Powers (34 page)

“No door,” Aaron replied, chuckling to himself. “You got it.” He bent slightly at the knees, gathering momentum. The concrete vibrated and then splintered around his shoes, a spiderweb of broken pavement radiating out across the garage floor. Deena watched, eyes wide and jaw slack. She barely had a moment to react when Aaron Boucher, the boy next door, leaped into the air and smashed through the ceiling. He was a blur of motion, hammering with his knuckles one floor above Deena's head, leaping and burrowing through to the second floor. Plaster and metal broke apart in his wake, showering down to the garage below.

Deena stood there dumbfounded, lowering her sidearm, just as Crane's goons arrived with weapons of their own.

What the fuck just happened?
she wondered.
What the fuck did Aaron just do?

 

25

December. Wednesday afternoon. 12:03
P.M.

I have powers. That's my secret
.
But I have another.

Nothing extravagant—exceptional enhanced strength, extra stores of speed, but most importantly, a severely accelerated supply of white blood cells protecting me from harm. It's like superimmunity—not only do they keep me safe from disease but the little buggers also make me resistant to foreign contaminants such as poison, powers, and the like. That's a little tidbit of information that few know. I can absorb most anything that comes my way: radiation, energy weapons, you name it. Anything that isn't a projectile. I can absorb, adapt, and make myself immune to it. But Malachi Crane will know all too soon—right before I snap his weaselly little neck.

Aaron burst through to the third floor, punching his way through carpet and steel, scattering furniture and a handful of receptionists. He leaped up into a cubicle farm and started for an elevator on the far end of the floor. Office drones scrambled the other way, desperate to avoid the new arrival. Aaron didn't mind. He calmly walked to the elevator bank and jabbed the button with his index finger. He listened to shrieks as the third-floor residents continued their impromptu evacuation.
Calmly. Quietly. That's the way I had wanted to do this. Get in, get out.
He checked his watch: just after twelve.
I figure fifteen minutes until the guards make their way to my location. Plenty of time.

The elevator arrived, and he stepped inside. Aaron reached out again, stabbing the fourth-floor button, and then he settled back against the wall. He remained calm, as he'd been for the other murders. That bit with the ceiling, breaking through from the garage—that had been out of character. He'd prepared for this, understood it was a necessary end. Not just for Crane—who, let's be honest, deserved to die—but for Aaron, as well. And for Liberty and everything that name represented. Even still, there was a way to do these things. And Deena and Sunrise had fucked that up.

One more floor. One last act and everything is over. My life, career, and any chance I ever had for love. Ironic, really. All this time sporting a name that I could never embrace. I never had freedom, the liberty to live the way I wanted. Love the woman I wanted. No—another person made my choices for me, set me on this path. There was a deal that
had
to be made, and I accepted it with eyes wide open. I became Liberty to save someone else's life, but not my own. This? This is me bringing the contract to a close.

Now I'm going to kill a man and by doing so, kill three: Crane, Liberty, and myself.

“I'm coming,” he spoke aloud, hoping the elevator had been fitted with bugs and cameras that might pick up the threat. “I'm coming for you, Crane. I'm coming in the name of
Liberty
.”

The doors slid open. Aaron looked around the lobby of the Human Front's executive floor. The circular room, warm and inviting, was done up in neutral colors, inlaid with mahogany and bands of polished chrome. A large reception desk dominated the space, staffed by an attainably attractive brunette and littered with telephones and bowls of sugary treats. Two leather couches lined the walls, set adjacent to matching chairs. Racks of magazines—quite diverse, dated no earlier than the previous week—had been affixed to the wall along with tasteful, generic pieces of art. By looking around the lobby, one would never know that he or she was standing in the foyer of the most aggressively intolerant incorporation of bigots in the nation—that is, if their eyes hadn't been drawn to the carefully inscribed logo looming above the desk: a bronze depiction of the fist-and-lightning symbol the Human Front had adopted as their corporate mark.

Aaron's eyes
had
been drawn to it; he approached the desk, ignoring the screams filtering in from the floor below and the blaring alarm that now shrieked throughout the building. The receptionist stood up, greeting him with a smile and then with an illegal Glock, lifted into view from where it had lain hidden beneath the desk. “Can I help you?” she sweetly inquired. “Do you have an appointment?”

