Tormented (20 page)

“Not the morning for it,” Phillips said, heading me off. “What the hell were you thinking?”

I didn’t intend to play coy, but it came out that way. “You’re going to have to be more specific if you’re going to come at me like that—again, I might add.”

“You let them get away,” Phillips said. His voice was still flat. “Both of them. Together.”

“‘Let’ is a strong word in this case,” I said. “My partner had a broken back, and I was up against one guy that’s as near as to invincible as you’ll find this side of an armored cavalry regiment and another who’s running a little hot and crazy right now. I didn’t
let
them get away; I chose not to abandon my partner or the innocent people at the scene by trying to run blind and pell-mell after them, completely unprepared.”

“Why didn’t you shoot Cunningham?” Phillips asked. “That’d be one half of the problem solved right there.”

I cringed. That probably would have been smart. Sienna had certainly encouraged me to get better with my pistol, and I was. But I still didn’t like to draw the thing. It wasn’t ever top of mind for me like it was for her. Like an old pervert, she whipped it out on every occasion, whether it was appropriate or not. “Maybe,” I conceded.

“Maybe?” Phillips came at me with a little more emphasis this time. “If that guy kills anyone else, I want you to remember this moment, because that death is on your head.” And then he hung up on me.

“Crapola,” I said, pulling the phone back from my ear.

“Boss enjoying a piece of your flank steak right now?” Augustus asked, with a strangely satisfied look. “Because that conversation—you know, the side I heard of it—sounded kinda familiar.”

“Bag it,” I said. “He was right. I should have shot Cunningham.” I sighed. “I’m just not used to …”

“Yeah, yeah,” Augustus said. “Things are going to be different under your leadership, I remember.”

I tried to put up a stone mask to hide my irritation, but I knew Isabella saw through it. “It will be okay,” she said.

I looked right into her deep brown eyes. “Really?”

She waffled, and it was obvious she was lying to make me feel better. “Perhaps.”

“And perhaps not,” I said, spinning away from the two of them. “Dammit. Now I’ve got to go after two extremely dangerous metas without the benefit of help.”

“Phillips cannot possibly expect you to do this thing,” Isabella said, stepping around the gurney to land a hand on my shoulder. The latex gloves she wore squeaked as she squeezed my tense, sore deltoid. “Not against the two of them, not by yourself.”

“I’ve never seen Phillips like this before,” I said. “So irate. So unreasonable.”

“At least not with you,” Augustus said, a little snappily. I could tell he was enjoying this.

“It’s got to be pressure from above,” I went on. “Every time he landed on Sienna like this, it was always heat from Washington that prompted it.”

“Or, conversely,” Augustus said, “maybe the dude is just a dick.”

“Even if that were true,” Isabella said, and I couldn’t tell whether she was suggesting it was Augustus, me, or both of us that was right, “it doesn’t change the fact that you have a daunting and highly dangerous task before you. He can’t expect you to do it all on your own.”

“He can expect quite a lot,” I said, and I turned back to see Augustus nodding along. “But you’re right; I can’t do it alone.”

Isabella nodded slowly. “Very sensible. You should stay here until your sister—”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “That’ll be two weeks, and this city can’t wait that long for help. People are dying.”

“But you just said—” she started.

“I said I can’t do it alone.” I let a very small smile creep out, enough to reassure her. “And that means … I’m going to need some help from an old friend …”

Caught out in the middle of rapidly worsening snowstorm without a fit coat, my left hand dripping blood and my skin gradually freezing, my eyes squinted almost shut because of the ferocity of the wind, dealing with occasional—or maybe even perpetual—mental attacks from a telepath intending to scare me … no, this was not how I wanted to spend my vacation.

I hated to sound like C3PO, but I was really beginning to wonder if maybe it was my lot in life to be constantly forsaken. Had I really been so very bad in the karma department that it had to rain—or snow, as the case may be—crap on me all day long? I mean, really? Did Hitler have to deal with this shit? Did Stalin? Did Kat? No, she was sunning herself on camera in SoCal for mad money while I froze to death slowly in the lakeshore district of Siberia.

This was not shaping up to be my year, which was par for the crappy, snowed-over course.

