by W. J. May
Control the child, control the parent. It worked every time.
“Devon...are you okay?”
He gauged it for a second, then pulled down the cuffs of his sleeves. “I’m fine.”
His daughter saw the blood and had a slightly different assessment.
“You’re not fine at all—you’re bleeding.” In a quiet frenzy, she began pulling at the hem of her shirt—battling the tactical fabric, trying to tear off a piece. “Let me make you a bandage—”
“Hey, Rambo,” he chuckled softly, removing her hand, “leave the shirt alone. You’re going to need it, and we don’t have any more time to spare. Let’s go.”
Before she could argue he picked the lock on the door and gingerly pushed it open, heading out into the lobby. The place appeared to be deserted. But it was there that he immediately stopped, tilting his head to the side as he listened for anyone else who might still be in the building.
Aria stood behind him, mimicking the gesture without realizing it herself.
It was only then she realized how laughable it was—that she and the rest of her friends would ever try sneaking out. Their parents were super-agents. They’d grown up hearing it often enough, but seeing those skills in action?
The way her father had slipped them effortlessly past building security, the way he’d climbed automatically into a cockpit of an airplane—oblivious to the shocking revelation that he knew how to fly. Even now he was listening to a janitor washing windows on the fortieth floor, blood soaking the inside of his sleeve, never losing that perpetual air of calm.
“Let’s go.”
She snapped back to the present as he cocked his head, motioning for her to follow. They ghosted along in silence, sticking to the shadows before dead-ending into some kind of presentation room at the far end of the hall. It reminded her of a university. There was a small stage of open floor at the front, while rows of chairs stretched up into the darkness beyond. She supposed it was where employees gathered to get lectures, where new phases of development were announced.
Either way, it was an absolutely perfect place to make the drop.
...hopefully.
“What if they don’t meet here?” she whispered anxiously, flitting after Devon as he moved silently up the stairs. “What if they make the handoff in the lobby or something?”
“Our intel says it’s here,” he replied. “That’s why we came.” He stopped at the second highest row of chairs—the ones farthest from the back door. “You’re going to stay here. No matter what happens, you’re not moving from this spot. Not unless...”
He trailed off leadingly, and she rolled her eyes.
“Not unless you tell me to run.”
“That’s right,” he murmured, pulling the camera from his bag and wedging it skillfully in between two chairs. The cap came off. The video started rolling. “In which case, I’d better not catch you drinking in that alehouse by the time I get there. I’m sure whoever finds you will check.”
She flashed a wry grin. “I want to thank you for adding that last bit on tape.”
He nodded soundly. “Carter is handling the debriefing. He’ll most assuredly approve.”
At that moment, there was a sound from deeper in the building. Considering how loud her heart was pounding, Aria was surprised she could even hear it. But the two of them froze at the same time, staring with apprehension at the door.
“All right, we’re up.” Without making a sound Devon pulled a phone from his vest, typed a quick message, then set it squarely in her hands. “If something happens and we get separated, you’re to call the first number listed. You’ll have back-up in ten minutes.”
She nodded with wide eyes, trying to stop the trembling in her hands. “What about you?”
Circumstances aside, he couldn’t help but smile.
“I’ll be just fine. You just worry about yourself, all right?”
“But the guy’s tatù,” she protested in a whisper. “You don’t even know what it is—”
Then the door burst open and time seemed to freeze.
A man entered alone, tall and confident, twirling something in his hand. He didn’t go for the light switch, but strode calmly to a stool in the center of the room. Once there he checked his watch, sat down, and proceeded to wait—unaware of the two people hiding in the room.
Aria’s eyes swept over him, trying to make out his features in the dark. It wasn’t easy. There was nothing especially distinguishing about him. He was tall, but with an average build. Dark eyes, dark hair, and dark clothing—all equally non-descript. It wasn’t until he leaned into the light that she saw it.
Is that...?
Turned out, there was something distinguishing about him after all.
Shining on his arm, for all the world to see, was a dark, glittering tatù. Even from a distance Aria saw the way it rippled and moved in the light. It was a snake—a cobra, by the looks of it. Rare, but not particularly difficult. Not when the agent sent to apprehend him was Devon Wardell.
She glanced at her father and saw his eyes zero in on the ink. They dilated with intensity as a little smile curved the corners of his lips. Snakes were faster than foxes, at least in short bursts. But her father was more than up for the challenge. To be honest, he secretly loved it—going after ink that, at least on paper, was supposed to surpass his own.
That’s some nerve, she thought to herself, gazing down from her hidden perch. Smug bastard doesn’t even bother rolling down his sleeves...
As she lifted her eyes to the camera, the door opened again. This time it was a trio of men who entered. All wore the same expensive suit. All looked equally nervous to be there.
“Do you have it?” the man in the middle asked in a clipped voice. He was older than the others, with a sleek cane and a meticulously groomed silver beard. “Were you able to—”
He stopped suddenly as the man held up his hand.
