The Next Chronicle (Book 2): Damage (3 page)

Don't disintegrate any more towns, you mean
, Ray thought, though he only nodded in return.

“Now,” Archer said, his tone businesslike, “we can get to your assignments for the day.”

Ray suppressed a groan. “Okay. What costume-wearing screwball is on our docket this time?”

A grin which could only be described as malevolent—possibly nefarious—spread across Archer's face. “No vigilantes for you. This morning you get your wish.” He held out a slim folder, which Ray took. “This guy violated his probation. The cops called us, and we've got a cell waiting.”

Ray opened the file, his eyes widening. “You've got to be kidding.”

Archer laughed. Definitely nefarious. “Hey, you wanted something interesting. Grab Kovacs and enjoy.”

Ray stood and turned toward the door, his head oddly light. Behind him, Archer spoke.

“Make sure you come back in one piece,” he said.

With a sigh, Ray opened the door and left.

Still shaken from her visit with Doctor Otomo, Kit drove carefully. Under normal circumstances she would have made a beeline to the office, but reliving one of her worst memories in horrific detail left her with a profound desire to crawl into her bed and sleep.

Though she did drive home, it wasn't to vanish beneath the covers. Her apartment was in a turn-of-the-century building, on the second floor. The first was taken up in its entirety by a popular cafe, The Bean, which held the one substance on the planet with the power to help take her mind off the memory replaying endlessly behind her eyes.

Her roommate was outside when she pulled to the curb and parked. Peep, the only name Penelope Perkins answered to, was gracefully carrying an enormous tray of food and drinks. Kit watched her dance from table to table, her sheet of fine blonde hair moving in time with the hem of her heavy skirt. Even in February, the place had people sitting at the tables outside.

Kit climbed out of the car, drawing a few stares. They might have been for her, though she thought it more likely they gaped at the vehicle. It was new, and gorgeous, the sole luxury Kit bothered with.

Given the amount of time she spent on the road, Kit had decided to do so in comfort. The sleek lines of the diesel-powered European sedan drank in the thin winter sunlight, gleaming as if it had just come out of a car wash. It was an expensive piece of equipment, and stood out among the more common vehicles lining the sidewalk.

Peep caught Kit's eye as she stepped into the building, tilting her head in an unspoken question. Kit grimaced slightly, barely a twitch of the lips, but the message was clear. Four months of living together gave them an uncanny ability to read body language and non-verbal cues.

Kit waved at the baristas working the counter. “Usual, please. I'll be in the back.” The nearest nodded in acknowledgment.

She walked through the kitchen, letting herself through the locked door nestled next to the walk-in fridge. Behind it sat a landing with a broad staircase leading to the apartment. The space was large, much wider than the steps themselves. Peep used it for long-term storage, since no one but she and Kit had access to it. Since moving in, however, she had put it to another use.

The landing held a table and four chairs, taken from the storage space. They were extras, older versions of the patio furniture too scuffed and worn to be used for customers. The landing was bathed in sunlight from the high window set opposite the steps, providing a small private place to go when one of the roommates needed privacy.

Kit sat at the table, folding her legs under her in the chair. She set her face in her hands, and she wept.

They were not tears of sadness, exactly. Kit had cried those for weeks after the failed mission where a young man lost his life. These were born of anger and grief at having old scars reopened. They were a protest of the invasion required by her superiors. They were tears of raw hurt to go along with the raw memory. It was a curious sensation; even though she had dealt with Johnson's loss long ago, it felt as if she had just lost him.

The heavy door scraped open, then closed. A gentle hand touched her shoulder as the tears began to slow, the searing pain beginning to become overshadowed by rage.

“What happened?” Peep asked. “Another bad session?”

Kit pulled her hands away, wiping her cheeks. A plate sat in front of her, a cup next to it. The BLT and coffee pulled at her senses, which, magnitudes sharper than human norm, caught every subtle smell.

She took a sip of coffee. “The good news is there aren't any worse memories to look at. I don't know what Otomo was hoping to get out of it.”

