Tears (14 page)

Sam swallowed and checked the time. She would be out of school and hanging in the park by now. He put on his leather jacket and switched off the iron.

He had places to be, hearts to break.

To:
J


From:
L


Date:
February 17


File:
001


Subject:
Dinner party


Party favors have been delivered. Guest is confirmed. Costumes provided. All systems are go. Enjoy.

Billy clubs flew, smacking against raw flesh. Blood spilled. It was glorious.

“DINNER!”

The Preparty

Loki was truly grateful that this would be the last time he'd have to look at that lazy-eyed prison guard through the window of his cell door. Yes. Thank the Lord in heaven. Not that Loki believed in any such supreme deity, but prison time—even so brief—brought odd changes to a man's thinking processes.

Thank God, indeed.

This would be the last rotting smile, the last primitive call to the troughs for the slop they dared to call food, the last hour of this gray claustrophobic purgatory.

The last supper.

He chuckled.

“Be sure and wipe your hands,” the bloated guard suggested as she slid his dinner through the door slot.

“I always do,” Loki replied. He grabbed his tray.
Despite this woman's grotesque appearance, he had to admit that she was a diligent servant.


“Be
sure
and wipe your hands,” she repeated, sliding the window shut.

Loki smiled wickedly and brought his tray to his bed, instantly tearing the plastic pouch that contained his utensils: a plastic fork and knife, a small napkin,
and a prepackaged moist towelette. Only there was no moist towelette inside the pouch—but rather Loki's parting gifts for the entire cell block. One ultraslim book of five matches. One pouch of kerosene. A folded message no bigger than the missive in a Chinese fortune cookie.

Welcome to the dinner party. Let's start a fire!

“OUR REPORTS INDICATE THAT ALL
is well. He's under complete, round-the-clock observation, and his appeal has been denied. We're on top of this.”

Extreme Caution

Tom nodded back at his friend, George Niven—the man who'd cared for his daughter for five years, the man who had done so much for him and lost almost everything in return. Recently Tom had become extremely concerned about George. There was no doubt that Ella's death had taken its toll on him. George looked older, grayer, more haggard. He rarely smiled. Not that he would have any reason to smile. Tom couldn't even begin to fathom what it must feel to learn that your wife of five years was in fact an agent of Loki.

Still, sitting in this cozy bar in the early evening,
surrounded by civilians, Tom could almost feel. . . safe.

But safety was an illusion. “We're on top of this,” George repeated reassuringly.

“I know.” Tom sighed and took a long pull on his coffee. “But...”

“But you're still worried,” George preempted, nodding sympathetically and signaling to the waitress to refill their coffee cups.

Tom raked a hand through his hair, his right knee jiggling under the table. He forced it to stop. This was a nervous tic, developed over the last few years—and nervous tics could mean the death of someone in his position. Why did he feel so on edge? Loki was incarcerated. His organization might still be floundering to survive— but the man himself was safely locked away in a maximum security facility. His minions were all headless chickens, staggering around without direction. Soon they would die—some figuratively, some literally. So
why
couldn't Tom stop worrying about his brother? Maybe because he knew Oliver just a little better than everyone else. No amount of surveillance could—

“Please, Tom. Try to relax.”

“I can't help it,” Tom murmured. “I just can't get over my fears that Gaia and I aren't safe. I'm not like my daughter. I feel fear.”

“But Loki can't get to her anymore,” George reasoned. “It's physically impossible.”

“A few bars won't necessarily deter him,” Tom
mumbled half to himself, his eyes darkening. “I know what my brother is capable of. We both know.”

George took a sip of his own coffee. “But you're doing an excellent job protecting her.”

Not really,
Tom thought gloomily. The truth was, he should be watching her at all times. Even now. He realized he'd been fooling himself to think that Loki's minions were directionless. They could be anywhere and everywhere by now. Gaia wasn't aware of her uncle's powers. Nor the depth of his obsession.

