Operation Blackout

by J. L. Middleton

  “See that you do, Ms. Whitcomb,” he interjected. “I’m still not pleased with your prior performance.”

  Composed yet placating, she replied, “I am limited in my resources. I cannot guarantee a thing other than that I will try.”

  “And deliver results, Mrs. President,” he prompted. Somehow, his use of her sought title was ominous, like an implied threat. She agreed hastily despite herself, and he moved on to less provocative topics.

  - - -

  Rho hissed through his teeth as the sewing needle pierced his flesh. Sone tried his best to ignore his partner’s reactions as he inserted the makeshift sutures, but his inexperience in this regard didn’t help matters. Luckily, Rho was a good patient, only making the slightest pained sounds rather than flinching and exacerbating the wound. Sone wondered again about the mystery of his partner’s past. “Decent stitching,” Rho lied through a crooked grin as soon as Sone finished his work, and he wiped the wound clean again with a cloth. The black thread was crooked and had been spaced unevenly, but it had nevertheless done its job of closing the gash. Rho took an extra precaution and rolled a piece of cloth, which he’d torn from the hotel bedsheets, around his bicep to dress his injury.

  Sone removed his shirt and used the mirror to examine any marks that the battle may have left. Most were just scrapes and bruises. His neck would probably become a lot darker within a few hours because Antithesis’ fist had caught him just under the jaw. Although he’d lost his breath, he didn’t think there would be any permanent damage to his trachea. He’d need ice to quell any subsequent swelling or bruising, so he grabbed the ice bucket and headed to the machine, only to discover that it was out of order. He used the scoop to dredge out the few ice cubes that were lodged in the reservoir and returned with this paltry prize to their room.

  “She ain’t worth it,” Rho declared as soon as Sone re-entered their room. Rho was using the bathroom mirror to examine the hole in the side of his shirt; a bullet had probably scraped his flank as it had passed.

  Sone grabbed a washcloth and began filling it with ice. “Yes, she is. We all are. We have to unite against the BSI. You know that,” he reasserted as he placed the compress against his jaw.

  “They were shooting at us, man. They never risk confrontation like that in a civilian center. This is generally when we cut someone loose.” Rho stuck his finger through the bullet hole in his shirt and then used it to assist in taking it off. There was a corresponding angry red mark on his side, but it was no more serious than a slight burn. “Come back later and try again.”

  “It doesn’t seem right to do that this time.” Rho shot him an incredulous look, but he continued, “She’s a kid. Most of the people we deal with are adults or have adults with them. She doesn’t. I just—” Sone drew his lips together tightly, biting the insides as he thought. He couldn’t explain that his mother would be disappointed in his decision to leave a child vulnerable to the BSI… that the legendary woman drilled into his head by his father’s grieving devotion haunted him for the sacrifice she made for Sone. Leaving someone he had a chance to save made him culpable in that person’s death. “We’re in a large population center. They’ll have to be more discreet, or they’ll risk exposure, and we know they’ll bend over backward to keep us a secret. They’re not going to break Blackout over one girl.”

  Rho sighed. “They already broke Blackout when they fought us in an open street. It might have been midnight, but you know, this being New York, that somebody saw. Where do you think those cops came from? Nobody calls cops in the city over a few gunshots.” He shook his head. “I don’t think they’re going to be as discreet as you think they are.”

  “We’re also wanted criminals, Rho. And now that they’ve seen us with her, we’ve made her a target,” he insisted. “We’re already here. We didn’t come all this way not to finish the job.”

  “Fine. Fine,” he agreed reluctantly. “But next time, I get Antithesis, and you get to dodge the bullets.” He tossed his shirt at Sone, who barely caught it before it hit him in the face. He smiled wryly yet kept a gruff voice as he added, “And practice your sewing on that! I’m hitting the shower.”