Peep frowned as she took a seat across from Kit. “What's the point of all this, anyway? Why can't they just use a regular psychiatrist?”

Kit pursed her lips. “They need to be absolutely sure I'm not unbalanced. My position is pretty sensitive. This way is more invasive, but Otomo says it gives a much clearer picture of my mental state.”

Peep scowled. “I hope he explains why he had to drag you through this, then. I'd like to know what possible purpose making you relive all these horrible things serves.”

Kit gave a halfhearted shrug and picked up her sandwich. The worst of it was passing. She knew enough biochemistry to understand the effect crying had on her brain. The chemicals being released were evening her out. Normality began to reassert itself, helped along by the bacon and coffee.

“Shouldn't you get back out front?” Kit asked between bites, a few minutes later.

“Nah,” Peep said. “That's the good thing about being the boss. People can't complain when you decide to take a break.”

As Kit finished her lunch, she resolved herself to asking the questions Peep raised. There were limits to what she was willing to endure without proper explanation why she had to endure it.

Next time she saw
her
boss, she would get answers.

She was three blocks from The Bean when the secure OSA line buzzed. Her phone fed the call to the car, piping the alert through the speakers. The dispatcher rattled off the information with practiced speed, and Kit's hands tightened on the steering wheel. The location was fairly close.

“Private line,” Kit said to the car. The touchscreen in the dash changed, the icon for a private line appearing. “This is Singh. Give me details.”

“Two agents were on scene, Director Singh,” the dispatcher said. “One of them was injured. His partner stayed with him, according to protocol, and called for assistance.”

“Who do we have that's close?” Kit asked.

The dispatcher, doubtless staring at one of the huge monitors displaying the location of every agent in and around the city, answered immediately. “You're the only one within the immediate area. A response team is leaving the facility now, arrival time estimated at eight minutes.”

Kit smiled grimly. “I'll take it,” she said. She reached into the pocket of her coat, fishing out her earpiece. She nestled it into her ear, securing the hook around the back and turning it on with a tap of her finger. “I assume we've got tracking on the target. Give me a dedicated feed from one of the analysts.”

There was barely a pause between the order and its execution. The last few months had not been idle for her; one of Kit's policy changes being the implementation of this new system. Before, communication and information gathering had been highly isolated. Teams in the field essentially did all the work. Now, any field agent could request and receive real-time information and analysis as they worked, with the entire resources of the facility at their command.

This, combined with several minor tweaks such as tagging any suspect with a tracking device designed and built by OSA scientists, made for a highly efficient and effective means of both catching renegade Next and preventing civilian casualties.

At the moment, it meant Kit got to vent some of her frustration by kicking a little ass.

The analyst in Operations—or Ops, as some fan of science fiction had dubbed it—spewed information across the line in a constant stream, beginning with the exact location of the tracker placed on him by the agents he had attacked. Kit's GPS was remotely accessed by Ops, the custom software integrating the analyst's data seamlessly. The tracker's green dot appeared on the screen.

“Give me a rundown on his stats,” Kit said. The analyst rattled off the pertinent information without missing a beat, and Kit made a mental note to give Deakins, the head of Ops, a raise.

Then the analyst said something that almost made Kit wreck. “Say again?” she sputtered.

“Subject is rated total plus in the physical category,” the voice said.

“Shit,” Kit muttered.

“I'm sorry, Director, I didn't catch that,” the analyst said.

“Nothing,” Kit assured him, suppressing a sigh. “Just minor commentary on how little fun the next few minutes are going to be.”

As she closed in on the moving dot on her GPS, Kit's brain worked on how to approach the situation. She herself was rated at total plus, a classification modifier for a small fraction of Next that covered a wide spread. At the least, it meant the guy was going to be a challenge. At worst, today was going to be in the running for largest number of shots needed to forget about it.

Rather than focus her attention on the GPS and risk hitting a pedestrian, Kit let the analyst do his job. That was what the system was for, after all, trusting the other party to provide you with support and information so you could do your own job more efficiently.

