“No, it's open-ended,” Reed said, and he'd already turned, heading for the door. I followed, and so did Augustus, then Jamal (after grabbing his laptop, of course). “We won't be back until the job is done.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“I got stuck riding in a car with a bunch of smelly boys,” I said as we sped down 494 toward the airport. “Just out of government service and this happens to me. Ugh.”
Augustus subtly leaned his head to his armpit, but not so subtly I didn't notice. “Ah ha!” he crowed. “I smell fresh. You ain't smelling me, unless it's my Old Spice.”
“I'm pretty sure I showered this morning, too,” Jamal said, preoccupied by his laptop. He had pulled up a live helicopter view of the fires burning in North Dakota.
I looked over at Reed. “Okay, they called me out. It's you I was subtexting with that pronouncement.”
He just rolled his eyes. Once more he'd gotten stuck in the back seat with me while the Coleman brothers took the front. It was Augustus's car, after all. Jamal had offered me the shotgun seat, all gentlemanly and whatnot, but I'd demurred. “Just call me Miss Daisy,” I'd said. Augustus had not been amused.
“Can we do some real talk while we're riding?” Augustus asked.
No one answered, so I did. “Do you not do 'real talk' when you're not riding?”
“No, it's not that,” Augustus said, mildly defensive.
“Are these other two guys the ones lacking 'real talk?'” I asked. “Do you go less than candid with your brother or mine?”
“No,” Augustus said. “What I mean is–”
“You've got something to say you think might hurt my feelings,” I said. “Proceed. Reed already had one of those conversations with me this morning, so you might as well fire away.”
Reed closed his eyes, sighed, and put his head against the window. I got the feeling he was already regretting having me back.
“So...what I wanted to say was...your image is kind of slag,” Augustus said. “Your public image, I mean.”
“Oh, okay,” I said. “For a second there I thought you were calling me a slut.”
“I think 'slagged' means, like, bagged on,” Jamal said.
“But a 'slag' definitely means slut,” Reed said.
“Well, that's not what I meant,” Augustus said, voice rising with a tinge of panic. “I'm talking public relations, only. Your business is your business in the bedroom.”
“That's a relief,” I said, “because I was worrying that you were judging me for all this sweaty sex...which I'm not actually having, at least not presently.”
“You mean like...right this minute...or...?” Jamal asked.
“Obviously not right this minute,” I said, getting a little clipped, “but let's focus on the point Augustus actually wanted to make and not get into the details of how my virginity has probably grown back by now, because that's how long it's been, okay? Like a year.”
“Right, so PR is the game I'm talking,” Augustus said, clearly eager to get back on target. “And how people perceive you in the world. Not about your uh...reputation in that way. I'm talking about the fear part of it. You're not exactly warm and cuddly.”
“I like the fear factor,” I said. “It makes people think twice before crossing me. In fact, I'm tempted to advertise it everywhere I go just to get preferential treatment. When I get a car, I think I'll emblazon my name all over it in neon colors just to see if people are less dickish to me on the road.”
“That'll definitely make the state of Minnesota happier to have us,” Reed said acidly. “Provoking road rage incidents just to see if people will back down on you.”
“I was hoping we could rehab that image,” Augustus said. “I don't think it's helped that you've been under a gag order the last year. If you could have talked to the press, made some inroads...things might have gone differently.”
I found this line of thought so annoying. Deal with the press? The ones who'd vilified me for years, run my name through the mud? Accused me of nuking LA? Why not cuddle a viper to my bosom as well, to borrow a phrase from antiquity?
But he had a point, galling as it might have been. “I've started making some inroads in that regard,” I said, grudgingly. “You're right. There are people out there, much as I might abhor that fact, and I need more of them to not hate and fear me. I do have a press contact now, and I thought about trying to do an interview at some point in the next month or so.”
“But...not with Gail Roth, right?” Jamal asked.
“No,” I said. “With the new head of Flashforce, actually.”
“The place with all those LOLCAT gifs?” Augustus asked.
“Yes, the place with the...they have other things, too, you know. Like listicles. And some investigative journalism.” He gave me a hell of a look. “What? They did a piece last week on the convergence of myth and metahumans in Ancient Greece and it was fascinating.”
“Would it have been so for people not related to several of the players in that story?” Reed asked.
“I assume so, but since I don't fit that criteria, how would I know?” I asked. “Point is...I agree with you, Augustus. And I came up with another idea, too.”
“This should be good.” Jamal closed his laptop, all ears.
“I'm going to open a Socialite account,” I said. “So I can connect with people.”
Dead silence.
“Because now that Jaime Chapman is dead,” I said, “and I'm free of the government, I can skirt the privacy problems Socialite brings because I can just log in via a VPN through a browser window rather than downloading the app. That way I can make statements and people can respond to them – you know, get my message out fast when things go wrong.”
“Oh, God,” Reed whispered.
“Um,” Jamal said. “Um. Um.”
