Masks (Out of the Box Book 9) (39 page)

“In for a penny,” I suggested as another blast of water nearly shaved some skin off my elbow. Scott was not pulling his attacks, and sooner or later I was going to have to deal with him if this kept up. And by deal with, I meant get rough. Really rough. Sienna rough.

“Fine,” Jamie said, clearly exasperated as she directed Scott’s next blast away, knocking out some of the ice that was stymieing our escape. “What about Frost?” she called.

“Oh,” I said, zeroing in on Captain Dipshit, “him I’ll hit, no problem,” and I shot at him at speed, clobbering him with a punch that send him ass over teakettle into Friday, just as the big man tore off his ice mask. “Technically,” I said as Friday’s legs were torn from beneath him by Frost’s flailing body, “I just want to point out that Frost just assaulted you, Yancy, not me.”

“Thanks,” Jamie said, and she held out a hand as Scott shot another directed blast of water at her. She seemed to use herself as the anchor, sweeping Kyra behind her and redirecting the water as though she had a massive, invisible shield in front of her. The spray bent back as Scott advanced toward us. I couldn’t see him, just his jet of water, large as a semi-truck. He hadn’t been able to produce blasts like that when I’d dated him. I figured the power of rage had tapped his true talents.

“I think we need to exit, pursued by a bear,” I said as Jamie ducked, letting some of the water Scott was shooting a jet behind us, shattering more of the ice and producing a viable escape route. “Take this thing outside, see Kyra to safety, yadda—” I glanced at the bomb, the timer reading 1:17, “yadda yadda.”

“I like that plan,” Jamie said tightly, pushed backward a few feet at a time by Scott’s assault. Pieces of the ceiling were falling now, disturbed and dislodged by Scott’s powerful attack, redirected. “Let’s—”

There was a subtle click, so subtle I barely noticed it. I glanced toward the bomb, but the sweep of my eyes didn’t quite make it before—

With a
whoomp!
the bomb went off, fire escaping, driven by the explosive compression wave, like a slow motion sweep toward us. I felt the force hit first, running through my body, heralding the end of the hospital, the end of the fight—and the end of all of us.

Nadine had the whiskey glass halfway to her lips when the explosive went off in the hospital building. It was all live, from the scene, on Staten Island, like she was there without having to actually go to stupid Staten Island. It was obvious when the bomb went off, because the whole building rippled and started to sway.

“Alas,” she said, raising her glass in a toast while the rest of the bar watched, stunned, “but I guess, really, it had to end this way.” And she sipped her drink, waiting for the fall—the fall of Gravity Gal.

The strength of the blast ran through her bones, rattling her teeth, making her feel like she was going to fly backward out of the building. Jamie felt her nose bleed from the strength of it, but the fire did not follow, and she was surprised, not even realizing until a moment later that she’d closed her eyes.

She forced them open, against the intense strength of the teeth-rattling bomb blast. She felt the explosion echoed elsewhere in the hospital; subsequent blasts, other detonations, she felt sure, somewhere below her. To make sure the job was done.

To make sure I die.

And that Kyra dies with me.

She looked back at Kyra, whose nose was bleeding, too, and who looked staggered. She still stood, though, if slightly off balance. Jamie anchored herself to her daughter, waiting for the fire.

It did not come.

“Kinda … got this under control … ish …” Sienna muttered, and Jamie’s eyes followed the glow of orange that flew in a trail off the bomb to her hands, making a hissing noise as they seemed to be vacuumed up in her palms as Nealon stood there, grimacing, taking the explosion into herself. “But … building’s gonna … come down … soon …”

Jamie stirred herself out of surprise. Her legs were unsteady, but not from the concussion of the blast. Now it was the fact that the building was shaking, nearing collapse.

“Uh oh,” Guy Friday said in a calm voice. “I guess there
was
a bomb.”

“No shit,” Scott Byerly said, standing nearby, voice acidic enough to eat through flesh.

“Guys?” Frost said, his fingers glistening with ice, “are we gonna die here?”

“No,” Jamie said and lashed herself to all three of them with an anchor. She threw another channel at the nearest window’s ledge, hoping it would hold long enough, and set it to maximum. It yanked her, Kyra, and the three men with whom they’d been dueling toward the open window. Jamie watched the concrete start to split as she neared the edge, ripping up the slab. The walls around them were disintegrating, a steady downflow of dust and debris falling as the ceiling started to cave in.