Following his directions, Kit turned left sharply. The road was wide, one of the main surface streets bisecting the north and south halves of the city as it ran east to west. She caught a vague flash of orange and blue lights—the colors OSA vehicles used—down a side street in the distance. That had to be the agents who had tried to bring the suspect in.

The police had done a good job clearing the streets. Procedures had been put in place for situations like this after the nightmare with Thomas Maggard a few months before. Kit was glad the public didn't know the details, that the boy himself was the danger rather than an abductor as the official story claimed. That would have turned the situation from a cautionary tale to a full-on witch hunt.

As a result, she could drive down mostly empty streets at a speed she wouldn't have dared otherwise. The suspect had a solid head start on her, but despite his impressive physical abilities, he wasn't moving especially fast. Either he was injured—unlikely, given the report said nothing about it—or he was trying to avoid drawing attention.

“One hundred yards,” the analyst said. “He's directly ahead.”

Kit resisted the urge to pick up speed. She was already above the speed limit by more than she was comfortable with.

She crested a small rise in the road and saw her target. He happened to be looking back as her car appeared. Something, probably the sudden existence of a vehicle moving at high speed where no others traveled, gave him warning. The man poured on the speed then, racing away as fast as he could go.

It wasn't faster than the car.

Kit hit him at forty miles an hour, easing off the gas and tapping the brakes at the last second to lessen the impact as much as possible. She noted the tracker stuck to his shirt right in the middle of his back as the hood of the BMW crumpled under his weight.

As his body tumbled up and over, Kit slammed on the brakes fully and threw the car into park. She barely had to think before snatching
her gear
from the seat next her. The small bundle unfolded easily as she lifted it, its strap going over her neck with practiced ease. The other item she grabbed stayed in her hand as she opened the door and stepped from the car.

“Henry Griffin,” she said in a commanding voice, “stay where you are.”

Griffin was already rising to his feet, unhurt by the impact with the car. The man straightened, and it was like watching a puzzle unfold. It seemed impossible for one person to be so large, as if he should have stopped the process of standing and squaring his shoulders much earlier.

At seven feet tall and with broad shoulders to match, he was the biggest man she'd ever seen. His frame was obscenely packed with muscle. Kit felt a thrill of fear in her chest, warm and reassuring.

“You hit me with your fucking car,” Griffin said. “You could have killed me!”

“I didn't even scratch you,” Kit retorted. “You're rated pretty high for durability. I have your stats. You weren't in any danger.”

His eyes narrowed. “What about now,” he asked, jerking his jaw toward Kit's right hand. “Am I in danger now? What's that thing?”

Kit raised the weapon, giving it an experimental twirl. “This? This is a baseball bat. Well, sort of. It takes the basic idea of one and, with a little math and science, streamlines and improves on it.”

It was something she had requested, a weapon for situations exactly like this. Thinner than a traditional bat, it had a more narrow profile. It was also made entirely of metal alloys, several of which were proprietary creations of facility R&D.

Griffin didn't move. “I'm not going to jail,” he said. “I didn't do anything.”

Kit raised an eyebrow. “You did. Yesterday you broke a man's arm. That's a violation of your
probation
.”

“He was trying to stab me,” Griffin
growled
. “What was I supposed to do?”

Kit sighed. “They hold us to a higher standard, however right or wrong it is. You should have run.”

“Anyway, that's not what I meant,” Griffin said. “I shouldn't have even
been
on probation. I never did anything in the first place.”

His words were even but his body language told the truth. His fingers curled into fists, then relaxed before doing it again. The thick ropes of muscle draped across his frame twitched and tensed. The set of his legs shifted slightly in preparation for an attack.

“Listen to me, Henry,” Kit said calmly. “I'd rather not fight you. Hell, I'd rather not take you in. But the fact is, you hurt a man badly yesterday. Maybe if you hadn't also put down one of my agents, I'd be a little more sympathetic. I can promise you, if you come with me quietly, I'll look into your original charges. If they were bogus we might be able to work something out.”