“She thinks everything is fine now,” Tom said sadly, looking into the dregs of his cup. “She's happy. She doesn't know the extent to which her uncle. . .” He didn't finish.

George leaned across the table. “We know where Loki is,” he whispered. “We know what he's doing. We even know what he's eating for dinner tonight.”

Tom shook his head. “But we also know something else about Loki.” His knee was beginning to jiggle again, involuntarily. “We know that he's brilliant.”

THE CLIP-ON TIE WAS PATENTLY
absurd. But it was perfect nonetheless.

The Dinner Party

Loki surveyed the contents of his latest package,
delivered earlier this afternoon and concealed safely under his mattress. Until now. His various servants had excelled. Within seconds he shed his prison clothes and slipped into his freshly laundered, mattress-pressed, navy blue prison guard uniform. The tie was last: the proverbial icing on the cake.

He couldn't remember feeling this good in quite a while.

But there was no time to savor the moment. The schedule was too tight; every moment had to be perfectly choreographed. He tore open his packet of kerosene and then trickled the liquid over his bed, inhaling the odor as if it were the bouquet of a fine wine.

Now.

On cue, he began to hear the howls and screams of fellow prisoners.

Stepping quickly to his tiny window, he caught a quick glimpse of flame. A smile spread across his face. Flashes of bright orange light flickered through the windows of every cell. Black smoke began to stream through the cracks of the doors.
Everything was falling into place.
He grabbed his match-book, lit one match, used it to light the rest of the matches—and then dropped the flaming matchbook onto the kerosene-covered bed.

Whoosh!

A burst of beautiful flame exploded atop the mattress in a blaze of yellow, orange, and indigo. Loki
threw his dinner tray into the flames, followed by his old prison clothes. Thick black smoke billowed, slowly clouding up his cell. He coughed once, moving to the window again.

The piercing, shrill sounds of several alarms suddenly tore through the entire cell block. A herd of guards in black rubber gas masks stampeded into the hall.
It was a scene of pure deafening, smoke-filled anarchy.
Loki stood by the window and reveled in the chaos. The masked guards threw open the cell doors, each one spewing out mountains of thick smoke and crackling flames. There were scuffles as inmates bounced around the halls like uncaged animals. Billy clubs flew, smacking against raw flesh. Blood spilled. It was glorious.
Now, where is my guest?
Loki thought, coughing again. He tapped his foot impatiently.

As if in answer to his question, Loki's cell door came screeching open. A gas-masked guard stood before him.

“I've got this one!” the guard called, his voice muffled. He stepped quickly into Loki's cell.

“You're late,” Loki snapped. “I could suffocate in here.”

“I'm sorry, sir,” the guard replied, bowing his head.

“Yes, well, let's get a look at you. Quickly, quickly!”

With a grunt the guard yanked off his gas mask.

Loki smiled once more, forgetting the smoke that
was burning his lungs. “Yes,” he murmured, soaking in every detail of the man's face. “
Very good.
My compliments to the surgeon.”

It wasn't exactly like looking in a mirror. But with the smoke and the panic and uncertainty. . . the bright blue eyes, the sturdy jaw. . . Loki could feasibly be looking at himself. Or Tom.
For one brief moment Loki experienced a pang of unexpected rage.
It took all his restraint not to bash the man's face in. In that instant Loki and Tom were face-to-face in the cell, and Loki was going to rip him limb from limb once and for all—put an end to his only legitimate obstacle—

“Come on,” Loki ordered, sweeping the image from his mind. “Let's move. Strip and give me the mask.”

The guest obliged: handing Loki the gas mask and ripping off his uniform, under which he was wearing inmate's clothes with Loki's prisoner number. He then threw his uniform into the flames. Loki buckled the gun holdster, then stretched the gas mask over his face.

“Thanks for your work,” he murmured.

The double nodded.