He made the three of them sweat it out, smiling arrogantly before slowly opening his hand. Devon reached over silently and pressed the zoom button on the camera. There it was. The nano-tracking device that had brought them all the way across the Atlantic.
There was a gasp from the others as the old man—Morten—shook his head in disbelief.
“I can’t believe it! How were you able to get it out of Avvon’s facility?”
“That’s not up for discussion,” the thief said sharply. “You don’t ask me questions, and I don’t discuss my methods. That was the deal.”
Morten’s look of astonishment vanished, bordering on dislike. “I’m well aware of our arrangement—”
“Then pay me,” the man directed, sliding the chip back into his pocket, looking abruptly smug, “before I decide to sell it to someone else.”
At that point Devon eased backwards away from the chairs, heading to the far door. A speed tatù was one thing, but snakes were slippery and could be especially hard to track. It was no longer an option to let him walk out the front door, then go after him on foot. He’d have to pull the switch on this little operation early.
“Stop the camera after money changes hands,” he breathed. “That’s enough for Avvon.”
She did as she was told, waiting until the chip was exchanged for a leather briefcase before pressing the power button as her father slipped back into the dark. He pushed open the back exit with his shoe, then vanished into the shadows—putting on a sudden burst of speed that neither his daughter nor anyone else would ever see.
A mere second later, the door burst open one final time. In strode a familiar face.
Dad??
Aria leaned forward with a silent gasp.
How did he get here that fast?
Devon walked fearlessly into the room—no longer dressed as a spy but in attire similar to the men he was surprising. Similar, except for one very important distinction.
“Special Agent Leeson Mills, FBI.” He flashed a badge with an arrogant smirk, looking from one stunned face to the next. “Looks like you
started the party without me.”
Aria’s hand flew over her mouth, staring down in equal parts delight and fear. There was a faint buzzing in her pocket, but she ignored it—eyes fixed unblinkingly on the scene down below.
“FBI,” Morten repeated in horror, glancing quickly at his associates while his hand trembled on the cane. “But how did you...” He trailed off, turning to the thief. “You did this!”
The man with the snake slowly stepped backwards, weighing his options. Twice his fingers twitched towards his jacket. On the third time, Devon caught his wrist.
“I’ll be taking that.” He extracted a gun from the man’s inner pocket, slipping it into his own vest. “You’ll have enough to answer for without adding attempted murder of a federal agent.”
At this point, Aria wished she was still recording. She and the others could heat up popcorn and watch over and over just for fun. Again, her pocket buzzed. This time she felt around curiously before extracting her father’s phone. There were two missed calls. Both from Julian.
A chill ran up the back of her spine.
You didn’t ignore calls from Julian. It was one of the first lessons they were taught at a young age. They could be half-naked tumbling down a mountain, but they’d still answer the psychic’s calls.
“Listen,” Morten pleaded, “let’s not do anything rash. I’m sure we can come to some kind of arrangement. What does an FBI agent make a year? Eighty or ninety thousand? There’s over twice that in the briefcase I just handed that man. Take it—it’s yours.”
“Like hell,” the thief muttered, clutching the handle.
What should I do? What should I do?
Aria was frozen in place, staring down at the screen. She couldn’t call without being noticed, and she wasn’t allowed to leave that very spot. Maybe if he was leaving a voicemail—
At that moment, a text message popped up on the screen.
Just two words, but they changed everything.
Second gun
That’s when Aria made her fourth stupid mistake.
“DAD—LOOK OUT!”
Five heads shot up to where she was standing. Three were confused. One was wary. The last was staring up at his daughter with a look of abject fear. There was a suspended moment where time stood still. Then everything started unravelling very quickly.
“He’s not FBI!” Morten cried.
At the same time, the man with the snake whipped a hidden gun from his pocket—one Devon would have noticed were he not keeping mental tabs on his daughter the entire time. It flashed through the air—just a glint of silver—before firing straight at his chest.
NO!
Aria let out a piercing scream, hands clapped over her mouth. The world slowed down again to broken snapshots. A crimson splash of blood. A man slipping on the floor. A blur of shadows as the others surged towards the exit. Then another flash of silver as the gun kept firing.
...kept firing?
In what felt like slow motion Aria peeked through her fingers, tears streaming down her face, preparing to see her father lifeless on the floor. But it wasn’t her father! It was one of the men who’d arrived with Morten. Her father was nowhere to be seen.
Or so she thought...
When Morten and his men were still in the room, the fighting looked human. The second they tore through the door, leaving their unconscious associate behind them, the two remaining men left the laws of physics behind and started battling for real.
The snake-man let out a vicious scream, firing his gun with reckless abandon at the wood panels lining the wall at the far side of the room. There was a split second where Aria had no idea what he was doing.
That’s when she saw her father running across the wall.
She sucked in a gasping breath, still clutching her face, as Devon sprinted in a wide arc just a few feet below the ceiling—dodging bullets as he ran perfectly parallel to the floor. Below him the snake had emptied his cartridge and was reaching for another, providing a few seconds of cover.