  - - -

  Orion sat in the dimly lit kitchen as he fingered through his textbook distractedly. The dinner that he had prepared still sat in their respective containers on the table, but the food they contained had long grown cold, and the ice in the drinks had melted. He pushed the unused stack of plates to the side, where it brushed against the silverware, causing it to chime discordantly. He was certain Hallowed Grounds must have already closed for the night, so Cassie should have been home by now. Despite the attempted mugging, his first thought regarding her tardiness was that she’d decided to socialize with one of the male patrons after hours. She was currently going through a phase of pursuing “mature” older males.

  He was relieved to hear his phone ring, especially when it identified the caller as his sister. “Hey, where are you?” he asked in his sternest voice.

  “Ryan?” Her voice was shaky. “I’d rather not say.”

  He straightened immediately, leaning toward the phone and table as if the closer proximity would allow him to perceive more through the line. “Cass, what’s wrong?”

  “I… will you meet me at the mall?” As she spoke, he imagined her huddled in a corner, peering furtively around her.

  “Why don’t I just pick you up?” he offered. “Tell me where you are, and I’ll grab a taxi.”

  “No,” she replied hastily. “Just meet me there.”

  “They’re closing soon, if they haven’t already. Why don’t—”

  “Fine! The Rockefeller Center, Times Square, I don’t care! Just some place with a lot of people. Um, a lot of people all night. Yeah.”

  Fear was closing around his heart. If her agitation hadn’t already charged his adrenaline, her evasiveness wasn’t helping matters. “Pickle, what’s wrong? Are you safe?”

  “Yes, Ryan, just… please just meet me somewhere public and crowded.” With a jitter, she added, “And not the police station. Don’t contact that detective. I don’t want the government to get involved again.”

  His alarm became terror. “Cassiopeia—”

  “I’m fine. I’ll tell you about it when I see you. I promise. I just don’t want another visit from them.”

  He nodded, though he didn’t really agree, but if she wouldn’t tell him her location, then he could only follow her instructions. Something had sparked her fright, an emotion to which she wasn’t prone, and he hoped that she’d remain unharmed until she was in his custody again. He convinced her to suggest a “safe” place near her location and agreed to meet her there soon. After stammering some reassurances, he hung up and immediately called his parents for advice. If the government had come back to retrieve his sister, maybe his parents would know what to do. He grabbed his wallet and donned his hoodie sloppily while the phone in his hand kept ringing. He hung up and tried again, only to be greeted by the voicemail a second time. As he hurried out the door, he realized that he should have known better than to rely on his parents.

  - - -

  Emma Braddock was no more. She had been a fragile idealist working toward a monumental, society-changing goal, only to discover that the man whom she’d idolized—the one she would have offered herself to or died for—had been nothing more than a fraudster preying on the weak-minded. When federal agents had invaded the compound on which she had been raised, they’d arrested the adults and placed the children into foster care. People her age—adolescents on the cusp of adulthood or who had just crossed that threshold—had been siphoned into a different holding facility until they could be properly interviewed and catalogued as victims or perpetrators. After a week, she’d been rescued from the chaos by a single agent and enfolded in the structured womb of the BSI. The agent, whom she had known as Morgan Conn
or, had kept in touch with her on occasion, ensuring that her transition from an isolated, xenophobic, and religious upbringing to normal civil society had been smooth, but it had been the agency’s staff members who had educated and transformed her. As Emma had been introduced to the modern world, she’d shed her peculiar childhood beliefs in favor of the BSI doctrine, and it had become her foundational conviction that she would stand between the weak—that is, normal human beings—and the supernatural. Thus, Emma Braddock had died, and Antithesis had been born.

