Masks (Out of the Box Book 9) (16 page)

“That explains why you look freshly showered,” Kat said, nodding as if the world suddenly made sense. “You did it before you went to bed. I was wondering, you seemed way too clean, lacking your skin’s usual morning shine—”

“What the ass?” I asked, looking daggers at her. “Are you seriously competing with me for who has the better morning look?”

“Oh, yeah, just casually drop that reference to a burning building and don’t elaborate on what happened,” Reed said. “Classic Sienna.”

“What?” I asked, trying to turn my ire away from Kat. “There was a fire, I went to it, I saved some people, maybe a dog—”

“Awww,” Kat said, her face turning all mushy.

“Awwwwwww,” Augustus said, outdoing her.

“Ughhhhhh,” Reed said, rolling his eyes.

“—and then I encountered Scott and Guy Friday at the scene,” I said. “And he … maybe saved me with his water jets. That’s it. Nothing more to tell.” I paused. “Except that Captain Frost and Gravity Gal were both there, and—”

A series of groans ran through my phone’s beleaguered speakers as my entire audience voiced their disdain at once.

“—listening to status reports when we could be talking about this—”

“—some quality hero work and probably an interesting story and we just go skipping right over it—”

“—worry about you, Sienna. You should really—”

“—but the dog’s okay, right?”

“The dog and the people are all fine,” I said. “And also not the point of the story, which was really more a chance for me to mention my ex working for the government and possibly trying to bring me down, if my suspicions are correct.”

“Which they usually are,” Ariadne said. “You might not be much of an investigator, but when you do finally get a hunch, it often ends up being right.”

“Yikes,” Kat said, shifting around and looking concerned all the while. “What are you going to do? Blow them up? Fight them? Shoot them?”

“This is the government,” I said. “Fighting and blowing them up are not options.”

“So … you’re going to shoot them, then?” Kat asked.

“I don’t have my gun with me, so I figured it would go without saying I wasn’t going to shoot them,” I said. “Apparently it did not go without saying, since I had to fricking say it for you. I don’t want to cross these guys if I can avoid it. Even Scott.”
Especially Scott,
I didn’t say.

“Why?” Kat asked, particularly dense this morning. “Scott’s a Poseidon type and Friday is a … what is he again? A Hercules? You could mop the floor with both their faces and not break a sweat.”

“I could,” I said. “And then I could have the entire government make it their mission in life to ensure I don’t get to have a life. Maybe I could beat them all, down to the last FBI agent and National Guardsman … but I don’t get to live like a person while I’m going to war with the US government, and that’s assuming they don’t tranq me or shoot me or whatever just to get it over with. I’m not invincible, and I can’t live my life in society unless I live like a normal person, which includes following the law as best I can.”

“As best you can?” Ariadne cocked an eyebrow at me.

“I may push the speed limits a li’l bit when I drive,” I said. “Like the rest of you don’t.”

“Yeah, you’re one of the people all right,” Augustus deadpanned. “Except for that goddess complex you’re carrying around with you.”

“Point is, I’m not looking to start a blood feud with the US government,” I said. “So … like I said, I think I have things pretty much wrapped up here. I’m gonna make my report to Lieutenant Welch, tell him he’s worried over Captain Frost’s brain—which is to say, nothing—and then I’ll bail.” I leaned back in my chair and ran my hands over the smooth top of the hotel desk. “I might even make it back to Minnesota in time to get some fried cheese curds at the State Fair.”

“Those cannot be good for your hips. Or your skin,” Kat said. “Think of the grease!”

I ignored her. “So that’s my plan. Who’s next?”

After my conference call concluded, I typed up a basic report on my tablet with my assessment of the likelihood for conflict between Captain Frost and Gravity Gal. Frost could have been lying, but I doubted he was really into making this feud a thing, and Jamie—err, the Gal in question—seemed to have enough on her plate already without starting something with her crosstown hero rival. I put all this into my report, plus additional lines which were mostly padding (to really earn my pay, you know) and ass-covering (because it was for a government agency, duh) and then emailed it all to Welch and packed my crap. I figured I’d drop into the precinct in person after it had marinated in his inbox for an hour or so, just to let him know I considered this case nice and closed, and he could save that steady trickle of money he was sending my way for a real emergency. It wasn’t like the NYPD had all the money in the world, after all. As much as I liked earning my keep, this felt like a waste of their resources, and I was fully prepared to tell Lieutenant Welch so.