Aria expected her father to run away. Any sane person would run away. But at some point during training, agents of the Privy Council developed a rather loose relationship with the word sane.
Instead of flying through the exit, Devon flipped off the wall and charged straight back towards the thief—leaping into the air before the man had time to reload. They collided violently in the middle of the floor, crashing together with enough strength to make Aria’s teeth rattle.
After that, it was impossible to keep track of them. Both men were equipped with a speed faster than sight. She could only hear what was happening. If possible, that was even worse.
Sharp cries and sudden impacts echoed across the room. Every now and then, a splash of blood would rain down upon the floor. Whoever the guy was, he didn’t just rely on his ink. He’d had training himself, and had no intention of going down without a fight.
But Devon had no intention of going down at all. And he had a daughter at stake.
“Arie, run!”
His voice echoed up from the carnage, freezing his daughter in her tracks. It wasn’t an option. She’d made a promise. But how could she leaving him bleeding in the middle of the floor?
“NOW!”
There would be hell to pay if she didn’t. But there might be hell to pay if she did. Thanks to her ill-timed scream the man they’d come to apprehend was armed and fighting, while the chip they’d come to recover was safely in the hands of the buyer and disappearing into the night.
Maybe she would run. But he wasn’t going to like where she was going.
Slipping into a speed tatù of her own she snatched up the camera, stuffed it deep in the bag, then took off running out the back exit. The noise of the fight echoed after her, sounding even more violent from afar, but she kept her mind focused and her eyes on the prize.
Even if they were running, Morten and his remaining associate couldn’t elude her for long. She was already within sight of the main lobby. If she could just—
BAM!
Something hard slammed into her stomach, dropping her to the floor. For a moment, she was simply stunned. Then she blinked up in a daze, trying to coax open her lungs.
“...is that a mop?”
The janitor towered over her. Apparently, he’d heard the gunshots all the way up on the fortieth floor and come running. Judging by the look on his face, he was about two seconds from making the world’s most ironic citizen’s arrest.
“Sure is.” He planted it proudly on the floor, like it was some kind of sword. “You kids think you’re so clever, breaking in late at night. But I’m tired of cleaning up your messes. The fast food wrappers, the broken glass. Now you lunatics are playing paintball downstairs!”
A little more deadly than paintball, but better the man stay in the dark. She rolled painfully onto her side, clutching at her ribs. Taken down by a mop? How was this possibly happening?
“I think you broke something—”
“I didn’t break nothing,” he snapped defensively, hoping it was true. “You just wait until the police get here—”
“Is that true?” she interrupted, sitting up with sudden focus. “Did you call the police?”
He hesitated for a second, thrown off guard by the intensity. “I...I’m about to. Don’t get any cute ideas,” he warned, reaching for his phone with one hand while maintaining a grip on the mop. “I’ve seen your face, kid—”
In a flash, he was on his back. The broken mop in two pieces beside him.
“Yeah...but you won’t remember.”
Vowing to edit the story to forever exclude the janitor, Aria took off running once again. She was almost to the lobby. She could see the silhouettes of two men just reaching the double doors.
With a burst of supernatural speed, she flew towards them—coming to a stop just as Morten grabbed the handle. They were on their way out. She couldn’t risk exposure. She didn’t know how she could legitimately stop them without being seen.
Then
, all at once, Jason’s voice echoed in her mind.
So don’t be seen, dummy.
Her eyes shot up as the door creaked open. A second later, the beautiful girl disappeared.
In hindsight, Aria would admit that she wasn’t thinking very clearly. All she knew at the time was that, whatever she did, it had to be fast.
With a clumsiness that spoke not to training but to years of fighting with one’s little brother, she picked up a trashcan by the door and bashed the nameless associate over the head. He was still falling when Morten whipped around in shock. But before he could see what was happening, Aria tightened her grip and struck him as well. He collapsed with a gasp, eyes fluttering shut.
Every nerve was electric, the pulse of every heartbeat pounding behind her eyes. With frantic hands, she sank to her knees and fumbled around in his jacket pockets—exhaling in utter relief when her fingers closed around the chip.
After that, she didn’t know what to do. The men would wake up any minute. Best case scenario, they’d flee the scene in terror. Worst case scenario, they’d go after the chip again.
She glanced around frantically, looking for anything that might help. Her gaze fell upon a pair of potted plants by the elevator and she decided to make one final mistake...
Two minutes later both men were propped up by the topiaries, secured to the trunks with a pair of cable-ties she’d found in her father’s bag. Objectively speaking, she thought it was a striking commentary on corporate workaholics in the twenty-first century. In light of the present situation, she decided to keep that opinion to herself.
With the nano-tracker secure in her bag, she took off running once again. She’d promised her father that she’d run to the alehouse on Pearl. A quick phone call, and back-up would be on the way. She had almost reached the front doors, pulling up her hood to hide her face from the cameras.
Then a final gunshot echoed in the air.
Clouds of dark hair billowed around her as she screeched to a halt—sliding about ten feet over the tile. The breath froze in her body as her head turned slowly back toward the way she’d come.
