Limitless (13 page)

“Dontcha know,” he said, chuckling again. “It sounds like that one movie, the one with all the snow and murders—”

“
Fargo
,” I said. “It’s interesting to hear it described that way, but… that’s Minnesota. Snow and murders.” At least it had been in my experience.

“Does everybody talk like that there?” He looked over at me as he hit the blinker to signal his turn.

“Some worse than others.” I frowned. “I don’t really sound like Frances McDormand, do I?”

He let a guffaw. “Just a bit. And you looked a little like her, too, pulling that gun. Smoother, though. Like you’d done it more.”

“Hm,” I said, noncommittal. I could see him looking at me out of the corner of his eye. The gun comment was his way of fishing, I knew that much.

He waited a few minutes before he made a move to set the hook. “So… you can burst into flame, can’t you?” I nodded without looking at him. “Throw fireballs at people? I saw that on the telly.” I nodded again, waiting for him to get to it. It took him a minute, but he followed up in just the way I was expecting. “So… why do you need a gun?”

“Because I don’t always want to burn everything down,” I quipped. That was sort of true. I could throw fire, but it was not the cleanest experience. My nets of light, they were a lot more precise.

“That’s a cheap answer,” he said, turning back to the wheel. Now he sounded sullen, or at least, just a little bit.

“It was a cheap question.” That got a little flare of anger to his eyes. “You know what you are, alone and unarmed, in a room with me?” I looked over at him, waiting for the answer, waiting to see if this would just make him madder. “You know what I’d call it?”

Those little embers of fury cooled, turning into a twinkle. “A damned lovely Saturday night?”

I blushed at that. A lot. Because that was true. But I stayed on point. “Prey. Victim. Easy pickings.”

That took him back a step. “You see everyone like that?”

“I don’t,” I said. “I mean, I always keep my eyes open for threats, but I don’t see the balance of humanity that way. But make no mistake about it—in a fight, an unarmed human is nothing but a speed bump between me and whatever I want.” I thought about doing something to demonstrate, but damaging his car or personal property seemed pointless; he’d already seen me turn into a dragon and regrow my foot. “Weapons are what my military friends call ‘force equalizers’ for humans. Without them, you’re always at the mercy of someone stronger than you.”

“With them, we’re all just targets for each other,” he said, a little too glibly. “Would you want to do your job knowing that anyone, anytime, could have a gun on you?”

“I always do my job assuming that,” I said, shrugging it off. “You’re a fool if you don’t.”

He shuddered. “That’s bloody mad.”

“What about you?” I kept my voice calm and level. “You can’t tell me there aren’t criminals out there with guns in London? Metas with powers that could outmatch you? Bad guys who have you outnumbered who would love to see you defenseless?”

“I can tell you this—” he said, and his voice was rising, just a little, to match the intensity of our growing argument. He stopped when my phone rang, though.

“Hello?” I said, answering without even looking at the caller ID.

“Blimey,” came my brother Reed’s voice in the worst—the single worst, bar none—English accent I’ve ever heard. “’ow’s the weather over there, Guv’nor?”

“You’re a jackass,” I replied.

“Me?” Webster asked, and I realized I was still looking right at him.

“Not you,” I said.

“Not me?” Reed asked, and I made an exasperated noise. “Sorry. I wanted to check in on you.”

“I’m fine,” I said, keeping my tone carefully neutral. “How’s everything back at the ranch?”

“Well, the cows ran away,” Reed said dryly, “and there’s a fearful drought.” He’d switched into some sort of terrible Western accent that made me want to reach through the phone and bonk him on the head, Three-Stooges-style. “Reckon we’ll turn to cannibalism when the winter comes…”

“You missed your calling as the first course for the Donner party,” I said, mirthless. “Anything going on?”

“SSDD,” he said. “Got a call from Atlanta. Local PD ran across something they couldn’t handle. I’m having them send me some footage, but so far it sounds like NBD.”

“If you don’t stop speaking in acronyms—”

“Sorry,” he said, and he did sound a little contrite. “NBD is ‘No big deal.’ You should spend more time on Reddit. That and Whedon movies are where all the cool twists of English phrase are coming from nowadays.” He paused for a second, and a little levity crept into his voice. “Need me to explain what SSDD means, too?”