I rode the elevator down to the lobby, admiring the fact that I’d made it through another case without inflicting physical violence on anyone. It felt like a personal victory, if nothing else, and as I stepped out into a light, still-sunny rain, I counted my blessings that I was getting out while the getting was good, because the thought of entering into conflict with Scott made me a little queasy. I was fully assured of my status as a preeminent badass, but I was under no illusions about what would happen if I got into a battle of wills with the Federal Government—they’d make it their mission to make an example of me, because law and order only works if you don’t allow big honking exceptions to wander your streets like deities.

I should know. I spent years of my life trying to make sure the lid stayed on that particular cauldron.

I was only a few blocks from the police station, and since my hair was fully frizzed anyway and I didn’t have any makeup on, I walked through the light summer rain with the sounds of the city alive around me. I heard sirens in the distance, but ignored them. They were most likely for an ambulance after all, though I listened harder for the next few minutes to see if I could hear more. I didn’t, and when I popped into the precinct, I found the place only slightly more alive than it had been yesterday evening.

“What is this, lunch hour?” I asked as I stepped into Welch’s office. No one had stopped me on the way up, probably because I looked like I knew what I was doing. Also, the desk sergeant buzzed me through because he knew me. Helps having a familiar face.

Welch looked up, his comb-over in perfect order today. “No, there’s a bank robbery going on in lower Manhattan. Guys with lots of guns. They’ve taken hostages, so we called in everybody we had. I’m heading that way in a few minutes myself.”

I stared straight at him. “You’re … not kidding about that, are you?”

He shook his head. “Serious as the grave. You come to elaborate on your report? Because I got the gist, and the gist was an empty hamburger bun.”

I tried to decipher that. “Disappointing, especially during lunch hour?”

“More or less what I meant,” Welch said, looking at the papers on his desk. “So this is a nothingburger, then? This beef between Frost and Gravity?”

“Yes, there is no beef,” I said, my mouth watering. Dammit, I wanted Shake Shack again. “Just a hothead with ice powers and insufficient brains—and probably insufficient genitals, if we’re hewing to that whole beef theme.”

Welch chuckled. “Fair enough.” He looked around. “Say … since you’re technically still on the clock, any chance you want to stick your nose in on that bank robbery?”

“I’ll give it a glance on my way out of town,” I said, flashing him a smile. “This Frost/Gravity feud may have turned out to be nothing, but thanks for thinking of me. And let me know if anything else comes up—”

“You’ll be the first one I call,” he assured me with a smile. “I’d rather deal with you than those FBI peckerwoods, after all.” He looked down. “Don’t you know one of—”

I zipped out of the precinct before he had a chance to finish his question or look up. There were just some questions I was tired of dealing with—and Scott was definitely one of them.

Kyra was already gone when Jamie woke up, which was probably fortunate, Jamie reflected. She’d woken up late, so the idea of hashing out their difficulties—or trying, at least—while she was supposed to be at work seemed like a failing proposition. It had left a little sting buried in her heart, though, a nettle that was worming its way into Jamie, one that she was doing her best to ignore as she walked into work and up the stairs, nodding to her employees as she passed each of them.

“Running behind again, huh?” Clarice asked, meeting her at the end of the hall.

“At least I don’t have a banker waiting for me today,” Jamie said. Her stomach rumbled, and she had a headache doing much the same to her skull. “Is there coffee?”

“In the break room,” Clarice said, eyebrows knitted close in concern. “Why? You didn’t bring your own?”

“Late night last night,” Jamie said. “And the morning came a little earlier than I expected. Or … later, I suppose. Anyway, I didn’t have time to brew a pot before I ran out the door.”

Clarice looked her over. “I didn’t want to say anything, but since you don’t have any meetings to worry about … you mismatched your pants.”

Jamie stopped in the middle of the dimly lit hall, looking down. “No I didn—” She let her head tilt forward. “These are the maroon slacks.” She put her forehead against her hand and felt her pulse beat in a hard throb. “I honestly thought they were black when I was dressing.”

