Aubrey, fully recuperated, engages her eyes on the rifles the two guards have in their grasp as they settle onto their feet. Clutching at the guns, their bodies begin following the magnetic pull, their feet dragging in the soil. Looking to one another, they nod, letting go. The rifles spring in Aubrey’s direction. She diverts her eyes to the left, the weapons following until they come to a stop, a safe distance from the guards. Releasing her gaze, the guns drop, clanking against the rocky surface.
With the same momentum, stride and poise, Emily and Vigilare run at the two guards, who easily stand a foot taller and doubly outweigh each of them. They meet the burly men with simultaneous flying double chest kicks, using the leverage of their robust bodies to push off into roundhouse position as they land swiftly on their feet. The two women fight in tandem, their moves and deflections perfectly timed, as if controlled by one mind. It is a supreme dance of anatomy and kinesiology, flawless in its execution. The only difference is power, unquestionably in Vigilare’s favor. Their bodies taut and flexible, engage and retreat at swift intervals. Not even the men’s size is an obstacle, as their agility is metaphysical. The guards and the driver, outnumbering them, outweighing them, out-bruting them, even engaging knives they pulled from the crevices of their uniforms now lay lifeless at the bottom of the ravine.
Emily and Vigilare remain crouched, adrenaline still surging through their intricate systems. Eyeing one another, Vigilare instinctively feels threatened, as she should. Emily lurches at her, and the two tumble through the air, grappling end-over-end, each attempting to assume the dominant position. Emily swings and Vigilare dodges. Vigilare engages and Emily retreats, only to recoup with a countermove. Extended to the ends of their limbs, both arms and legs, pivoting and leaping through the air, scuffling along the rough terrain, the women combat and refrain with power and finesse. Neither is capable of fully submitting the other. Every action superbly executed, every reaction timely and absolute, their conditioning and control equally matched. The sounds of their clothing, sharp and crisp with each follow-through, mimicked and aspired to in many a karate dojo by students wearing perfectly designed gi to promote such resonance.
“That’s enough,” a female voice rings through their action, accompanied by a blast from a shotgun.
They stop momentarily, both of them on their feet in defensive stances, eyes locked on each other. Their chests heaving up and down, replenishing their oxygen, hearts pounding ferociously, seemingly ready to burst from their ribcages.
“Load up,” a male voice orders.
Emily is the first to break eye contact, letting her guard down. She turns swiftly away. Vigilare rests her clenched fists at her sides, her gaze shifting in the direction of the voices. There, in front of the chopper, Dr. Patricia Ryan stands beside William Truly, who holds a shotgun in one hand aimed at the sky.
“Aubrey,” Dr. Ryan beckons.
Aubrey obliges, meeting Vigilare’s fading luminescent emerald green gaze with her own, fully voiding it. The action causes Vigilare to wince, pressing her eyes together. Opening them, the glow is gone and Gina remains. ‘She’s in this up to her eyeballs, Gina. I can feel it,’ Tony’s voice flashes through her mind in reference to Dr. Ryan.
Emily circles the bus, inspecting cautiously as she makes her way to the back entrance. Spotting Randall leaned up against the side of the bus, shivering from standing in the cold water, his hands and feet still firmly shackled, she purposely slows her pace, sauntering toward him through the water, a malignant smile gracing her lips.
“What do we have here?” she says, pleased with her find, a regular gold mine.
Randall watches her fearfully, the whites of his eyes large and protruding, nuzzling his body closer still against the back of the bus frame.
Grabbing the propane torch from the vicinity of the broken metal fence that once separated the front of the bus from the back, she fires it up, causing Randall to flinch, closing his eyes.
“Hold your hands out,” she orders.
He peeks through one eye, then the other, swiftly offering up the cuffs, his arms stretched to their limits in front of him. The heat from the flame warms him as it sputters, slicing through the irons, releasing his hands from their confinement. Emily holds the shackle leading to his ankle cuffs. With one swift jerk, she pulls his feet out from under him, dumping him back into the water.
Randall’s words garble from beneath the cold, liquid mask, bubbling to the surface. Emily coolly continues cutting through the shackles, freeing his ankles, paying him no attention. Her work complete, she discards the torch. Randall splishes and splashes, gathering his limbs, assisting himself to a standing position.