“Okay, I like the energy from this idea,” Augustus said, veering onto the exit ramp for 77 North, because he apparently just realized we were already at the airport. “But I have some concerns. The first being–”
“That this is going to be an epic implosion – or possibly explosion,” Reed said, “of the sort they will be teaching in public relations classes for centuries to come. Long after Socialite has faded into the recesses of human memory – nay, long after our sun has gone extinct, they will look upon this decision, this moment – and say, 'Shit, putting Sienna Nealon on a social network where she can interact with people? Now that was a bad idea.'”
“Thanks for the confidence, bro,” I said. “Look, I have dealt with people before. I know what to do with people. You just answer their questions as honestly as you can–”
“Wow, it really is going to be that bad,” Jamal said.
“–and they're basically good – ish – and so if I answer in good faith, I think we can sort of muddle our way through, and it'll all work out.”
“Maybe we should forget about rehabbing the image,” Augustus said. “She's got enough brand recognition. That's not a bad thing. Making yourself more accessible by doing interviews or talking to people on the internet? I just don't see the upside.”
I frowned. “You were the one who just said–”
“I was wrong,” Augustus said. “And kidding. I was just floating ideas. Brainstorming, really, hearing myself talk out loud–”
“No,” I said, leaning forward and bracing against his seat. “You thought it was a good thing for me to try and rehab my image when I was just doing interviews with approved outlets – all of whom have edited me to make me look vicious, or lied about me in a rush to report something, or actively said terrible, mostly untrue things about me because it was the way the herd animals that we call a press were running at the moment. But the minute I say I want to take control of my own messaging, to bypass those assholes and go straight to speaking with the crowd, no filter – you think it's a bad idea. Why?”
“I think you nailed it with the 'no filter' part,” Reed said.
“Yeah, that is my concern,” Jamal said. “As a pers
on who really likes you, but has also watched you work, and also spoken to you.”
“What is this bullshit?” I asked, my voice rising. “I think giving people a chance to really see and communicate directly with me is the way to fix this. People like me, okay?” By the looks I got, I knew this was a controversial opinion. “Well, the three of you like me, as far as I know, so that's something.”
“We do,” Reed said quietly, “which is why we're concerned you might respond poorly to the internet and not put your best foot forward.”
“I'm really more concerned you'll put your foot forward...and smash the toes of the first eight hundred people that piss you off,” Jamal said.
“It's not going to be like that,” I said, huffing. “I've been on the internet. For years. I've read terrible shit about myself, and never responded once. You'll see.” I settled back in my seat, opening up the window for Socialite. “I'll show you all. Hmph.”
None of them answered that, which was probably wise. Time was going to tell on it, anyway. And I knew it was going to prove me right.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Scout
The whooping and hollering in the car was hurting Scout's ears, but she tried to smile through it at the excitement.
They'd done it. They'd struck the first real blow, and it felt...
It felt good.
“This is it,” Isaac said, leaning over and brushing his lips against her hand. Just for a second. “This is the stuff.”
Francine let out a whoop in the front seat. AJ just chortled his approval, the AK still draped across his lap like a pet.
“We've been talking about it,” Isaac said, eyes glinting as he stared into hers. “And now we've taken the next step – the real next step. I know I said before that it was the beginning. But this was it. This was the Rubicon.”
Scout nodded enthusiastically, looking away from his intense gaze. She had this nagging thought she needed to give voice to, though. “It was a good thing,” she said. “But...”
He cocked his head. “But what?”
She looked up. Didn't raise her head, but raised her eyes, the easier to flee his attention by looking down if his response was...unfavorable. She really didn't want that. “But...it's not really enough, is it?”
Waiting for his response was hell. The movement of his eyes was neutral, back and forth, then up – was he thinking? Getting mad?
Finally, he smiled. “You're right, of course.”
A slow breath escaped her. Whew.
“We're going to do more,” Isaac said.
Francine whooped again. Because of course she did.
“Lots more,” Isaac said.
“Strike a blow!” Francine shouted, voice screeching in the confines of the tight car. “Make 'em feel it!”
“Oh, we will,” Isaac said, brushing against Scout's hand. “We're going to end this thing, after all. We're going–”
Another whoop cut him off, and they all turned. Not to Francine, because this one hadn't come from her.
To the rear window, because that was the direction it had come from. And now, flashing lights filled it, a police car tearing up the road behind them.
“Aw, shit, man,” AJ said, fumbling the AK on his lap. “What do I do?”
“We comply,” Isaac said coolly. He held one finger to his lips, then jerked the other hand to indicate Francine needed to move to the shoulder.
The tires thudded a thousand times on the ridges carved into the pavement to wake up drivers drifting off the road. She cringed against it, the sound like someone striking drums right outside her ear canal.
The Ford came to a stop, AJ still twitching in the passenger seat. “Isaac, what am I supposed to do with this, man?” He twitched the AK. “He's going to see it as soon as he walks up to the car!”
“Roll down your window, Francine,” Isaac said calmly. He winked at Scout, then rolled his down, too. The cop was already getting out of the patrol car; Scout could hear it before the window was even cracked, but by the time the motor finished buzzing and it was down, his footsteps were approaching, almost to the hatchback.
“Hey, AJ,” Isaac said, smiling. “Do your job.”
And he threw himself into the floorboard.