“Ahhhhhhhh!” she could hear Frost screaming behind her as she yanked him toward the edge.

“Aieeeeeeeee!” Byerly shouted, very distinctly.

“Wheeeeeeeeeee!” came the low bass rumble of Friday, gleeful as they shot toward the edge of the window.

“Sienna!” Jamie shouted. “Get out!”

Jamie and Kyra hit the edge of the window’s slab where it had subtly turned into a ramp. She adjusted the gravity channel as they went, turning it into a repulsion channel just as they crested its edge. The slab cracked, moaning ominously, breaking as she and the four people she’d dragged in her wake shot out into the sunlight.

She hung there for a moment, suspended a few feet above the wooded grove that surrounded the hospital. Then gravity set in, dragging her down. She could hear the rumble of the building falling behind her, and she threw down three channels to keep her upright with her burdens.

Well, to keep her up with Kyra. She let the other three fall to a cushioned stop below, Friday’s, “Wheeeeeeeee!” disappearing as he came to a halt a few stories down.

Jamie paused, Kyra suspended next to her. She brought her daughter up to eye level, held tight in her grip like she was a baby again. “Are you okay?” Jamie asked, staring into her daughter’s eyes and seeing wariness—weariness—but a definite gleam there, the knowledge settling in of all that was happening to her reflected in those eyes.

“Mom … you’re Gravity Gal?” Kyra asked, as she looked down at Byerly, Friday and Frost, dusting themselves off below. “I always thought Gravity Gal was kinda lame but … you really kicked those guys’ asses.”

“Watch your language, young lady,” Jamie said, and then stiffened. “Sienn—”

“Right here,” Sienna said, hovering back down into view from above. She was covered in dust, her hands black like they had been burned, and she looked pretty weary, too. “Didn’t want to interrupt the touching moment of you dropping those assholes.” She cleared her throat. “And also reuniting with your daughter.”

“Come on, Kyra,” Jamie said. She could see police lights in the distance, the NYPD cars lined up along Brielle Avenue, their white bodies gleaming in the light such a contrast to the unmarked black SUVs of the FBI. She trusted them, these local cops, and knew that this was where she had to deliver Kyra, to make sure she was safe. “We have to get you to safety.” And she started them forward on legs of gravity channels, her heart weighed down in a way her body wasn’t.

We headed toward the cops in the distance, the collapsing hospital rumbling like thunder behind us. Police cars filled the road ahead, blinking, lights bright and flashing in the midday sun. I trailed behind Jamie a little ways, watching her carry her daughter to safety, disappointment and disgust churning in my guts.

It felt unjust to know she was going to be arrested. I’d been arrested once before, but at least I had the satisfaction of knowing that when I was arrested, I was guilty as sin for what I’d done. I’d killed the people I’d been accused of killing.

Not that there had been a lot of comfort in that. It had still been one of the scarier experiences in my life, staring down the barrel of all those guns, knowing my life as I knew it was over. But at least I’d known I was guilty.

Jamie wasn’t.

She set Kyra down first, gently, in the middle of the squad cars, sandwiched on either side by barricades stacked up with onlookers. No FBI cars in sight, just good old fashioned NYPD squads as far as the eye could see, interspersed with the occasional fire truck or ambulance, all the way back to where the cops were holding the line against spectators.

Jamie had her hands up, her face ashen. About like you’d expect from a law-abiding citizen who was about to get handcuffed and thrown in jail. I bet she’d never so much as put a toe out of line, and this was her reward.

Meanwhile, here I was, a murderer, free as a bee and buzzing around.

“I surrender,” Jamie said, touching down and standing there, arms in the air. “Please … take care of my daughter.”

I hovered overhead soundlessly, watching the whole thing unfold. Kyra was ushered off by a cop, her shoulders draped in a blanket as she shook, watching her mother.

“Gravity Gal!” a loud voice shouted from past the barricade. “We believe in you!”

The crowd erupted, shouting support, yelling, rattling the metal barriers between them and the line of cops. I looked again at the cops, and they put their guns away almost as one. Within about five seconds, not one of the NYPD officers had their gun out. They stood there, looking at her, until one of the lead officers stepped up with the industrial strength handcuffs they issued municipalities these days and beckoned her forward. I heard him speak over the roar of the crowd, which was booing as they saw him step up to her, cuffs shining in the sunlight.