He sputters, spitting water from his mouth, a thin fog clouds around his body, the cold air meeting the moisture from the water. His eyes dart from Emily to the front and then to the back of the bus, searching for his most accessible exit.
Emily chuckles. “Told you I’d be seeing you, Randall,” she says, the words echoing inside his mind, reminiscent of the same threat he received in the elevator weeks ago.
“You!” he gasps, hurtling toward the back of the bus.
His screams are heard outside the big white metal box, soon followed by silence. Emily emerges from the front of the bus, her body language fully offensive.
“And you call yourself Vigilare...keeper of the night,” she spews bitterly in Gina’s direction, returning to the helicopter. “You better get a handle on her, or I will,
mother
,” she scoffs to Dr. Ryan, loading into the chopper.
Dr. Ryan wards her off with an accommodating nod, her hand rising in testament fashion.
William Truly follows his daughter’s lead, rounding the front of the
black hawk
, piling into position at the controls.
Gina remains completely still, dumbfounded, her mind, or internal computer rather, overloaded and attempting to process and compile data.
“There will be time for explanation,” Dr. Ryan consoles in her distant and cold manner. “Load up, Ms. DeLuca.” She turns, climbing up into the open sliding door, taking her seat next to Emily.
Chapter 23
AUBREY EXTENDS GINA a genuinely compassionate smile, standing there in front of the chopper.
Gina looks around at the wreckage, her flight instinct kicking up inside her, unanswered as her legs fail to accommodate. Tears press hard against the backs of her eyes, recognizing her life is no longer her own. Maybe it never was.
Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!
The propeller on the chopper winds up slowly, the beginnings of a formidable wind.
Aubrey walks to Gina, taking her by the hand, the gust feathering her hair and Gina’s, catapulting it upwards. “We have no choice, Gina,” Aubrey raises her voice to be audible over the propeller. “They chose us.” She sways her head toward the chopper.
Gina gives in, her body on autopilot. The two women load into the helicopter, taking their seats across from Dr. Ryan and Emily Truly. William Truly engages the big bird, steadily putting more space between it and the ground. Emily pulls against the sliding door until it slams shut, barricading them inside. In the navigation seat, a familiar round, happy face emerges, peeking from behind Emily. Scrunching up his nose, his glasses resting at eye level, Dr. Godfrey smiles reassuringly at Gina.
She shakes her head disapprovingly, unwilling to return the gesture.
“Here, put this on,” Aubrey instructs, pulling Gina’s harness from the ceiling.
Gina gives her a condescending look as if to say,
What’s the worst that could happen?
Aubrey smiles, hooking it around her anyway.
Emily watches the two with full antipathy, her icy stare unwavering.
The atmosphere in the chopper is silent for miles. Gina looks out the window. They head north and west.
“The man, in the alleyway, by the dumpster,” Dr. Ryan begins. “It is as Emily testified. He raped her three years ago and left her for dead. Do you know she laid behind that dumpster all night and half of the morning, before someone found her?”
Emily doesn’t react, her expression stone cold, looking straight ahead as if she has completely detached from the memory. Gina refuses to pay Dr. Ryan any attention, continuing to look out the window. Her ears perked, however.
“You should know how it feels to watch your child suffer and not be able to do anything about it,” Dr. Ryan pokes Gina’s emotions, causing her to turn her eyes in her direction, full of questions and quickly connecting the dots. “Your visions. The little boy...Braydon.”
With the pronunciation of his name, Gina mouths the word,
Braydon
, with renewed recognition, remembering him as her own. Vivid snapshots flash before her—Lon’s excitement in finding out they were pregnant, Braydon’s birth (painfully blissful), the first time he clutched her finger in his tiny hand, his first words (‘Bou Bou,’ reminding her of Boudreaux’s happy, panting face), proud yet fearfully waiting for the bus to arrive on his first day of school, armored with his Superman backpack, family dinners, bedtime stories, his big blue eyes and gorgeous dark, curly eyelashes matching his hair, just like his daddy’s, his laughter, his sweet little body laying lifeless beside Lon’s on their bedroom floor.
Gina lunges forward at Dr. Ryan, her anger bridled by the harness crossing her body, hooked into her seat below.
Emily smirks at her, satisfied with her discontent.
