Powers (36 page)

He smiled back, placing a hand on her arm. “I missed you, too.”

They turned back to the office as the Human Front elite appeared around a corner. Walker grunted and slowly moved aside the fractured desk, wincing from the pain, and the partners stepped inside.

 

29

December. Wednesday afternoon. 12:32
P.M.

Metal squealed as Aaron wrapped his fingers around Crane's arms. He tore away the gauntlets, dusting the floor with a shower of sparks. Crane kicked out, connecting with Aaron's knee, and the powered vigilante crumpled into a crouch. Deena started forward, but Walker blocked her from advancing.

“Cut off those guards—get them to make sure the building is evacuated!”

Deena shook her head. “I'm not leaving you. We can take this douche bag!”

Walker locked eyes with his partner. “Trust me. I've survived one collapse today; I don't want to do it again. But the way these guys are goi—” A shorn sliver of metal flew by, embedding itself into the wall. Walker tossed Deena back, out toward the hallway, and dove into the action.

Three Human Front goons—clad in heavy body armor, each engraved with the THF logo—jockeyed their way down the hall. They all held expensive, advanced machine rifles, and they raised them to target the intruders in Crane's office. Deena grabbed the first goon's weapon and pushed, just before he unleashed a torrent of bullets. She took advantage of the confusion and jabbed an elbow into his neck, choking and forcing him to drop the rifle. The other two came at her. She snapped up the fallen gun, holding the guards at bay while Walker put an end to the fracas at the window.

Malachi Crane hadn't been in a fight in a while, and it showed. He recklessly attacked, and Aaron took advantage of his looping punches to duck in and disassemble the suit, piece by piece. He dug into seams, ripped away joints and connections, removing the shell and gaining access to the flesh beneath.

A dull whine echoed throughout the office, and Aaron's eyes widened. He backed away just as a porthole on Crane's chest fired a beam of viridian light. It burned into the adjacent chair, setting it on fire, and Walker ducked around the combatants to smother it with his shirt. Naked from the waist up, Deena's partner waded into the fray, grabbing her ex-boyfriend by the arm. Walker spun Aaron around and clocked him on the nose. Aaron stumbled and smiled through a trickle of blood.

“Walker … you little secret-keeper. Do you have your powers back?”

The bigger cop sneered. “I don't need powers to deal with you, Boucher. Remember when I said I'd break your face? Well, here it comes.”

“Not so fast. It's my turn. I've wanted to do this for a long time.”

Aaron returned Walker's blow, and the former Power's head snapped back. He lurched, nearly falling off his feet, but managed to right himself against a wall. Crane, meanwhile, came up from behind and put Aaron in a metallic bear hug. His captive smiled and flexed both arms, shattering the remains of the metallic torso. A violent flash of energy flared against the tattered remains of Aaron's shirt—where he'd backed against the porthole on the exosuit's chest—and a contained explosion shoved both militant and vigilante apart. The rest of Aaron's shirt was burned away, and Crane resembled a wrinkled turtle, unable to rise due to the weight of his suit. Laughing, Aaron stumbled over, ready to dispatch Crane into the next life. Before he could get closer, Walker tackled him to the ground. They wrestled for a while without either gaining an inch until Aaron lashed out with a burst of adrenaline. He kicked Walker away and scrambled to his feet.

“This was fun,” he breathed. “But my immune system is through the roof, Walker. I'm just going to heal, and you're going to get buried again.”

Aaron stuck his fingers into the wall, parting the wood paneling like butter, continuing through drywall, metal, and glass until he came to the structure beneath. “I've done this trick already. I generally don't like to repeat myself, but this one time, I'll make an exception.
In the name of Liberty!
” Aaron flexed and pulled forward, tearing the structural beams away from the building. Half the ceiling shifted and fell, burying Aaron beneath a pile of rubble, obscuring him from view. The office shuddered, and the guards' eyes widened. They stepped back into the hallway and darted for the exit. Deena fired twice, missed, and then turned back to see what was happening inside the room.

Crane had unburdened himself of the suit and was hustling toward the door. Walker, negotiating falling plaster and sliding furniture, hurried toward the intolerant lobbyist and caught him by the throat. He lifted Crane, holding him high as the building fell around them.