“You’ve made worse mistakes,” Clarice said with a shrug. “And like you said, no handsome bankers visiting you today, so no big deal, right?”

“I guess,” Jamie said, getting back up to speed. “Are there bagels with that coffee? Because I skipped breakfast, too, and I’m not fully sure, but I think my stomach might be entering a full revolt.”

“Sounds dangerous,” Clarice said with thin amusement. “Is that your not so subtle way of telling me you need me to get you something? Because I am technically your assistant, and can do this—”

“I don’t like to ask,” Jamie said tentatively. “I know you have a full plate—”

“Oh, and yours is empty?” Clarice asked with the due amount of sarcasm. “In more ways than one, apparently. Get to work, I’ll get you a bagel and coffee.”

“Thank you,” Jamie said, shooting her a wan smile. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Clarice.”

“Well, the doors would shut here, I’m pretty sure,” Clarice said with a smile of her own as she peeled off, turning around and heading for the break room.

Jamie stopped, watching her go, feeling strangely stricken.
They may just do that anyway
, she thought, with a sudden, paralyzing burst of fear, but she didn’t dare give voice to that thought. Instead she shook it away, trying to clear the headache, and headed for her office, feeling as if a cloud of smoke was still lingering around her.

She flicked on the fluorescent lights and listened to them hum as she slid behind her desk. She created a little gravity well around each turner for the blinds and shut them all, cutting off her view of the hallway as she leaned back against her chair and put her feet up on her desk. She frowned at them, realizing her shoes were utterly mismatched with the maroon pants, and she took them off. She didn’t like to feel idle enough to put her feet up on her desk anyway, especially when there were mountains of paperwork to claw through.

She was almost ready to start tackling the first task of the day when her phone buzzed with an alert. A bank robbery in lower Manhattan, with hostages. She blinked as her eyes scrolled across the text and she glanced at the paperwork crowding the edge of the desk.

Paperwork could wait. Hostages couldn’t.

Jamie was out the window before she even fully realized what she was doing, not that full consideration would have stopped her in any case. Minutes later she was launching herself along on a gravity channel toward Freedom Tower again, the wind in her face renewing her energy far more effectively than her office work ever could.

Nadine was sipping her coffee in her abandoned office when she heard the sirens. She hadn’t moved to a different office even though this one was now open to the elements. It was a sunny day and it hadn’t gotten hot yet, and it wasn’t like she was doing anything, so why move? The FBI was watching her regardless, so what was the harm in letting everyone else on Wall Street with a view have an opportunity to gawk at her?

And gawk they did. She could see their faces whenever she turned around. The more cowardly ones looked away quickly. The bold (or stupid) ones didn’t even try to hide it. She was used to being stared at—mostly by men—and it didn’t bother her.

When the first sirens echoed through the canyons of the New York streets, she almost didn’t dare to hope. When they got louder, trilling from a few streets over, increasing in volume and strength, she broke into a smile that she hid by turning toward her desk. Maybe this was it. This could be the start of her return to power.

Now all she had to do was wait, and soon she’d rule the Street again, and the looks of contempt and the derisive whispers and gossip would be replaced by admiration, adulation, and worship once more.

I found the bank in question pretty easily. It’s hard to miss twenty police cars bounded by a street cordon in lower Manhattan.

As I came drifting down slowly, I saw the cops already moving back and forth behind the cover of their cars. They had a mobile command center set up about half a block away, parked unobtrusively between the massive number of standard patrol cars. A SWAT truck was parked at the end of the block. I stared at it for a second, a little curious, because I didn’t see any SWAT team members up near the bank. Maybe they were trying to keep the black-tactical-garbed cops off the street and out of the view of the robbers.

I set down outside the command post and waved at the officer in charge. He had a walkie-talkie up to his ear and frowned at me, waving me off from inside the truck. I shrugged and wandered down the street toward the bank, where the cop cars were set up like barricades to obscure fire in the event this thing went to hell fast. I could see the getaway vehicle parked out front, a black Ford Expedition with dark tinted windows. A cop was leading a bomb-sniffing dog away, presumably because he hadn’t found anything of interest.