Cold

by Robert J. Crane

  “She’s going to kill us when we put down our guns, man,” Todd said over the ringing in my ears.

  “No, I won’t,” I called back. “I work for the FBI. Do you know how much trouble we get in for shooting unarmed people? The paperwork alone takes days.” I thought the better of my joke a moment after it left my mouth, but I’d never been particularly good at putting aside sarcasm, even when keeping it up might bite me in the ass. “Look, I could have drilled you both between the eyes before you even raised your guns. Instead, I let you shoot off sixty rounds of .223 inside a New York City bank. Does that sound like the action of someone who’s trying to kill you?”

  “No,” Not-Todd answered a moment later, “that kinda sounds like something a nutcase would do, letting us shoot all around innocent people in a crowded place.”

  I let out a slow breath that no one but Collin could have heard. And he didn’t, because he was probably near-deaf at this point. Might have felt it on his neck, though. “Yeah. When you say it like that, it does make me look a little bad. But you’re still alive, and not shot through the head by me, so…maybe let’s keep that winning trend alive? Along with you?”

  “I’m throwing out my gun!” Not-Todd said, and a moment later an AR-15 clattered to the floor in front of me.

  “Man, what are you doing?” Todd sounded a step away from panic.

  “Declaring my body a bullet-free zone,” Not-Todd said.

  “Lace your hands behind your head, come out from behind the counter, get to your knees and cross your legs,” I said.

  “Way ahead of you,” Not-Todd said, and I could tell by his voice that he’d already moved.

  “Not your first rodeo, I see.” I pushed Collin down to his knees, and he didn’t resist. “Todd…time’s almost up. Which is it going to be? Jail or the morgue?”

  There was a long pause.

  “Todd?” I called back.

  “I’m thinking about it!” Todd called back, voice strained.

  “Let us reason together, Todd—do you think you’re going to be able to escape?” I asked, slipping cuffs around Collin’s wrists. He let out a little moan of pain.

  The answer came back after a couple seconds: “Maybe.”

  “How?” I tried to avoid scoffing. “They’ve got the back door blocked. They’re out on the street. You are surrounded, dude. What are you going to do? Shoot your way out?”

  No answer. Maybe he was thinking it over.

  “You come out shooting, they’re not going to be nice like me,” I said. “They’re going to shoot back with snipers you won’t even see. They will paint the building’s facade with your brains, and they won’t even care. A dangerous criminal gets shot down in the streets? Talk about a dog-bites-man story. Tomorrow, no one but your momma will even know you died.”

  “And two days from now, she’ll forget you,” Not-Todd chimed in from where he was kneeling with his hands behind his head.

  “Shut up, Steve!” Todd said.

  “Come on, man, you know your mom is all about the gin. She’ll be so drunk you’ll be lucky if it gets through.”

  “Todd,” I said, trying to work around Not-Todd’s—I mean Steve’s—unhelpful efforts to help me. “It doesn’t have to end here. Not like this. You could have a lot of years in front of you. Good years. You know, after some time spent incarcerated, but still…good years. It doesn’t have to happen like this. You don’t think you’re going to get away…do you?”

  “No,” Todd said, and now his voice had broken. He’d broken. The AR clattered out in front of me, and I rose, leaning out from behind the shattered wall with my Glock as Todd, hands behind his head, paraded out from behind the counter.

  I dragged Collin out of the bathroom, leaving a trail in the drywall dust and wreckage where he swiffered the debris clean with his body as I put him down at Steve’s feet. “Everybody okay over there?” I asked, surveying the hostages. They were huddled, some whimpering a little, but a quick round of nods reassured me that I’d successfully drawn all the ire—and the fire—of the three amigos, which meant no innocents had caught a bullet.

  Yay, me.

  “Scene clear!” I shouted, and waited for the door to come crashing in. It crashed in seconds later, and I waved for the hostages to go, and they did, leaving me with the three robbers as I waited for SWAT to come in. “Clear,” I muttered, mostly for the benefit of myself, as I eyed the chewed-up ceiling and the spent bullet casings that littered the floor of the bank lobby like broken glass.

  7.

  “You know, it’s not everyone I’d keep SWAT back for when I hear a bunch of rifles going off like fireworks on the fourth of July,” NYPD Captain Allyn Welch said as I worked my jaw, trying to pop my ears to eliminate the ringing. “But you, you’re special.”

  “Yay for me being special,” I said, as one of my ears popped, the tinnitus departing as my metahuman healing ability cured that eardrum first. “Excuse me while I celebrate your pronouncement by eating some paste.”

  He let out a small guffaw. “Have I told you how much I missed you while you were on the other side of the law, Nealon? Because it’s good to have you back in New York and not causing criminal havoc.”

  I gave him a raised eyebrow. “Yes, I can tell how much you love, miss and appreciate me by how often you dump your non-meta garbage on me.”

  “Hey, I never said love.” He warily eyed the ceiling of the bank where the idiots had unloaded their ARs. “Though I’d move closer to that sentiment if you could keep the bad guys from unloading a metric ton of lead into my crime scenes. Somebody could have died.”