“Now what, Diamond?” Crane sneered, baiting the former hero. “We have moments before this place crumbles at our feet. Will you save us both? Or like all Powers-loving swine, will you look out for yourself and leave the Powers-hater to the mercies of shifting bedrock?”

Walker scowled and slowly lowered Crane to his feet. “Fuck you. I'm not that man; I never was. I'm bringing you in by the book.”

Crane dusted off his shirt, blackened and tattered by the ruptured armor. His flesh had melted, as well, stuck to frayed fabric. It didn't bother the man—or if it did, he had a surprisingly good sense of self-control. “I doubt that. You, Joseph, Olympia, Boucher … all you Powers are the same. Above the law, unwilling to—”

Walker slapped a hand over Crane's mouth. “Hey, I'd love to debate this to death, but if we don't move, that's exactly what's going to happen. Until it does, you have the right to remain silent. Got that?” Crane nodded and pushed Walker's hand away. They angled toward the door, heading for safety. The office had returned to its usual tint—the power drainers having been deactivated as the building tore itself apart.

Before they could escape the wave of drywall and steel, Aaron Boucher burrowed up from beneath the floor and wrestled Crane back into the wreckage. He kicked Walker aside, and both bigot and vigilante were lost amid the thunderous fall of debris. Deena briefly caught a flash of glass and light, and she saw something—someone—fall through the fragmented picture window.

Walker snatched Deena by the waist, lifting her over his shoulder despite her unladylike protestations. He pounded down the hallway, outracing a maelstrom of metal and concrete. Coming to an access stairway, Walker wrenched the door open, launched himself inside, and leaped down flights as fast as his legs could carry him. He came to ground level just as the staircase started to topple, and he put Deena down, shouldering his way into the lobby. Glass shattered around the partners as the infrastructure collapsed in on itself, crumpling like a cake as one level fell on top of the next. They sprinted across the lobby, dodging to avoid pieces of ceiling and imploding glass. A large section of recessed lighting glanced against Deena's shoulder, and she nearly fell to the ground from the weight. Walker grabbed her by the crook of her elbow and lifted her up, propelling her toward the exit. The ceiling gave way, and the first floor descended into the lobby. Broken furniture, reams of paper, mounds of plaster, and computers all slid toward the detectives in a vicious, powerful stampede.

They reached the door—the frame only, bent and twisted, the glass having exploded into the street. They sprinted down the steps toward a hastily erected barricade on the far end of the square. The evacuated inhabitants of 500 Fialkov Way watched with bated breath as the detectives outdistanced the debris wave, holding hands up to protect their eyes as a rolling cloud of smoke washed over, heralding the demise of the falling building. Walker ducked beneath the barrier, joined by Deena a moment later. The larger detective struggled to catch his breath—his wounds from the night before had opened, rivulets of blood coursing down his chest, arms, and brow. He slid behind a news van, and Deena motioned for several THF guards to attend her ailing partner. She stared as the last of the building thundered to the ground, and a fleeting moment of panic set in—had Enki gotten help? Walker said he'd seen her, but…? She glanced wildly around, eyes darting between hordes of wailing ambulances and arriving police cruisers. Finally, at the far end of the square, Deena spied Enki Sunrise, hunkered down amid the cowardly goons, icing her bruises and receiving medical attention. Three cops hustled over and promptly arrested said goons; they put up a struggle, but after a moment, they realized that they were overpowered and gave up.

Enki's fine. Walker's going to be fine. Me, I'll be fine.

Deena took in the demolished building.

Aaron … what the hell happened? Did you get out?

Deciding it was worth the risk, she ducked back beneath the barricade, despite warnings and protestations. Deena lunged into the roiling, sulfurous wall of smoke. The remains of the building's framework were still on fire, and she carefully navigated through the haze. The fallen structure shifted around her, creaking and settling somewhere in the expansive wall of white. She unholstered her gun and warily walked to the spot where Crane's office had once overlooked.