Aaron broke into a grin and beckoned for the woman to shoot.

 

26

December. Wednesday afternoon. 12:03
P.M.

Deena continued staring at the ceiling, watching frantic staffers rush to the nearest exit. She was astounded.
Aaron Boucher has powers. I mean, what the holy
fuck?

All her life, the single constant remained that Deena felt she'd understood the man who'd inspired her to be a cop. Despite Aaron's treating her poorly and cutting off the relationship for what she'd felt to be an insufficient reason, Deena at least had taken comfort in the fact that she'd loved a good man. The last good man she truly ever knew.

But these past few days … getting to know Aaron, immersing herself in his life once again, the layers of his carefully constructed façade had been peeled away—like a rotten onion—and now she knew him for what he really was.

Also? Aaron Boucher has powers. Are you goddamn
kidding
me?

He'd been the poster boy for hating the powered community, just shy of tattooing a fist-and-lightning onto his bicep. Not that he ever showed disdain for what a powered hero could be … there were many that he
did
commend and use as example. Aaron only hated the Powers he
knew
. The ones in Atlanta, the ones who'd let the city down.

Now she discovered that he was one of them. He could have saved so many lives, could have ended the gang wars by
being
the poster boy for his own kind, rather than deceitful, deceptive Monroe. But instead, he chose to wear his mask—yet another in a succession of equally disappointing masks. Now, she learned Aaron was using his talents not to uphold law and order, no, but instead to undertake acts of vigilantism.
He used his powers to kill criminals. What a fucking hypocrite.

Sudden noise dragged Deena back to reality. Wet boots clomped on the cracked pavement, indicating the arrival of Malachi Crane's goon squad. She dragged herself away from the hole above her head. Four well-armed bigots arranged themselves in a circle around the two detectives—and the comatose policemen—decked out in head-to-toe lightweight armor emblazoned with the colors and logo of the Human Front. Their faces were hidden beneath what appeared to be a set of motorcycle helmets; the visors were drawn, and she could see herself reflected in the glass. Each thug carried a two-handed, technologically advanced machine pistol, tricked out with laser sighting, flamethrowers, and computer-enhanced smart-tracking capabilities. Measuring one of the weapons, Deena could see the way it corrected its aim every time she swayed to the left or right. Thin beams of crimson light bounced across the cruisers, bodies, walls, and cars, and three of them sighted her chest, zeroing in on Deena's heart.

She held up her piece and widened her eyes, showing them that all was cool. “Hey,” she carefully stated, “I'm not here to cause trouble. I'm here to stop it, okay? Malachi Crane? Your boss? He knows who I am.”

One of the goons raised his chin, indicating for the thug to his left to take her into custody. The second goon stepped forward, right hand leaving the machine pistol, reaching out to grab Deena by the arm.

“I wouldn't do that if I were you,” she warned him. “I'm just here to save your boss's life. And I want to make sure my friend,” Deena continued, pointing to Enki on the floor, “is A-okay. Okay?”

The building shuddered, and Deena heard a fresh set of squeals emanating from the floors above. Everyone in the garage looked up as dust and plaster rained down from the ceiling. “See?” she explained. “It isn't me. It isn't Enki here or any of the cops. Us cops? We're here to help. But you have a killer on your ha—”

The first helmeted goon gestured in her direction again, and the second guy advanced once more, placing a gloved hand on Deena's forearm. Scowling, she grabbed the hand and twisted left, dragging him over her body and onto the hood of a car. Deena flipped her sidearm, butt-first, and slammed it against the helmet, shattering the pane of glass. The goon blinked rapidly as the visor shattered inward, doing his best to avoid shards in his eyes. Deena held a hand to the thug's throat and snapped up the other, aiming her gun at the other three.

“I told you assholes, we don't have time for this. There's an unregistered Power running amok in your corporate office, hell-bent on icing your esteemed CEO. I suggest you either call for backup and get on up there to get your jollies … as you anti-Powers nut bags love to do … or else drag these cops,” she indicated, gesturing to her colleagues on the floor, “and my friend back up the ramp and head for safety. Either way, your beef isn't with me.”