  “Yeah, but nobody did,” I said. “And I worked very hard at that, I’ll have you know.”

  He let out a begrudging grunt. “Yeah, I can tell by the lack of corpses. Don’t think I don’t appreciate that, but if we could strive for less chaos—”

  “One thing at a time, champ,” I said, turning my attention to the tinted window that looked out on the street. “I’m not a miracle worker, and I think we should all just be impressed with the progress I’ve made on not killing people. I feel like I deserve some positive reinforcement for that. Maybe a gift card to Quality Meats up on 58th, or a day off or something, I dunno.”

  “Were it within my power to grant both, know that I would,” Welch said, miming a bow. “Unfortunately, my discretionary fund from the NYPD is—lemme check here—oh, right, zero dollars. And also, someone has to pay for this.” He pointed at the ceiling.

  “Insurance should cover it since I didn’t do it myself,” I said with a light shrug. “I employed a very light touch here, destruction-wise. To the tune of nothing. Again, be amazed.”

  “Oh, I am. Also, grateful.”

  “Glad someone is.” My phone buzzed and I slid it out of my pocket. “Speaking of.” I chucked a thumb at the door. “Gotta get back to the office. We cool here?”

  “Yeah, I think it’s under control,” he said, and turned to look at the police cruisers out front, filled as they were with Todd and Steve. Collin had been taken to the emergency room already for his splinter. I expected they’d get him a band-aid and send his ass to jail. “And I know where to send the paperwork.”

  “Awesome,” I said, glancing again at the text message waiting for me. “Because this doesn’t look like it can wait.”

  “How’s it feel having a boss again, Nealon?” he called after me, right as I was about to head out the door.

  “How’s it feel having a barbed wire enema, Welch?” I asked, shooting him my best sardonic look. He chuckled and mock-saluted, and I headed out onto the New York sidewalk, my Uber already on its way to carry me back to Midtown—and the FBI’s brand-new office of Metahuman Law Enforcement.

  8.

  I walked into the FBI’s office of Metahuman Law Enforcement like I owned the place, even though the boss’s glass door did not say “Sienna Nealon,” but rather, “Willis Shaw.” Located in midtown Manhattan, it was kind of a hole in the wall, presumably because the General Services
Administration of the US government didn’t have anything opulent and amazing for us, and also probably because Congress was at war with President Richard Gondry, and this division was his brainchild.

  If Gondry could be classified as having a brain. Seriously, for a former college professor, he was pretty dense in a lot of ways. Now that I’d finally met him, I understood why Harmon had written him off.

  “Nealon,” Willis Shaw called from the door of his office. Shaw was a black man in his fifties, a little overweight, belly hanging just a bit over his belt, which still had a gun on it, unlike my last FBI boss. Shaw had worked his way up to SAIC (Special Agent in Charge) of the Memphis office before receiving this “promotion.”

  “Bossy,” I said, closing the door with care behind me. No point in blowing a hole in the budget we already didn’t have.

  Shaw did not look amused, but then, nothing about this assignment seemed amusing to him, I guessed. “Did you let the NYPD use you again?”

  I shrugged. “The NYPD, the FBI, the Johns on the local corner—being used is being used; what do I care who does it? Besides, the NYPD is so much gentler than you guys. Not as gentle as the Johns, though. It’s like they’re afraid of something.”

  Shaw tightened up a little there. A nervous titter of laughter escaped from one of the cubicles off to the side of our minimal bullpen. I caught a glimpse of Kerry Hilton, one of our agents, looking down hurriedly. Hilton was all right. For an FBI agent.

  “You let them, the NYPD will have you working the corners for the rest of your life,” Shaw said, putting his hands on his broad hips.

  “If I let them, why do you care?” I asked, for about the millionth time. Not because I didn’t know the answer, but because I felt like if I passed a little hell in Shaw’s direction, maybe he’d pass it up the chain to where it really belonged.

  “Because it’s not our jurisdiction, Nealon,” he said, ticking off the points on his fingers; “because it’s a liability every time you get involved in one of these fracases; because one day you’re going to screw up and people are going to get killed—”

  “Or maybe I’ll keep someone from getting killed…?”

  “That’s not something we get credit for,” Shaw said, his face closing down, the last flicker of neutrality dying as he switched over to pure irritation. “We get the shit, not the joy—you understand that, right?”

  “All of the blame, none of the credit,” I said. “I am familiar with that arrangement, having been a recipient of its largesse for much of my working life, yes.”

  “Keep the blame out of my fledgling office, then,” Shaw said, and opened his door wider, beckoning me in. “Now come on. We have real work.”

  “‘Real work’?” I slapped my hands to my face. “Amazing! I never get real work. What is it this time? A floor in need of mopping? A shower in need of re-grouting? Do I get to be a truck driver today?”

  “I thought you were a hooker,” came a voice from behind one of the cubicles. Xavier Holloway. Or as I call him, “Il Douche.”

