A New Day (StrikeForce #1) (7 page)

More to the point, I wondered, because I tend to be a bit morbid, maybe, how far they’d tested that whole “indestructible” idea. I shook my head and pulled my focus back to the video. Alpha sat in a room, a bank of large windows behind him. He wore the original version of the StrikeForce uniform, which was navy blue and yellow, instead of the dark gray and black ones they were wearing currently. A mask covered half his face, and he rested lazily in a large leather chair, as if he couldn’t be bothered to sit up straight while he was being interviewed.

What an absolute jackass, I thought as I turned the volume up.

“The worst thing was those first few weeks after, when I was adjusting to the new powers. I think the new strength was throwing me off, you know? I felt off. Awkward.”

“What made it better? Just time, or… ?”

“Time, maybe. But more, I think it was that I started forcing myself to use it. I went to the gym and lifted. I hit things—“

“Hit things?”

“Whatever I could hit, kind of testing my punch, but it also seemed to help me get a handle on things. I started to feel more in control of my movements again. It was like learning gross motor skills all over again.”

“What’s the biggest thing you’ve hit?”

Alpha laughs then, and he sounds kind of smug to me.
“There was this old abandoned house. Two walls already down, thanks to fire. I took the rest of it down with one hit.”

I rolled my eyes. Destroyed by fire, and only partially standing in the first place. As if that was supposed to be impressive. “Puh-lease,” I muttered. I clicked the video off and got up. I couldn’t exactly go to my normal gym, not now. But I knew of a few big, open, abandoned places to try out.

I took the bus to Eight Mile, not too far from Mama’s trailer, but over on the Detroit side. There was this old abandoned motel there. I’d had to walk past it a lot when I was a teenager, because there was a bus stop not too far away from it, and it was the stop I’d had to use getting home from my after school job. My stomach twisted as I remembered the night I’d seen two guys stumbling out of it, drunk or high, maybe both. And I’d walked faster.

And they’d seen me.

I’d taken off at a run, but I tripped, and before I even knew what was happening, they were on me, pulling me up, toward the motel with its dark, gaping doors and windows, the brick walls wearing layers of graffiti. I’d seen them before, had ignored them and walked fast. This time, I hadn’t been so lucky.

Things could have been so much worse. But I saw red and started fighting, screaming like a woman possessed. All of my instincts had taken over, all of those little tips I’d learned during the time I spent sparring, from the self-defense classes I’d taken as soon as I was able to sign up for them, determined that nobody would ever knock me around the way I’d seen my father knock Mama around before he’d died.

As I approached the motel, I remembered that night. Remembered fighting my way out and running like hell.

I walked up to the motel and ducked into one of the open doorways. It had once been a guest room, I supposed. I knew there were likely a few people around, but it’s not like that mattered. If they were smart, they’d take off.

My hood was up, pulled low over my face. I pulled some hand wrap out of my jeans pocket and wrapped one hand, from my wrist up to my knuckles, making sure the tape was tight but not too tight, flexing my hand into a fist. Then I did the other. I could hear movement but I didn’t care. If anyone was thinking of trying anything, they’d think twice in a minute.

I finished wrapping up, and faced the wall. Stained, graffiti-covered wallpaper, trash everywhere. That weird energy ran through me, and it was almost like it was begging me to just freaking hit something.

So I did. I pulled my arm back, and then I planted my fist in the wall.

Drywall shattered and the building shook. I backed up, looked at the damage I’d caused, and did it again, right next to the first impact.

A third time, and I heard a male voice mutter something about crazy people, and then I hit it again and saw weak light coming through from the street lamps outside.

Again.

I moved to another wall and started punching, and it was a release. Relief. Like this was what my body was meant to do, hit shit and destroy. For the first time in days, I moved as if I knew how, my movements controlled, focused. Brick shattered around me, and another hole appeared, toward the alley this time. I punched my way through walls, one end of the building to the other, losing myself in the sensation of relief, the sensation of feeling right for the first time since the night of the Confluence.