She heard groans, muffled through the crackling flames and falling rubble. Deena climbed a mound of damaged computers, scrabbling for purchase as she made her way to the epicenter. Her foot slipped, and something dug into her heel. Cursing, she picked up the offending aggressor. It was part of a helmet—plastic and steel—and the top had been severed, leaving an exposed, dangerous edge. She recognized it as the top of Crane's armor. She noted dismantled portions of the exosuit, stained with blood and gobbets of human remains. Gingerly moving forward, careful not to step in detritus, she scanned the area for signs of additional bodies.

More groans, this time from her left. Deena raised her gun and started in that direction. She didn't have to go far. Over a wide outcropping of wood and steel, trapped beneath a steel beam, Aaron Boucher worked to free himself from under the fallen superstructure. His face was black—singed and burned, skin having melted from bone near his temple. A chunk of shoulder had been shorn away. His fingers were broken, and though he fought for purchase on the equally blackened beam, Aaron couldn't move the object from atop his sunken chest. And he couldn't remove the jagged piece of crimson-and-black steel that had pierced his abdomen. Blood poured from his belly in a sluggish stream, and he was valiantly—though unsuccessfully—attempting to stanch the flow. He struggled for breath and blindly looked around, trying to see through the wall of fog.

Deena stepped closer and tripped on a leg—Crane's, severed from the rest of his body. Aaron heard her falter and started to shout, his voice thin and desperate, begging for someone to take away the pain. Tears sprang to the corners of Deena's eyes, and she lowered the gun, holstering it. She stepped around the beam and came to Aaron's side.

Deena Pilgrim sat next to the man she once loved. The man who'd killed a legend, attacked her father, and nearly destroyed her life for the second time in ten years. She reached out and took his hand, caressing his maimed fingers in her own. He started and then wildly looked around, eyes glassy and insane. Once he saw who it was, Aaron's face relaxed into an easy smile. He took a breath, and she heard it gurgle inside his chest. He tried to grip her hand, but his fingers wouldn't cooperate. Instead, he stared into her eyes and settled back against the debris.

“Hi, Deena,” he said, voice thick with blood and emotion.

“Aaron,” she answered, head shaking with dismay. “What … what did you do?”

She shuffled closer and lifted his head into her arms. Aaron was dying; they both knew it. He wasn't healing—something had broken inside, and superimmunity wouldn't save him from fatal wounds and perforations. This wasn't a toxic dose of drainers or an energy beam. This was a piece of metal to his gut and a building on his chest. This time, there was no shrugging off the inevitable.

Aaron gathered strength and lifted his head off her arm. She encouraged him not to exert himself, but he waved her back. “No,” he wheezed. “No, I'm done.” He glared at Deena, staring with clear-eyed determination. “I'm dying.”

“Hell you are. You think I'll let you off that easy, Aaron Boucher? You're gonna live, for nothing more than the fact that I want to see you rot in prison.”

He laughed, and the effort pained him. Blood dribbled from his lips, staining her sleeve. “There are things you need to hear,” he whispered, “and things … things I need to say. I'm done avoiding this. A … a discussion we should have had long ago.”

“Aaron…” Déjà vu washed over Deena. She'd heard a confession like this before, from her father.

Aaron flinched and grimaced. “No more
lies
. It's … it's time I told the truth. It's time I told you the truth about the Liberty killer.”

 

30

December. Wednesday afternoon. 1:25
P.M.

“Joseph Monroe wasn't Liberty.”

The words hung between them for a moment, swirling away with clouds of smoke. Deena's heart felt heavy, as did her arms, and she gently laid him back onto the rubble. He coughed and then continued.

“I loved you, Deena … I … I still do—
koff!
—b … but I was
this
 … what I am … first, and longest. You have to understand that.”

She felt numb and wiped her eyes. “So it was always you. Even then?”

He stifled a cough, and a bubble of blood appeared on his lips. “I wasn't the first. I won't be the last. But Monroe … he was … was Human Front, sure … but never …
koff! KOFF!…
n … never this.”

“And Waldo? My father? Did he tell me the truth about anything?”

He weakly nodded. “Cops … Liberty, too.
All
in the name of Liberty.”