Without warning, Loki lunged forward and seized the man's skull betweeen his hands, twisting it violently. There was a satisfying snap as the man's spine cracked, and his body went limp. Loki let him drop to
the floor. It was a pity to dispose of such a good operative, but there could be no loose ends. Loki darted into the smoky hall—just as firefighters came running through the flames, wielding fire extinguishers and giant rubber hoses from the prison stairwells.

He grabbed one of the guards.

“One of the prisoners is unconscious!” he yelled through his gas mask, with just the faintest hint of a Brooklyn accent. “His cell is on fire! Better check on him. I'm going for more backup!”

“Right!” the guard hollered back.

Adrenaline pumped through Loki's veins.
He was almost free.
He made his way down the smoky hall, running from the flames and prisoners and fire-fighters. . . until he reached a line of guards at the cell block entrance.

“A ladder!” Loki hollered with a desperate urgency, waving back at the fire. “Do you have a ladder?”

“Outside on the truck!” a firefighter replied. “We need it
right now
,” Loki barked. “I've got a man trapped in there!”

“Right! Follow me!”

And with that, the fireman quite literally escorted Loki, running, no less, through every single prison checkpoint. He smiled behind the safety of his mask, blinking as the streetlights hit him. Early evening.
The sky was a beautiful, dark blue.
The sky
. Sky meant freedom.
The road was inundated with
fire trucks, firefighters, police cars, and two ambulances. Loki's eyes flickered over both ambulances until he found what he was looking for: a black splotch of paint on the front bumper of the second one.

“The ladder's over here,” the fireman yelled. “Can you. . .” He broke off as Loki collapsed to the pavement.

“What's wrong?” the firefighter demanded.

Loki convulsed, coughing, fogging up the plastic visor. “I. . . think some smoke... I don't know.”

“I think you'd better stay out here!” the fireman hollered down at Loki. “Just tell me where the guy is.”

“He's. . .
cough, cough, cough. . .
in. . .
cough. . .
cell block thirty-five. . .
cough
... upper level.”

“Right! I'm on it.” He glanced around the street and jerked a finger at Loki. “Someone take care of this man! I'm going back in!”

With that, an emergency medical technician—a young man of about twenty-five—hopped from the passenger side of the second ambulance.

“Come with me, okay?” he said. “I'm going to get you to the hospital.”

Loki nodded, leaning against the young man as he staggered into the ambulance.
He kept coughing, mostly for fear he would start laughing.
The doors slammed shut, and then they were racing down the road, sirens raging.

The Manhattan federal jail disappeared in the distance.

“Are you all right, sir?” the young man asked.

“I'm fine,” Loki replied, ripping the gas mask from his face and tearing the clip-on tie from his collar.

“Your clothes are in the drawer to the left, sir.”

“Freshly laundered?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Fine.”

The ambulance bounced as it sped through the streets, but Loki managed to slip into a pair of black Armani pants and a sweater in less than a minute.

“Will you be needing anything else, sir?”

“Phone,” Loki said.

“Right here, sir.”

The young man handed back a minuscule black cell phone. Loki flipped it open and punched the memory dial.

“Yes?” a voice answered.

“Pick her up,” he stated. “And take her to the safe house. Immediately.” He closed the phone.

“Where to, sir, after we switch cars?” the driver asked.

“Back to the loft,” Loki replied, gazing out the back window of the ambulance at the beautiful wide-open spaces. “But we'll make a stop at Tiffany's. I want to buy Gaia a gift. She's coming home.”

His knuckles turned bone white as he gripped the armrests of his chair. The men were running through to the children's playground, straight toward him.

AT LEAST HE SHOWED.

Almost Ashamed

Gaia felt a touch of her anger drain away as she watched the hunched, wheelchair-bound figure slowly rolling toward her across the shadowy playground. Just a touch. After all, she'd made it pretty clear in her note to Ed that if he didn't show, he'd get his ass kicked.