“So this is what Westeros has to look forward to,” I said, pushing forward in the same direction I’d been going before I paused to take stock of the situation. I had no idea if it was the right one, but honestly, standing around and hoping help came just wasn’t in my DNA.

A wind eddied around me, blowing a swirl of snow in a miniature tornado that passed in a second. It was visually interesting, at least insofar as white on a white background could be. “Shoulda gone to Hawaii,” I said to no one in particular. Talking to myself made me feel marginally better, like I wasn’t desperately alone in the middle of a crapstorm. “No one regrets going to Hawaii. Except maybe the Japanese that one time.”

I saw a very faint outline of something in the distance. It was in the air, vaguely circular, and reminded me a little of a time when I’d seen Aleksandr Gavrikov lift off into the sky in preparation to destroy a town. It was just a halo of light visible through the growing gloom and wind-whipped snows. I squinted, trying to determine what it was, but I gave up as it disappeared in a gust of flurries.

Still, it gave me an idea of direction. It had appeared slightly to the left of the direction I’d been heading, maybe forty-five degrees off my course, so I adjusted and headed for it. After all, at least it was something. Before, I’d just been heading toward nothing.

I walked a few aggressive steps, a little faster than the pace I’d been going before. After a few moments, I saw it again, that halo of light in the midst of the dim and snow. It gradually grew brighter as I drew closer, until, finally, about fifteen feet away, I realized what it was.

A streetlight.

Halle-fricking-lujah.

I’d stumbled, mostly blind, into the far edge of town. I fought the wind and the snows that were now threatening to reach above my ankles to get to the base of the light. It was a post stretching ten feet into the sky and curving over to shine its light down. It was quaint, kind of colonial in a way, probably fit in well with the island’s charm or something. I didn’t care about any of that, though. For me, it was the sign of civilization that told me that the country road that led off to my cabins was coming to an end, that the town proper was just ahead.

I stood under its faded light and peered into the distance. There it was, another halo, about forty-five degrees to my right. It must have been across the street. I stared harder and saw the faintest outline of a building catching the light just beyond it. Yep, town.

I trudged ahead, using the new lamp as a marker. Shorty’s was close by, I was sure of that, and I was already on the right side of the road. No need to stumble blind again, crossing the road just to seek the lamp light like a moth with a fire. I walked as quickly as I could down what I figured had to be the sidewalk, the blistering wind feeling like it was freezing my eyeballs right in my skull. Tempted as I was to close them for sweet relief, I had a vision of them frosting over, keeping me from opening them again, so I refrained.

I made my way ahead, step by step, until I saw a wall on my left side. I peered into it, trying to discern what I was looking at.

The clinic. I could see the sign in the window, snow already accumulating at the black L-joint of the window’s frame. Just behind it, a sign with a clock face that read, “Will be back at …” The clock hands were set for midnight. I guess Sarah was done for the day.

It wasn’t far now. Putting my shivering left hand against the wall, I moved ahead. I could barely see ten feet in front of me, so I let my frozen fingers guide me, my walk hampered by the depth of the snow now and my aching ankle. I plunged forward, catching my injured left hand on the door to Shorty’s sooner than I expected. I cried out, then swiped at it again, ripping it open. At least the door
was
open, I reflected. With my luck, it could have been closed, leaving me to freeze to death outside.

Without ceremony or shame, I threw myself into the warm air at the bottom of the ramp at the entry, landing my cold and sopping wet back against the wall at the bottom of the ramp. I’d made it, and as I watched the ice and snow swirl around outside the glass door, I knew for sure that I wasn’t going to be going anywhere for a good long while.

The sandy-haired blond man got out of his Torch Red Mustang with a familiar swagger. Shutting the door behind him, his fingers drifted along the paint job, leaving a little glistening shine behind wherever he touched. He was parked in the curve of the headquarters driveway and stood there in the late summer sunlight like he owned the place and everything in it, wearing a black suit jacket that looked like he might have had it perfectly tailored to him just that morning. He’d skipped the tie, though, and had a silver-grey shirt that had just the slightest sheen to the fibers. His black shoes glinted in the sunlight, reflective in their high level of polish. He grinned at me in a friendly, familiar way as he ambled over, taking his time and ultimately sticking his hand out in greeting as he approached.