  “The arrogance of it all!” she exclaimed angrily, clutching the back of her head with her hands. Her fingers threaded through her tightly curled hair, dividing it into sections as she searched for the distinct sticky wetness of blood. She found none, combed her hair back in place, and started a detailed examination of the rest of her body. She was a fit young woman who had pushed her limits and honed her malnourished body to athletic heights to enable her to better combat Others, but she was still no match for sonic potency or Rho’s raw strength. Though her field suppressed the use of supernatural abilities, it did not negate any effects that crossed it, nor could it compensate for natural muscle. “Engaging us in public so we can’t use our full force! Using civilians as shields! They’re nothing but vermin!”

  “That’s why we’re needed,” Johnson panted, hands on his hips as he bent over to catch his breath. He’d already stripped off his jacket, which had survived another encounter with the Vanguard unscathed, and his face was red from exertion. While he was by no means out of shape, their enthusiastic and singled-minded pursuit of the criminal fugitives had pushed his limits to the brink, and even though there were no visible tears in his clothing, she knew that as soon as the adrenaline abandoned them, they would be equally sore.

  “I can’t believe we lost them again.” Her breathing had evened out, but her senses were still finely tuned, and her muscles were screaming from standing still. “Where’s the nearest precinct?” she asked. While much of the BSI’s ability to track Others was kept secret, even from its own agents, the agency also utilized local sources. In this case, the New York City surveillance camera network, to which the BSI had gained access by using its credentials to bully the police, had been used to track the two criminals to this location.

  Johnson shook his head. “I don’t think that’s going to work again,” he said. He inspected his appearance: His firearm was secured in his holster, and he smoothed his trousers, ignoring the new tears and scuffs; luckily, his jacket had avoided a similar fate. He tightened and fixed his tie and draped his jacket over his arm before he started on the arduous task of retrieving his emptied clips and expended shells. “We got lucky. There are thousands of cameras to search. We’re going to have to figure something else out.”

  “Like what?” she demanded impatiently. Detective work was not her forte, nor was it expected to be, but Johnson didn’t have the aptitude for it either. His job was to cover her back and direct her at a target like the spotter for a sniper. Their job was pursuit, apprehension, and transference of custody between civilian agencies and the bureau, but neither of them knew how to find a target without a support team. It was also why they were the frequent subjects of administrative discipline: Regrettably, apprehension often required the use of force, which was something that the agency mandated should be employed only sparingly in the public forum. It was too bad that the Vanguard didn’t abide by these same rules, and it was only natural that she and Johnson would use equal force in pursuit of their duties. “They went that way. Maybe if I run fast enough, I could catch up and find them.”

  Still picking up and pocketing shells, Johnson smiled suddenly as he closed his hands around an unexpected boon. “I don’t think we have to worry about it,” he said and held up a small, nondescript cell phone.

  - - -

  As Pierce peered out the window at the lights flashing in the darkness in the field encircling the observatory, the corners of his mouth twisted into a sour frown. The police were searching the grounds in hopes of finding more evidence regarding the murder of the girl in Johnstown. From what he gathered, they had identified the victim and traced her missing cell phone via GPS to this location. This meant that he’d been sloppy. He’d thought it odd that there had been no cell phone among the personal effects of a young woman like her, but the device was still uncommon with most drifters, who may have sold it off to pay bills before becoming homeless if they’d decided that retaining it wasn’t advantageous to their future situation. With the location of the missing device pinpointed, the police had obtained a warrant to search the surrounding area for further evidence, such as an actual death site. But although they had searched all day, they had yet to find anything apart from the phone, which had been trampled into the muddy road leading up to the main building. He doubted they would continue the search under the cover of darkness, so the police must be finishing up a sector before calling it quits for the night.

  They had finally slipped up. The painstaking nature of Pierce’s methodology—isolate a single beast, bring it to one of the kill sites, and then butcher it in the special slaughter room, where he and Madeleine could control the disposal of evidence—had been for naught. He had argued with Madeleine for the past hour about whose fault it was—who should have realized that the cell phone had existed and that it had fallen out of the animal’s pocket—and she’d retired resentfully to the slaughter room. Since they were both at equal risk, he doubted she was doing little more than another deep cleaning. After she’d had a chance to cool down, he’d join her to help dispose of the most conspicuous items, such as his cleaver and knife collection.