Dr. Ryan holds her hand out, defensive and sympathetic. “That was before I knew you. Before any of us knew you.” She settles her hand in her lap, continuing, “Dr. Godfrey was called in on your case. From the coroner’s office.”
“I was dwelling in New Orleans at the time,” Dr. Godfrey confirms from the front seat.
“He and I go way back. To my West Point days,” Dr. Ryan confirms, looking suspiciously at Gina, aware she knows all too well about her connection to West Point.
Gina remains flat in her affect, neither confirming nor denying Dr. Ryan’s suspicions.
“He had his own private lab,” Dr. Ryan continues, referring to Dr. Godfrey. “Your body was delivered to him for autopsy, upon his request.” She crosses one leg over the other, leaning forward intently, her elbow resting on her knee. “That thing you do with your eyes. The sparkling emerald green light. Dr. Godfrey saw hints of that in the blood encircling your bodies—you, your husband and your son. The combination. He passed it off as antifreeze, knowing it was anything but. Something happened that night, Gina.”
“Brianna,” Gina corrects, remembering her birth name.
“Gina,” Dr. Ryan amends sternly. “Brianna Castille died that night. On her bedroom floor in New Orleans.”
Emily rolls her eyes as if the drama is unnecessary.
“When you woke hours later, with the help of Dr. Godfrey, you were reborn Gina DeLuca.”
“Vigilare,” Emily chimes in mockingly with a spooky intonation. Dr. Ryan stifles her with a reprimanding glance.
Gina looks out the window, disbelieving and done with the conversation.
“The mixture of your blood,” Dr. Ryan continues.
“O-negative,” Dr. Godfrey confirms.
“Your husband’s,” she waits for Dr. Godfrey to chime again.
“AB-negative.”
“And your son’s.”
“B-negative,” he finishes.
“When infused back to you, gave you renewed life.” Dr. Ryan looks at Gina intently. “Aren’t you the least bit impressed?” She proceeds in her mildly excited manner, too reserved to fully inspire. “You are the only one of its kind.”
“That we know of,” Dr. Godfrey adds.
“And when exposed to oxygen, it gives you supernatural strength. Power beyond that of the human realm. That luminescent emerald glow on the hardwood floor of your bedroom now resides within you. Because of your husband and your son, you have the ability to do things unparalleled. And they are alive in you, literally, in your veins.”
She has Gina’s attention now as she looks to her from the window.
“Every breath, every heartbeat, every empowered move, possible because of them. It can’t be wrong, Gina.”
“My husband,” her voice breaks, causing her to gather herself before continuing. “Lon and Braydon. Pure hearts,” she says, her hand finding its way to her chest. “I’ve killed fifteen people, that I know of. How many more?” Her body language intense. “You think that would make them proud? And if I am this way because of them, why am I
avenging
others? What about the bastards that killed them? When do they get a visit from Vigilare?”
“Eight,” Emily quickly corrects her. “You’ve killed eight rapists and pedophiles,” she exaggerates the labels. “You don’t get to have all the fun.” She smiles, looking at Aubrey, who turns her head away to the window, slightly ashamed.
Gina nods, fully catching her drift. “And if I’m the only one of my
kind
, how do you explain these two.” She flicks her arms at Aubrey and Emily.
“If you would be patient, I was getting to that,” Dr. Ryan replies, annoyed. “Aubrey was the first, after you.” She motions to Aubrey, urging her to speak.
Aubrey begins, her glance finding its way back to the window. She talks with a distant tone. “I was in New Orleans, on Spring Break. Mardi Gras. My goal to get wasted and wild. Do it up right. My neck was weighed down with beads, if that tells you anything,” she says, condemning herself for flashing her chest in exchange for the four-cent plastic beads in traditional Mardi Gras fashion. “Stupid.” She shakes her head, still punishing herself for her adolescent actions. “My friend and I fell in with some locals. Boys, of course. We accepted as they provided us round after round of anything and everything. Merciful, really, to be completely shit-faced. Complete consciousness would have been even more damaging.” She stops.
“Dr. Godfrey found her the next morning just before sunrise, in the gutter, outside his lab.” Dr. Ryan looks to Aubrey, who continues staring out the window. “Nearly torn limb from limb. Not a shred of clothing left on her body. Her blonde hair saturated in her own blood. They took turns with her. Virginity stolen. Her face and physique bruised and marred beyond recognition.”