Powers (35 page)

But what kind of life would that be? Hounded by heartbreak, weighed down by the price of betrayal. No, this is better. No masks, no secrets. Open and honest, as every good relationship should be.
He headed toward the opaque doors. Moments from now, Crane's elite guards would breach the fourth floor. Then Aaron would have a fight on his hands, not this ridiculous farce, these fat former militants who did their fighting in the boardroom now instead of on the battlefield.

He checked a nearby clock. Twelve-ten. Five minutes before the cops or cavalry arrived. Plenty of time to finish it. Plenty of time to kill three men and call it quits.

Aaron kept walking, stepping over unconscious bodies, heading for suite 4A.

 

28

December. Wednesday afternoon. 12:11
P.M.

Deena crouched low and held out both revolvers. She was glad that she'd lifted Enki's. Glad that she'd brought along the extra firepower. She would need it.
Sucks, though, that I didn't take one of the goons' super-rifles. Or that they didn't offer to hand me one before choosing the better part of valor and running away
.
Cowards,
she thought.
You just can't buy good fanatical help these days.

After checking Enki's vitals, Deena had sprinted into the elevator, heading to the fourth floor where she'd met with Crane twice before. She'd hoped the other guards—the ones on the street, or Crane's personal thugs—and cops on the square below had heard the commotion and were on their way. Just in case, she'd asked the goons to call for backup. Hopefully, they'd listened. For now, unfortunately, Deena was on her own.

She wormed her way around Aaron's barricade and carefully leaned out into the executive hallway. The gunfire and fighting had stopped. The hall was empty now apart from shattered glass and broken bodies. Everyone else had fled. She hurried past the fishbowl conference room toward Crane's private suite. The doors were open, and a faint glow spilled into the corridor. Deena recognized that glow for what it was and realized that if Crane was truly crafty, this fight might already be over.

She crossed the threshold of the office. The walls were illuminated, thrumming with circuitry and tinged viridian green. It was like standing in a giant, toxic box. Thankfully, Deena knew the only one in any real danger was Aaron Boucher. He leaned heavily against the hardwood desk, gasping for breath, sapped of power. Crane had cunningly fitted his office with hundreds of tiny power drainers, disguised and obscured from sight. They'd been affixed to photo frames and lined the baseboard molding. Minuscule dots, stuck to the floor, now lay revealed and glowed green. But that wasn't the most unusual sight in the office, not by far.

Standing behind his desk, safely beneath a sheath of metal and plastic, Malachi Crane preened and grinned like an armored death's-head pumpkin. A steel-and-plastic helmet cushioned his head, wrapping around his ears, seamlessly fitting into a sheet of bulletproof glass that protected his face. His arms were encased in sturdy alloy gauntlets, both of which ended in a pair of deadly gloves that looked strong enough to crush an elephant's skull. The rest of the exoskeleton—from pneumatically enhanced greaves to a set of compartments used to house power cells, tools, and supplies—had been designed to inspire awe and fear, finished with a glossy sheen of red and black. The Human Front logo was engraved into the left breast over a solidly built piece of enamel. Deena recognized the suit from photos she'd seen during the gang war.
This was his supersuit,
she thought.
The one he wore to fight the Soldier, Olympia, Zora, and Walker.

Crane smiled through the helmet, blocky teeth parting to reveal a laughing, dancing tongue. The glass muffled his voice, so he triggered a dial at the base of his neck, turning on a sound system so he could be heard.

“Welcome, Detective,” Crane gloated. “Didn't we
just
have a meeting? I'm afraid that my calendar has been busy as of late. I tend to forget.”

Deena lifted her revolvers, pointing them at the cyborg-militant's neck. “Stand down. Give me room to cuff Boucher, and we'll be out of what's left of your hair.”

Crane indulgently waved his hand. “By all means. Oh, and feel free to thank me for the drainers whenever the mood should strike.”

She moved toward the desk, one gun trained on Crane's suit, the other on her now-powerless ex-boyfriend. “Don't expect a card. Come on, Aaron. You're under arrest.”