The guard on the car struggled against her grip, both hands wrapped around Deena's wrist, trying to break her choke hold. He attempted to kick, but she adjusted her stance, twisting away so that his feet struck air. The other three shifted and stared at one another. A private, silent conversation took place before Deena's eyes, and a moment later, the Human Front goons reached down and started dragging cops up by their armpits. Deena nodded once and then released the fourth guard. He coughed for a bit, massaging his throat, and faced off with the surly little detective. She sneered in his face, and he backed off and then gingerly stepped around her, headed to help Enki to her feet. Deena gave him a hand, wincing slightly as the garage shook violently. The goons traded frightened glances and hurried to drag the beaten policemen out past the gatehouse. Deena ducked her head and faced Enki one more time. She was moaning, low but audible. Deena smiled and then patted her friend on the arm. She picked up Enki's discarded gun, stood up, and barked instructions at the remaining guard.

“Get her out of here, back beyond the media, and find someone to set her leg. Have your men establish a barricade or police line until my backup arrives. If you don't hear police sirens in the next ten minutes, call it in. Got that?”

The guard nodded to confirm, eyes still blinking rapidly beneath the broken helmet. He gently took Enki in his arms and started up the ramp. Halfway, he turned back and shouted, “How do I call it in?”

“What's the matter?” Deena jibed, sprinting for the building entrance. “Can't spell the word ‘911'?”

 

27

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

A bell rang behind Aaron, and he turned aside, swiveling in time to see Deena barrel out of the elevator, a pistol in both hands. The office receptionist opened fire and Deena flattened herself on the ground, scrambling for cover behind one of the wide leather couches. Aaron pivoted and then pushed away from the ground with a heel, vaulting across the lobby to land on the mahogany desk. Astonished, the receptionist lifted her gun, but Aaron kicked out and broke her wrist, sending the Glock clattering to the floor. The poor woman's jaw dropped as Aaron kicked again, shattering several teeth and sending her to join the fallen weapon. Leaping, he landed on his feet and transitioned into a sprint, avoiding two bullets that Deena had fired from behind the couch.

He shouldered through a set of double doors, splintering them in his wake, and stumbled into the wide, marbled hallway of the Human Front's executive wing. He grabbed a random desk and dragged it to block the doors, ensuring himself a bit of time as Deena worked to get past it. Aaron walked into the hall. Glass doors and windows stretched as far as he could see, sectioned into offices and a partitioned conference room in the middle of the floor. A lone office dominated the far-left wall—this one wasn't transparent but rather done up with artfully crafted opaque doors, shutting out visitors and staffers alike. Another receptionist sat in front of the office, and when she spied Aaron standing in the hallway, she lifted her telephone and whispered into the handset. Then she dropped it and ran.
Smart girl,
Aaron thought.
She'll go far.

Not as far as the rest of the executives, though. Despite their corporate, buttoned-up appearance, many of them put up a decent fight. Aaron waded through a gauntlet of handsome, expertly trained vice presidents armed with bats, crowbars, knives, and guns. Bullets flew, and blades flashed; Aaron ducked and weaved, feeling for the first time like he could flex his muscles. He lashed out and clotheslined three assistants, each armed with deadlylooking swords. He sank his nails into an aluminum file cabinet, crumpling the metal like papier-mâché and then tossed the cabinet at a handful of brass-knuckled interns, sending them through a window to the street below.

Inwardly, Aaron cursed Deena's timing. If her plane had been late … if she hadn't figured it out for another hour, he could have been in and out with minimal damage. But Deena Pilgrim was a damn good detective; that was something he'd always known—what he'd bet on, leaving her the chords as clues. And now he was exposed—not only his face and mission but also his ties to the other murders. He'd left the hood behind, wanting his victim—Crane—to know his murderer, know that he'd been beaten by a Power before dying a failure. And even if Aaron had succeeded, he never would have gotten away. She would have found him, tracked him down, and slapped a drainer around his balls. If not for what he'd done to Waldo, then for what he'd done to Walker and to her heart. Aaron knew there was a possible chance, should he survive, that he was heading to prison. If he knew Crane, however, if he hadn't underestimated the man, there was a better chance that he wouldn't make it out the door. No matter what, though, Aaron was finished lying. Finished hiding behind a mask, behind another man's name. But if she'd been an hour late, if Deena hadn't put the pieces together so quickly … maybe Aaron Boucher could have done this quietly and disappeared.
Just me and my pop, easing into retirement.