“I don’t wanna do this, but I gotta,” the cop said. “It’s either me or the FBI. If you wanna run …” He shrugged his shoulders. “You won’t see any of us shooting after ya.”

“I’m not going to run,” Jamie said softly and extended her hands. The cop looked at them, almost regretfully for a moment, and the crowd grew hushed as he clicked cuffs around her wrists.

“You’re our hero!” someone shouted, and the crowd roared approval. “You do Staten Island proud!” someone else shouted, and the crowd roared again. “Stay strong!” That one got a chorus of cheers, too.

The cop carefully led Jamie over to the nearest squad car, and gently ducked her head so she didn’t bump it. She got in, willingly, and he closed the door behind her to deafening boos. The crowd rattled the barricades again, and I heard some florid swearing of the sort that almost made me blush. Good heavens, Staten Island.

I drifted down toward where Kyra Barton was sitting on the back of an ambulance. Her gaze was fixed on the cop car her mother was sitting in, and I dropped right in front of her, breaking her line of sight. She didn’t need to dwell on seeing her mom under arrest, after all.

“How are you holding up?” I asked, folding my arms, intent on blocking this shameful scene from view. I momentarily considered taking it right out of her head, but decided I’d probably gotten myself in enough trouble for stealing memories.

“Umm, gee,” Kyra said, in the manner of a teenager, “I just found out my mom is New York’s lamest superhero, after we were losing our house last night, and now I just watched her get arrested.” She glared at me. “I’m doing great.”

“Oh, good,” I said mildly, letting all that irony wash past. “Most people might—y’know, feel an emotion or two under that kind of pressure, but it’s good to know you teens don’t feel anything but withering sarcasm. And you share, so generously, too.”

She stared at me. “You’re … really good at this.”

“I’m not that far removed from being a teenager myself,” I said, settling down next to her on the back of the ambulance. “People forget that sometimes. And about your mom being ‘lame’?” She looked at me, kind of quizzically. “Seriously. Nobody says ‘lame’ anymore. What are you, thirty?”

“Sick burn,” she said, seeming a little less guarded.

“It’s one of my few marketable skills,” I said. “But … putting that aside … your mom’s a hero, you know.” I paused, listening to the crowd. They were chanting, “Gravity—Gal! Gravity—Gal!” I frowned. “I’ll give you that the name sucks, but your mom didn’t pick that—”

“She probably would have picked something worse if she’d been able to,” Kyra said, and I caught a mingled hint of sadness with her rebuke. “She named her company ‘Barton Designs.’ That’s a stunning lack of creativity from someone whose job it is to be creative.”

“She’s not a hero because she’s creative,” I said, watching as Scott, Friday, and Frost made their way out of the fence separating us from the hospital’s wooded, overgrown campus. “She’s a hero because she does the right thing, and she doesn’t compromise it because someone else says she’s wrong.” I thought about Nadine Griffin, happily sipping whiskey in a bar while she watched her attempts to destroy Jamie play out live on television.

“I guess,” Kyra said, and I could feel her palpable discomfort. She had emotion welling up inside, plainly, something complicated that I doubted she really wanted to dive into, especially with a stranger. She’d probably vent her feelings later on Twitter, or Instagram, or whatever the hell the kids nowadays did to express themselves. “We … we fought a lot—”

“Fight,” I said, “present tense.” And when she looked up in mild surprise, I said, “I’ll get her a lawyer. I’ve got some good ones that I’m connected to. She won’t go down for this. We will get her out. She won’t rot in the Cube.” Even the mention of the Cube, thinking about Jamie being shoved into the old prison that I used to be warden of … it wasn’t a pleasant thought.

“Then we’ll have fights yet to come,” Kyra said, still sounding pretty subdued.

“Yeah, you’re lucky,” I said, looking away from her. “My mom and I used to fight all the time, too.” I stared at the crowds. They were still chanting Jamie’s superhero name. “Sometimes I wish she could yell at me one more time.”

“Really?” Kyra asked.

“Really,” I said, and meant it.

“Kyra!” An African-American lady came rustling through the police, escorted by a cop. “Kyra!”

“Clarice!” Kyra jumped up and hugged the lady tight. I could tell they were family by the way that Kyra defaulted to running to her for comfort in time of trouble. It was a sure tell of who you were really close to, that.