“Some Stupid Damned Dumbass,” I said, twisting the generally accepted meaning of SSDD. “What are you doing about the Atlanta thing?”

“I’ll hop a plane if I need to,” he said. “Until I get any kind of confirmation, I’m not getting off my well-sculpted, happy ass. Details are pretty sketchy yet, anyway. How’s London treating you?”

“Well, we’ve already got a climbing body count,” I said. “And I lost a leg.”

I could hear the wince. “A leg? Are you going to be walking around saying ‘Arrrrrr’?”

I shook my head then realized he couldn’t see me. “SSDD.”

There was a pause. “You meant that in the way you quoted earlier, not what it really is, didn’t you?”

“You’re pretty smart for a stupid damned dumbass.”

“Uh huh,” Reed said. “Are you still playing ride-along with that detective inspector?”

“Yep,” I said, turning my body to look out the front windshield. I didn’t even realize I’d been staring at Webster throughout my conversation until he brought it up. “You’d like him. He and I were just having a conversation that sounds very similar to one you and I have had over the years.”

“He’s cute, isn’t he?” Reed asked, and I heard the teasing through the phone.

I felt my lips pucker. “Mmmhmmm.”

“I’m no meta, but your volume’s turned loud enough that I can hear him,” Webster said with a tight smile.

“Gotta go,” I said to Reed, “unless you need anything else?”

“Want me to hop a plane and come over?” Reed asked. “Or would that be a total cockbloc—”

“We’re fine, okay, see you later,” I said hurriedly and hung up on him before he had a chance to finish his sentence. I could feel my face, flaming red, and I stared out the front window.

“Your brother, right?” Webster asked after an appropriate interval of time. Like, at least twenty seconds.

“Yeah,” I said, feeling the heat gradually fade from my cheeks. “He’s worried. Clearly.”

“Right,” Webster said, nodding. “Clearly concerned.” His lips twisted in a grin. “About blocking my—”

“Shut up and drive, Detective Inspector,” I said, all that redness back in my cheeks. “Because in case you haven’t heard, I can still kill a man with a touch.”

He was quiet for about two point five seconds this time. “I’ve heard of worse ways to go.”

Chapter 29

The streets were still crowded, but it was dying down. Philip was in the back of the van, one of the larger models, with seats stripped out to carry cargo. He was kneeling behind the front seats on the hard, metal floor, taking breaths every ten seconds or so, trying to control his breathing. Concentration was going to be key for what he needed to do next, and that wasn’t going to happen if he couldn’t get his anger under control.

The old bastard still hadn’t broken. Still. There was a lot of pain in his future, Philip knew, but the possibilities were drawing nearer to the right conclusion. He would break. He would shatter. And then, once it was all but certain, Janus would do everything he asked.

But before that time came—and because the old bastard had been so reticent to surrender—there were other concerns.

“Two minutes,” Liliana said from the driver’s seat.

“Yes, I know,” Philip said from the back. Antonio was waiting on the street ahead, having already completed his work. He’d been out all night doing it with help from Liliana, but now he was finished with his last task. That much, Philip could see. Liliana slowed the van and Antonio hopped in, slamming the door shut as Liliana accelerated again.

“Ready and go,” Antonio said, pulling off his black leather gloves to reveal the burned hands. Philip hadn’t bothered to ask him how those had happened. Bomb maker with scarred hands; the answer seemed fairly evident.

“One minute to the back of the building,” Liliana said, voice calm. It grated on Philip’s nerves, but that was her lifetime of training from the Cold War, surely. Either that or she was being intentionally irritating.

This plan was perfectly timed. Every possibility was covered. Every eventuality would be dealt with.

They came out from under trees that hung over the road as they passed the church on the left. Philip looked out the window at the ivory bell tower and saw the dumpster pushed against the facade of the church. It was green, stained with refuse, and didn’t look out of place even pushed against the white stone wall. It sat in the shadow of the bell tower, as much a part of the urban scenery as anything else.

The gallery was ahead. It had such a sophisticated name—The Hartsford Gallery—and contained a priceless collection of art the like of which Philip would have gladly spent untold hours surveying.