“Scotty,” I said as I took his hand and pulled him up for a bro hug/shoulder bump, “thanks for coming, man.”

“Not a problem,” Scott Byerly said, still grinning to beat the band. He nodded at Baby in a show of respect. “I see you finally traded up to something that befits a young man on the move.”

I glanced back at my darling car. “Well, you know, when you’re dating a woman like Isabella …”

“Hot cars, hot women,” Scott said, nodding along in understanding. “You’re living the life, my friend.”

“Coming from you, that means a lot,” I said, taking in his Mustang with a motion of my hand. Scott came from money. “Because you are a man who knows how to pick out a car.”

“You are a hell of a flatterer,” he said. “Mastery of wind extends right up to your verbal ability.” His expression turned serious. “So … you end up taking the express ferry up shit creek before losing engine power or what?”

“To put it mildly,” I said, leading the way toward Baby. “This guy I dealt with over in Italy, Anselmo, you remember him?”

“I remember him disappearing under a flaming curtain of white phosphorus when Sienna popped that grenade in his mouth,” Scott said. “I got the impression from both of you that he probably got off light with that punishment.”

“He’s a bad man,” I said. “Long story short, he’s back, and he’s inserted himself into this manhunt for the airport bomber. It’s become a supervillain team-up.”

Scott let out a low whistle. “You don’t have small problems, do you?”

“They let Li and the FBI handle those,” I said. “Small problems for the small penised. And what with Sienna out of town and our new hire injured in a tangle with Anselmo this morning … I’m kinda on my own here. Was hoping for a watery hand to cool the situation off.”

Scott shrugged his shoulders like it was NBD. That means no big deal, for those of you who don’t live your lives online. “I’m at your disposal, man. What do you want to do?”

“I’m glad you asked,” I said, opening my driver’s side door and getting in. I pressed the hands-free call button and waited for the beep. “Call J.J. on cell.” Scott got in while the car did its thing, and pretty soon we were treated to the sound of my phone ringing.

“Reed,” J.J. said, almost in a whisper, as I started the Challenger.

“J.J.,” I said, “find me someone to punch in the face.”

“Funny you should ask,” J.J. said, voice no longer hushed, “because Director Phillips is orbiting my way again just now. So why don’t you come on over?”

“Yeah, not doing that,” I said. “Find me a different face to punch.”

“Too bad,” J.J. said with only a hint of acrimony, “you were starting to sound like Sienna for a minute there.”

I sat there in the driver’s seat, stunned, my mouth slightly agape. That was something Sienna would have said, down to the tone.

But I wasn’t like her. Dammit, I wasn’t. I hadn’t even drawn my gun this morning when—

I blinked, the harsh sunlight aligning perfectly with my windshield to throw glare in my eyes. I pulled my sunglasses out of the cup holder and put them on while I let the dead air hang as I contemplated a reply that wouldn’t make me sound like an overly aggressive psychopath (something like, “No, I’m fucking not!” was right out). “J.J.,” I said finally, aiming for higher ground, “we’ve got a real problem to solve here. I could use some help.”

“And if I had any help to give you,” he said, clearly nonplussed, “I would. But unfortunately—” He paused, and sounded muffled. “Yes sir, I’m working on that right now, but the traffic cameras in that area—look, this isn’t my specialty, that’s more Rocha’s—”

“Well, he’s not here,” I heard Andrew Phillips thunder in the background. “I have the Secretary of Homeland Security and the White House Chief of Staff up my ass about this, so get it done, or I’ll be transferring my governmental enema to your rectum, are we clear?”

“Yep,” J.J. said levelly, “you’ll be giving me a bureaucratic enema if I don’t do work that’s plainly out of my job description. I bet that’s going to be so much fun. It’ll probably smell like Hai Karate and failure, given—”

“Stop being a smartass and work the problem,” Phillips said, but his voice was already fading.

“Reed, I’ve got to go,” J.J. said and for the first time, he hung up on me without another word.

I looked over at Scott, who was nodding his head with a slightly amused expression wrinkling the corners of his mouth. “Sounds like the new boss is a real joy to deal with.”