Again.

Someone said something, and when I looked toward the direction of the voice, all I saw was a figure quickly turn and run away. I laughed, and punched, and it was like everything clicked into place.

I was unstoppable.

I didn’t even feel bad about the destruction. The place was a magnet for degenerates. Unlucky people had been grabbed by the sickos who stalked them from the empty motel. Not all of them had gotten away as lucky as I had. There had been more than a few bodies found there.

Another wall went down, and I heard the building start rumbling.

“I hope you’re all out,” I called, and my voice seemed amplified.

I delivered one more hard punch to the last pillar on the outer wall, watched concrete and brick shatter, and the rumbling increased. I zipped out of the building, into the air, and watched from about thirty feet up as the whole damn thing crashed to the ground in a pile of brick, concrete, and dust. Satisfied that the job was done and that I had control over my own body again, I rose higher into the sky and made my way toward home.

That was fun. I’d have to do something like it again soon.

The next morning, there were reports on the news about the person, undoubtedly a powered person, who’d pulled the Eastland Motel down with a few punches, and then flown off into the night.

I watched in amusement as they interviewed Alpha about the appearance of new powered people, and, more specifically, possible super villains.

“We don’t know that this person is a villain. They just may have trouble controlling their powers. It happens,” he said, and I smirked. “I encourage them to contact us. We are here to help.” He recited the StrikeForce toll free number, as well as the web address. I laughed outright, then. I would have to be more careful from now on, but I had to admit, this was even better than watching the reporters and victims of my burglaries gnash their teeth over who could possibly keep doing these things.

Ah, well. I’d just have to let them wonder. I had no intention of outing myself or of making shows like that a regular thing. The only thing that mattered now was that I mostly felt like I knew how to move right again, and I didn’t break every single thing I wanted to touch. It was something.

I glanced at the clock and stood up with a yawn. Sunday breakfast at Mama’s. And I was going to be late if I didn’t get my crap together. It kind of sucked having to make time to catch the bus, when flying there would have taken me maybe ten minutes, tops.

When I got to the trailer, I could smell bacon and pancakes, and it smelled like home. I let myself in, hugged Mama, and helped set the table. I poured coffee for both of us, and then Mama and I sat down to eat. It took everything in me not to blurt out that I had powers, especially when she started talking about the Confluence and how they had a man in the ER the previous night who’d suffered burns from some guy who shot flames at him.

“It wasn’t necessarily a powered person,” I said, taking another bite of bacon. “Could have been a guy with lighter fluid and a lighter or something, you know?”

“Still. This man swore there was nothing like that, that the guy just held his hands up, and flames came shooting out.”

“Where was the guy?” I asked.

“He was in his house, he said. Somewhere in Bloomfield, I think,” she said with a shrug. “He said he heard something downstairs, thought it might be the burglar who’s been in those neighborhoods.”

I ducked my head, nodding a little. “But it wasn’t?”

“No. Unless this firestarter guy is the burglar, and this was just the first time he’d been caught red-handed. Ha. Red-handed,” Mama said, and then she started laughing, waving her hand in front of her face as if she was ashamed to be laughing, which only ended up making me laugh along with her.

“I’m sorry. I’m coming off a twelve-hour shift,” she said breathlessly, still laughing a little. “Anyway. He said the firestarter guy took off with a bunch of stuff from his house.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Art, mostly. Also cleaned out the safe after threatening to burn the house down if the guy didn’t open it for him.”

I was almost jealous. Wouldn’t that make my job easier, if I could just threaten them into handing their shit over?

“Anyway. Enough of that. What about you? How are your classes going?”

I bullshitted my way through it. I didn’t want to worry her. I wasn’t even sure I would finish now. What was the point? I could take anything I wanted, give it to anyone I wanted. I didn’t need to form some community organization anymore, or learn how to work with non-profits, or learn to write grant proposals. I could take what was needed, and give it to those in need. Easy.

Still. There was some level of “told you so” in having that piece of paper to shove into the faces of everyone who told me I’d never manage it.