Unfortunately, they did not have hours.

The gallery sat perfectly positioned on a triangular cross street where five separate thoroughfares met. It was quintessential old London; poor city design for a place with automobiles passing through because it had been built in an age of wagons and horses, oxen and yokes. It was a remnant of the old world, like much of London was, like the narrow alleys and the clock in Westminster. Part of the city that had seen the sun rise and set on its empire.

In spite of all that, to Philip, it had never lost its charm, even in the waning days.

They drove straight ahead, taking a slight right turn to follow the triangular edge of the Hartsford Gallery. It was a tall building, five stories. The fact that it had once been a private mansion was of particular interest to Philip. The Hartsford family had only opened the home—and their exquisite collection—to tourists because the family had fallen on lean times. The thought of the old world decaying came back to Philip, and he sighed as the van pulled around the back of the gallery.

He opened the side door and got out, straightening his suit as he put the black ski mask on and replaced his glasses. “Remember—we don’t hurt the people in the gallery unless we have to. One particularly brutal display ought to quell any resistance, if even that is needed. But for the police—” He smiled. “Do your worst.”

Liliana gave a smile that was visible under her mask. She had not opted for the simple ski approach, preferring instead to go with something pink and garish. It was one of the more peculiar choices she had made since Philip had first approached her, but every now and again she seemed to take actions that emphasized the femininity that she rarely showed.

Antonio was pulling his gloves back on, mask already placed on his face. “Thank you for this,” he said simply.

Philip forced a smile. “You wanted it. I will deliver it for you.”

Antonio bowed his head, and Philip swept forward, past the both of them and to the back door of the gallery. He opened it with one good pull, ripping apart the lock that was barely adequate to keep it closed on its own. A poor choice, but as this neighborhood was not particularly dangerous, Philip supposed the proprietors had never bothered to invest in something more durable.

Liliana brushed past him, both knives drawn as they stepped into a storage room. Pallets of water and food, probably for the Gallery’s cafeteria, lined the sides of the room. When this had been a house, the room in which they stood had doubtless been part of the servants’ quarters.

Ten steps. Philip knew the blueprints of the house by heart. He’d studied them, memorized them, and made Antonio and Liliana do the same. He knew his limitations, and preparation simply opened up all the possibilities to him. The entrance to the main gallery was just ahead, ten steps, and through that door the game would truly begin. Once they crossed that particular Rubicon, they were committed to this until the end.

And what a glorious end it would be.

With a breath, Philip took the last steps and placed his hand on the door handle. So far, all they’d done was spit in the face of the Metropolitan police. This… well…

“Let’s go,” Philip said, and he smiled as he tugged on the handle. “I think it’s time that New Scotland Yard loses an eye.”

Chapter 30

We walked into the bullpen. It was buzzing with activity once more. The faded quiet that had hung in the place close to the fall of night yesterday was gone, replaced with a healthy hum of people talking, yet to start their paperwork for the day. It was a companionable chatter, detectives standing around and talking over cups of that vile coffee, brewed in an old cistern and seasoned with sewer water. The aroma was not pleasant. I followed in Webster’s wake as he made his way to his desk, shedding his trench coat as he walked and giving me a view of his backside that I—once again—did not completely ignore.

Any elation I might have felt was stripped away by the sight of Dylan waiting in Webster’s chair. The piggish man was spinning idly, moving his hips left and right as though it was the grandest game he’d ever played.

“They don’t normally make spinning chairs in your weight class, huh?” I asked as we approached.

“Wha—?” Dylan spun to see us, and his expression darkened at the sight of me. “Oh, it’s you.” He nodded at Webster. “Webbo.”

I blinked and looked to Webster, whose lips had folded in on each other. “Webbo?”

“It’s a—” He stopped himself and I realized that he was embarrassed.

“It’s what we call him at the pub,” Dylan said, grinning broadly. “It’s what his mates call him.”

“I didn’t realize you two were mating,” I said. “Awkward.” Sarcasm. It’s more of a best friend to me than any diamond.

“What have you got, Dylan?” Webster sauntered over to the desk, but I could see the pained expression. “I know you didn’t drive out here from Hounslow for the coffee.”