.”
Quinn leaped to her feet. “What the—?” This had to be some sick joke. She read Therese’s tablet again. “Doyle works for Paxton-Brandt?”
Therese’s eyes narrowed into hazel slits. “And Packer uses her out of every other intern to help oust Helena?”
Quinn paced. Of all the crazed theories she’d imagined, Paxton-Brandt installing a Trojan horse within SLOCO Daily had never surfaced. “Packer had to know. Does he hate Helena that much?”
Therese raised a finger. “You said Helena told SLOCO Daily’s owner about Packer's theft?”
“Yeah,” Quinn said, frowning. “Hamilton Cross said he’d investigate…yet Packer’s still employed while Helena gets fired...” She stopped, an unthinkable realization emerged.
And by Therese’s face, she’d reached it too. “Are you there yet?”
Quinn didn’t want to believe it. But her brain couldn't shut it off. “Paxton-Brandt is purchasing SLOCO Daily.”
The living room seemed to shrink, practically suffocating her. “I need to clear my head.” Indignity, rage, and betrayal punched through her nausea. She grabbed her car keys and Doyle’s cloned cell.
Therese lurched up. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
Quinn waved off the notion. “I won’t,” she lied. “I’m just taking a drive.”
She drove around Arroyo Grande for over an hour, no destination in mind. Early evening winds whooshed through open windows. She should've known Paxton-Brandt would retaliate. But not like this. Now they’d taken Helena out while poisoning SLOCO Daily.
Quinn felt sicker as more dots connected. Packer faced no consequences. Jono got promoted. Helena and many of her senior editors got replaced. The Paxton-Brandt exposé got killed.
Waiting for a red light, Quinn skimmed through Doyle’s phone until finding recent map directions with a home address…
Ten minutes later, she reached an apartment complex in Pismo Beach, golden walls with Adobe-stuccoed roofing. Anger snuffed out the voice of reason screaming at her to stop. Quinn embraced her rage and slipped through the complex’s slightly ajar door. After finding Apartment 30 on the third floor, she banged on the door. Quinn had no plan or speech, but she couldn't keep feeling so powerless.
“Quinn?”
The voice whirled her around. Doyle stood behind her, carrying clothing bags. The former intern was glammed up, her kinky hair sleek and straightened.
Quinn’s blood boiled. “Naomi!” She approached.
Doyle looked surprised. “What are you doing here? I—AHH.”
Quinn’s fist snapped up, cracking her in the face. Doyle falling on her behind was a satisfying sight. “You despicable piece of shit!”
Doyle clutched her jaw, crawling backward. “What the hell, Quinn!?”
“I know who you work for!”
Surprise flashed across Doyle’s face, confirming what Clint found. “I don’t know what you’re—”
Quinn hauled her up by the collar. “You wanna play this game?” Despite their size difference, she slammed Doyle against her door with undue savagery. “Or do I need to beat it outta you?”
Doyle’s confusion faded before a cold, confident smile. “Not smart, Bauer,” she said calmly, despite her circumstances. “What did you think will happen? That you’ll intimidate me into spilling my guts?”
Reality forced Quinn into taking stock of herself. Confronting Doyle like some psycho—smacking the taste out of her mouth. Horrified, Quinn let go and backed away.
The smart play was to leave. But not until Quinn got answers. “Why?”
Doyle adjusted her clothing crisply. “Helena’s investigations on Paxton-Brandt and Packer.” She weaved around Quinn to fetch her bags. “Packer backchanneled with PB so they could help each other. Which meant Madden had to go.” Her words held a clinical curtness she’d never displayed before. “McGowan was resistant at first…” Doyle chuckled. “Until Packer had Tania and Jess use their…‘bedroom talents’ to sway him. He’s been loyal since.”
All that anger curdled in Quinn’s stomach. Still, she remained defiant. “Your company won’t get away with this.”
That won barking laughter from Doyle. “You can’t even see how exposed you are without Madden,” she managed. “Even if I go down, you think I’m the only implant in your news site?” She stopped smiling abruptly. “We’re everywhere. And we’re watching.”
Quinn gaped. Hearing of more Paxton-Brandt moles within SLOCO Daily was a knife thrust to her chest.
Doyle got in Quinn’s face, standing three inches taller. “I’ll give you this one tantrum. But from now on, you best behave around me, or you’ll join Madden in unemployment.”
Doyle was right. This fight was over, and Quinn had lost. She fled from Doyle’s smugness and this building as fast as her legs could move.
She couldn’t escape the crushing failure pressing down as she drove from Oldtown San Miguel. But Helena had to learn everything.
The traffic to Morro Bay was bumper-to-bumper up the Pacific Coast Highway. Quinn texted Helena and got no reply. Calling her personal number got a disconnected line recording.
Quinn frowned. This had been Helena’s cell from before Quinn started at SLOCO Daily. When traffic finally opened up, she pumped the gas.
No lights shone from the estate. Helena’s car wasn’t out front.