I’d figure it all out later.

I spent most of the afternoon hanging out at Mama’s trailer, then finally convinced her to get some sleep and, once she was settled, I let myself out. I bounced down the wooden steps and made my way down the gravel road through the trailer park. I nodded to a few people I knew, stuffed my hands into my pockets. There was a guy standing near the driveway into the trailer park. Dark coat, baseball hat pulled low over his face. I didn’t pay him much mind as I walked past.

“Jolene,” he said, and my entire body went rigid. I recognized that voice immediately, that smooth, deep tenor.

Nah. It couldn’t be.

I turned around, and the guy in the dark coat was looking at me. One look at his dark eyes, and I knew I was screwed.

Rich Guy. The rich guy who’d seen me fly.

“I think you have the wrong person,” I told him, turning around again.

“Pretty sure I don’t. Can I talk to you please?”

I kept walking, and was relieved when he didn’t catch up with me.

Then again, it meant leaving him back there, near where my mother lived. I blew out a breath and turned around again. He was still in the same place, hands shoved into his coat pockets. I walked back to him.

“How do you know my name?” I asked.

“I do my homework. And we have the same fence,” he said, quietly, in a voice that I could hear only because I was standing right next to him.

I clamped my mouth shut. Maybe he was a cop. Maybe this was a set up.

“Luther said to tell you it’s okay. I’m okay. You can call her if you want. I’ve been working with her for a long time,” he said quietly. “We’re her only clients. What are the odds, huh?”

“You’re a…”

“A thief. Pretty good one, actually. Not as good as you, maybe.”

“If you bought that house with money you lifted, you’re a hell of a lot better than I am,” I muttered, and when I looked up at him again, he was watching me.

“Well, that was the result of a hefty inheritance,” he said.

“So, is this the part where you tell me that people don’t steal from you, you steal from them, and then threaten to break my legs or some shit?”

He smiled. “No. This is the part where I ask if you‘ve ever considered teaming up with anyone.”

I didn’t answer, and the silence grew between us.

“You can do things, Jolene. I know you can, because I saw it,” he said quietly, and then he started walking down Eight Mile. I had little choice, so I went with him. “And if I’m guessing right, it’s not just flying. You’re strong enough to knock buildings down with your bare hands.”

I glanced over at him, and our eyes met for an instant before I looked away.

“Did Luther really give you my name?” I asked.

“She did. She also promised to cut my balls off and feed them to her poodle if I even thought of threatening you.”

“Yet here you are.”

“I’m not threatening. I’m negotiating.”

We walked in silence for quite a while.

“I can do things, too,” he said, and I glanced over at him. “Not like you. My powers are mostly the kind nobody would notice.”

“What can you do?” I asked.

He shrugged. “You use a jammer or passcode decoder to get into houses, right?”

I didn’t answer.

“You broke into my house. I figured out how you did it. Anyway, I don’t need to do stuff like that. I just kind of…” he held his hands out, as if waiting for the right words to come. “I just kind of see how stuff like that works and communicate with it. I don’t get how it works. But pass codes, frequencies, computer code, electricity… it’s almost like a living thing, and I can interrupt it. I can see it, feel it. Or something.” He paused. “So I can be subtle. Or, I can make a point.” My mind went to news reports, stories about electrical fires, cars going haywire. It felt like a chill came up on me, out of nowhere.

“Well. That’s handy,” I said.

“It is. But sometimes, you need a little more muscle. And an easy getaway,” he said, still watching me. “Imagine what we could do together, Jolene. We’d own this city. As much damage as we’ve done individually, can you even imagine how much we could get if we worked together? We could have anything we wanted. Fifty-fifty. We share everything. We have each other’s backs.”

That last part made my stomach give a funny little twist. The idea of anyone other than Mama and maybe Luther having my back was an alien one.

“And what if I don’t want to?”

“What do you mean?”

“If I don’t agree to work with you? What then? You go to the police about me? You harass my mother? What?”