Aaron looked sick; the drainers had clearly gotten to him. His face was pale and waxy, slick with sweat. He struggled to catch his breath, hand clutching the front of his shirt, the other roaming the surface of the desk. Aaron looked up at Deena, eyes bright, teeth bared in a horrible rictus. “Honey…” he stammered, “honey, I … I don't think this is working out anymore.”

Deena set her jaw and aimed both guns at Aaron's head. Her hands shook, but she was ready to shoot. Ready to do what needed to be done.
I'm ready,
she told herself, turning it into a mantra
. I will shoot you.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law, where they'll throw the book at you for poisoning my father, shooting the newborn, and nearly killing my partner.”

Aaron laughed, and Crane stepped away from the desk, back toward the green-tinged picture window. Deena heard shouts and commotion on the plaza below—Crane's evacuating staff, no doubt, alerting the media and the authorities. She also heard movement in the hallway—shuffling feet, somebody drawing close. Either one of Crane's goons or, hopefully, a magically splinted and recovered Enki Sunrise.

Aaron wiped perspiration from his face with the hand that had been clutching his shirt. “When you put it like that … it's pretty clear, no? It's … it's not you, D-Deen … it's me.” His free hand, roaming, shot out and clutched something hidden from her view. Crane balked and rushed forward, but before either of them had time to react, Aaron pitched a paperweight across the room and glanced it off Deena's brow. Her head snapped back as she fired, but the shot went wild, burying itself into the wall.

Growling, Aaron launched himself over the desk and grabbed for Crane's throat. He looked fine now—completely normal again, barely affected by the power drainers. A thin seam existed between Crane's helmet and torso; Aaron snatched a letter opener and jabbed it into the bigot's neck. The suit's servos whined as the exoskeleton's gauntlets reached up to pluck Aaron by the collar as one might a cat or child, lifting him out of the way. Crane used the other gauntlet to rip the opener from his throat, spewing a ragged fount of blood onto the desk and carpet. Aaron freed himself from Crane's iron grip, and Deena—recovered by now—ordered him to stand down. Still recovering from the drainers, Aaron steadied himself against the desk. Deena started over, ready to slap on the cuffs, but Aaron jabbed a finger in her direction.

“Stay there, Deena. I don't want to hurt you.”

“Neat trick, if you can manage it,” she retorted. “Not looking too good. Those drainers pack a wallop, I hear.”

“What, these?” he asked, gesturing around the room. “No … I'm good. It's like … I feel drunk? Maybe buzzed, because there's so many of them. But otherwise, I'm golden.” To prove his point, Aaron stood up and sank his fingers into Crane's desk, splintering the wood and jarring the knickknacks and papers so that they fell onto the floor. With a grunt and heave, he tore the desk in half and lifted both pieces—one in each hand. He smiled, a spasm of exertion or pain flitting across his face, and he smiled at Deena.

“See? Good as new. Here's my other secret, Deen. The drainers … energy blasts … anything you throw my way. I just absorb it into my system. I'm superimmune. You can't stop me.”

“Is that how you poisoned Waldo? The hep B was on you when you fought, but there was no chance the injector could accidentally hurt you in the scuffle?”

Aaron's smile nearly reached his ears. “Not exactly. Actually, I just stuck it in his beer while the two of you were fighting. Then I carved the tag on the door when I went to call the paramedics.”

Deena raised her gun and fumed. “I fucking knew it.” She fired a shot; Aaron deflected it with half the shattered desk, forcing the bullet to ricochet away and into the bookcase. He turned to Crane and apologetically ducked his head. “Sorry to you both. Not the way I'd hoped this would go down.” He hefted the other piece and flung it at Crane's exosuit. The cybernetic bigot leaped aside, lashing out with a robotic arm, and the desk glanced against the metal and flipped up and over, smashing through the window and falling to the street below. Crane was shaken, and Aaron took advantage of the moment by gently sliding the other half of the desk at Deena. She stumbled back, bracing for impact; a moment flashed before her eyes, and it was the last moment she'd expected to see.