  Luckily, he’d scrubbed the trunk of their car as soon as they’d returned to Mason, so it was unlikely that the search dogs would detect the scent of the body, masked as it was now with cleaning agents and other smells. Still, it was only a matter of time before the police department would apply for a warrant to search the observatory. It was only logical; even if they had been innocent, the Starrs’ statement to the police that they spent too much time in the observatory with the telescope to notice any terrestrial events was a flimsy alibi, so the law would no doubt believe that they were at least witnesses to the crime who had their own reasons for keeping silent. The uproar Madeleine raised regarding the county’s imminent luminous interference with their observations served to delay the police and restrict them to daylight activity, but it didn’t faze them altogether, especially because they were looking for a probable serial killer.

  Pierce determined that his best chance was to leave before the police obtained their warrant. He expected to eventually end up on the wanted list, but at least he wouldn’t be arrested straight away. He might be able to disappear with a decent head start, and a plan started to form in his mind. He entered the slaughter room and saw Madeleine sitting cross-legged in the center of the floor. She had taken all of his tools and separated them into piles on the floor. “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “I’m figuring out which ones we need to dispose of immediately and which ones we can hide.” She nodded toward one pile. “I think we can explain the plastic sheets easily enough, but the bleach will have to go. I thought about pouring it down the drain, but we’d still have the bottles.”

  He nodded. “I can take them with me,” he offered.

  She tilted her head, shifting her curls from their precarious position. Despite taking the precaution of wearing a hairnet, she hadn’t secured her hair properly. “Where are you going?”

  “Back to the university. I thought I’d hand-carry our results since they stopped Dr. Harper from joining us,” he explained nonchalantly. “They can’t prevent us from leaving if we’ve not been charged with anything.”

  “I’ll go with you. I have some equipment I need to exchange,” she replied, rising to her feet after some hesitancy due to her aged knees. She handed him a pair of latex gloves. “Here. Help me put thes
e away. We’ll take the rest with us,” she said. She grabbed the box of latex gloves and some of the smaller knives and headed toward the kitchen. While some of their more unremarkable tools could be hidden inconspicuously around their living space, Pierce would have preferred to leave as soon as possible. But doing that might draw Madeleine’s suspicion; she was intelligent and resourceful—traits that he’d once found attractive—and she would recognize the blatant attempt to leave her. If either of them went to the police now, it’d be their word against the other’s, and Pierce would rather avoid the spotlight completely so that he could resume his activities in the future. He’d have to allow her to stay by his side until he found a way to unequivocally ensure her apprehension by the law. He grabbed a pair of bleach bottles, having decided that dumping their contents and burning the jugs would seem suspicious but would ultimately provide nothing for any prosecutor to use. The absence of evidence created reasonable doubt, especially if one couldn’t prove what evidence had been destroyed in the first place, and since they were entering the fall months, it was conceivable that the police would believe that they were using the furnace solely to generate heat.

  - - -

  Sone and Rho tried to stay hidden in the darkest corner of the street, but it wasn’t an easy task. Cassie Starr lived in an affluent part of the city, where the lights never dimmed and no one could enter a building without having a pass code or convincing the doorman that they were residents. Rho had noticed as much and had used it as an opportunity to suggest that Cassie wasn’t as helpless as Sone believed. He wasn’t wrong; her building was secure from intruders and insulated from the city’s filth. But she wasn’t safe. Sone had discerned her real name easily enough by tracing her IP address and had narrowed down the possibilities from there. While it had taken several hours and many illegal forays into private servers, with some determination, the data had been easy to retrieve. Once he’d discovered her real name, finding out what she looked like by hacking into the school district’s database and pulling her profile had been straightforward. This had also revealed her extracurricular activities, and he knew where to find her at any given time.