Scout blinked, watching the spectacle unfold. The cop had walked up to the rear window opposite her, where Isaac had been sitting only a moment earlier.
AJ's face went through a swift metamorphosis. He cocked his head as Isaac's words hit him and caused no impact. He looked up, thinking, decoding them. The police officer was walking, walking...
Then the light came on in AJ's eyes. Scout saw it.
And screamed.
AJ lifted the AK-47 and pointed it between the driver and passenger seats. He ripped off a half dozen shots, lips parted in a grinning rictus, spittle flying from his mouth as flame leapt from the barrel.
The shots were explosions and earthquakes and bombs going off, all combined. Scout turned her head from the flames and saw the police officer's chest, at eye level just outside the window, only feet from her.
Blood splattered, spewed, geysered like they'd gone to Yellowstone across the state line and someone had filled Old Faithful with red dye as a prank.
One of the eruptions plastered Scout across the face and she screamed. Her head felt like it was underwater, but pressure still assailed her, flashes of fire still lit the interior of the SUV.
The police officer dropped. Fell over backwards, really.
She never even saw his face.
“Go, go, go!” Isaac shouted, and he sounded like he was underwater. Francine gunned the engine. They thudded over the ridges at the edge of the highway, but that was like nothing now, not after she'd heard the gun fired a million times next to her head.
Isaac pulled himself out of the floorboard. He chuckled, hanging his head out the window. He said something; Scout couldn't hear it, because the ringing had started in her ears.
He turned to her, flushed with triumph. He lifted a hand, but it was covered in blood. It distracted him for a moment as he stared at his palm, blankly, at the red smear there, before looking up at her.
Pure surprise covered his face, then he cocked his head curiously before gesturing at her with a crimson-smeared finger. “Are you okay?”
She couldn't hear him, but she read his lips. With shaking hands, she touched her chest, her body, checking, checking...
No holes. No pains.
Just...wetness. Lots of wetness.
She rubbed at her face, clawed at it, desperately wanting to scrub the blood free.
Isaac caught her by the wrists, by the long sleeves, and stayed her hand. “Shhhhhh,” he mouthed. She still couldn't hear him. Just read his lips. “It's okay.”
She wanted to rub her face, scrub her face, get the sticky, disgusting wetness off of it. Off of her.
He shook his head. “Leave it. For now.”
“It's...horrible,” Scout said. She could barely hear herself. The ringing was subsiding, replaced by the sound of blood rushing.
Isaac's eyes glinted. “No, it's beautiful.” He brushed fingers through her hair, and they came back tinged with scarlet. “It's warpaint,” he said, running his fingers along his cheeks and leaving streaks there. “And we...are at war.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Sienna
Hoo boy, North Dakota. It was not exactly how I'd always pictured it.
I'd imagined – thanks to my travels and some actual time spent in the state – endless rolling prairies with amber grass, swaying in the summer wind. A dry heat that licked at my exposed skin, lightly raising the urge to sweat. Oil in the air, but not thick and heavy. Lighter, a slight tinge of unpleasant seasoning that would tickle my nose and the back of my tongue but go almost unnoticed by a normal human with ordinary senses.
Instead, even getting off the plane I'd been stunned by the clouds of black smoke that threatened to choke me from the moment they popped open the cabin door. We were lucky the pilot was even a
ble bring the jet in for a landing at the small airport in Williston.
“I know I complained earlier about riding in a car with you smelly boys,” I said, a North Dakota Bureau of Criminal Investigations (BCI) officer running us along the freeway at about a hundred miles an hour with his siren going, “but really – I didn't mind.” A gagging sensation pushed at the back of my throat. “I take it back, really. I'd gladly smell you all again instead of this smoke.”
It was terrible. I'd seen a lot of fires in my time, some of which I'd even caused. But here, the air had an oily residue to it, the windshield already picking up a sooty dusting. Fires blazed on the horizon, lighting up the clouds a hellish orange in the spots where we could actually see them through the smoky mire.
“Only gets worse from here,” the driver said. His name was Leon, and his eyes were as dark as the clouds filling the sky. Tall, thin, athletic, in his thirties, and grumpy as hell. As one might be, if one's entire state were on fire.
My phone started ringing, so any thought of reply got put on the backburner. Not sure what sort of reply I could have mustered anyway. It was positively post-apocalyptic here.
I answered with a simple, “Hello?” realizing only after I'd done so that it was a Minnesota number that I didn't have stored in my phone's memory.
“Hey, Sienna, it's Scott,” came the familiar voice of my ex.
“What's up?” I asked, still staring at the black and glowing horizon. It really was horrific.
“Lethe showed up at the office just now,” Scott said, and boy did he sound pleased as punch. “Looking for you.”
“Oh, shit,” I said. “Totally forgot.”
“You forgot me?” My grandmother's voice was fully steeped in the ire one might expect of someone who'd invaded more lands and conquered more kingdoms than I'd even heard of. Her meta hearing was doing me no favors here.
“Yes,” I said, “I'm sorry. New me, new life, all that – head's a bit fuzzy trying to juggle details. I'm in North Dakota.”
Second Guess (The Girl in the Box Book 39) Page 8