Two cops met in an office. Deena, younger, slouched against the wall in a T-shirt cut short to expose her stomach. Walker leaned halfway through the door, bantering with the captain. He'd been saddled with a leftover from a case—a little girl, abandoned and alone.

“I have cases,” he explained, attempting to pawn the girl off.

Cross wasn't deterred. “And that's why we have day care. Drop her with Babs for the shift, and we'll see what we can do.”

Deena looked up, giving the handsome, square-jawed detective a sidelong glance. “How old is she?”

“What?” Walker finally noticed her but barely looked her way, focus still on the captain. “I don't … I don't know. Six or—how can you tell?”

“You could ask.”

Now his eyes slid in her direction. “I'm sorry,” he asked, irritated that she had interrupted the back-and-forth. “Who are—”

“Oh, I'm Deena Pilgrim. I've just been reassigned.”

“Oh, uh—congrats, I guess.” He seemed confused, slightly distracted. “Pull the short end of the…”

“Nope,” she said, interrupting him once again. “Requested.”

“Seriously?”

“Totally.”

That seemed to land an impression. His hand still rested on the doorknob, as if unwilling to commit an entrance into the office. “Huh,” he breathed, genuinely surprised.

Deena wasn't sure why he would be. “So did you, right?”

He just stared at her as a beat passed. Then he glanced at the captain. “So what floor is day care?”

Cross leaned back into his chair, hand lazily gesturing in Deena's direction. “Third,” he replied. “Take your new partner with you.”

Walker's eyes darted right again, taking in said partner. “Huh,” he repeated, and this time, he said it with a lift in his voice.

“Huh yourself,” she answered.

“No,” Walker stammered, “I…”

Deena smiled. “Let's go.” And go they did.

That moment, the day she'd been partnered with Walker, it seemed like a lifetime ago. And it meant more to her than anything else she cared to remember—more than her childhood, more than her
Hindenburg
of a relationship with Aaron Boucher. Only one other moment could possibly compare, and that was her last day at the academy. The day she'd finally been able to call herself a cop.

But that was over now. She was about to be flattened by a solidly built, unjustly shattered piece of overpriced furniture. Deena closed her eyes and said a prayer.

Footsteps stumbled against a marbled floor, and hands reached out from the hallway. Powerful fingers grabbed Deena's arm, pulling her out of harm's way. The desk smashed against the doorframe and wedged itself between Deena and the office. She looked up, pushing matted hair from her eyes and quickly raising a gun toward her attacker.

Broad shoulders, kind steel eyes, and a square jaw filled her vision. Walker reached down and offered a hand, involuntarily smiling despite himself. He wore a novelty T-shirt and a pair of faded jeans—where he'd found them, Deena had no idea. His left arm was dotted with blood and bruises—probably from the IV tubing he'd torn away. He looked like an exhausted, battered mess. He'd deliberately ignored her instructions to stay behind. But Deena had never been so happy to see his stupid face in all her miserable life.

“Remember that first day?” she asked. “I had to give you babysitting lessons.”

“All I remember is that belly shirt you were wearing.”

“Gross. Help me up.”

Walker did, and the partners faced one another in the hall. Grunts and crashes filtered out from Crane's office. “You okay?” she asked her partner, genuinely concerned.

“Yeah. You?”

“I will be. Enki's downstairs.”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “I saw her on my way in. I followed you from the hospital. Took my time. Hung back until you needed me. Backup should be here any minute.”

“Great…” She couldn't stop smiling. Deena jerked a finger toward the office. “We should probably do this now.”

“Yup.” Walker grinned in return. “Hey, that was a great first day, you know.”

“Retro Girl died that day.”

“Yeah,” he said, pointing between them. “But this …
this
was born.”

“Ugh, shut up.” Deena really couldn't stop smiling. She heard shouts and movement from the far end of the floor, along with the sound of metal clacking on metal. Crane's guards, no doubt, unlocking safeties on their superweapons. “Do you hear yourself when you talk? I think I like you better when you're an asshole.”