  “I’m just doing what your momma taught me, Holloway,” I called over at him as I crossed to Shaw’s office.

  “Nice one,” Holloway said, his face darkened like a cloud. He was mid-forties, steely-eyed, dark hair, probably good-looking if he wasn’t such a prick. That soured his appearance. “She was a secretary.”

  “So, she took a lot of dick-take-tion is what you’re saying?” I offered as I passed into Shaw’s office.

  Shaw slammed the door before Holloway could reply. I couldn’t see him through the frosted glass, but I did say, loud enough it surely bled through, “That guy is a Grade-A asshole.”

  “He’s a damned amateur at it compared to you, Nealon,” Shaw said, planting his ass in the chair and nearly upending it because he was clearly a little aggravated at me. “Because you are a USDA Prime-Certified asshole.”

  I sat in the seat across from him without being asked. We were in a familiar pattern of antagonism by now; no point in remaining standing out of misplaced politeness. “Sorry you got stuck with asshole inspection duty. Maybe you can parlay that into a second career as a proctologist after you retire from government service?”

  “Dicks and assholes,” Shaw said, shaking his head. “Got a call from New Orleans.”

  I kept a straight face, but only barely. “About dicks and assholes? Must have been a hell of a call. Was there a lot of heavy breathing…?”

  “What did I do in my entire career to deserve this…?” Shaw looked at the ceiling. No answer was forthcoming, which made sense, because ceiling tiles couldn’t talk.

  “I don’t think anyone in this office did anything to ‘deserve’ being stuck here,” I said. “Except maybe me. But I can’t just take it lying down, so…lucky you, you get a fractional amount of the firehose of annoyance I’m letting off. Tough deal. But you seem like a tough guy, so…”

  “If you don’t like it here, why not quit?” Shaw asked, so seriously, looking me right in the eye.

  “Can’t.”

  “Bull,” he said. “This is a volunteer organization, Nealon.”

  “I was ‘voluntold.’ Talk to Chalke about it.”

  That turned his face to stone. “The Director isn’t taking my calls at present. And besides, the last thing I need on this detail is a burning, raging—”

  “I’m cool as a cucumber sandwich, thanks. Which are gross, by the way. Not sure where the Brits got the idea that cucumbers were a vegetable you could build a sandwich around.”

  Shaw put his face into his hand. “You know why I’m upset with you?”

  I feigned thinking it over. “Because you’ve become a bureaucrat, and bureaucrats are always thinking about how to kick up the minimal amount of fuss so that they can keep coasting…?”

  That lit a fire in his eyes. “I ain’t no bureaucrat.”

  I nodded. “Yeah. I crossed the line on that one. I’m sorry.”

  He blinked, head cocked. “You mean it?”

  I shrugged. “Sure. I’m trying to be a general asshole, not a total one.”

  He made a face. “You’re falling short in all regards.”

  “Well, geez, I’m not perfect.”

  He looked displeased bordering on disgusted, lips puckered out, then grabbed a slip of paper off his desk. “We’ve got a live one. And it’s big.”

  “Ooh,” I said, perking up. “New Orleans? I don’t think I’ve been there before.”

  “Well, don’t get too excited. It’s not a paid vacation.”

  “Speak for yourself. I’m gonna paint the Big Sleazy red on the government’s dime, and the only one who could stop me would have to be a bureaucrat.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Failing. In all regards.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Someone tried to assassinate the governor of Louisiana,” Shaw said, holding up the piece of paper. As he waved it, I could read a few bullet points:

  -Governor Ivan Warrington

  -Hotel Fantaisie

  -Metahuman suspect

  -Ice?

  “Ice?” I asked.

  He glanced at the paper. “You can read that? My tiny scrawl? All the way over there?”

  “Meta eyesight,” I said, tapping my temple. “I could have read it up on 50th.. Save me an Uber next time.”

  “Felt like I needed to get you out of the NYPD’s thrall. Who knows what they’d have you doing next, Supergirl Nancy Drew?”

  “I feel I should warn you since we haven’t had much of this kind of business roll through here,” I said, very seriously, “I’m not much of an investigator, so I’m not sure the Nancy Drew title works.”

  “That’s fine,” Shaw said, and here a spark of amusement lit up his eyes. “Holloway’s going with you. He’s experienced.”

  “At being a giant jagoff, yes,” I said. “You’re really tying all your a-hole problems together and throwing them out the window in a bundle today, aren’t you?”

  Shaw smiled. “Yes. Yes, I am. It’s going to be
a beautiful week, I think.”

  “Why not send Hilton? She’s…”

  “Almost in love with you?”

  “Pretty sure it’s just a little crush.”

  “This is a serious one,” Shaw said. “I need someone who’s willing to check your freewheeling self until you start going by the book. Which I’m not hopeful about.”

  “My mom made me read a lot when I was a kid. I’ve lost my appetite for books, and going by them.” I leaned forward. “But where the rubber meets the road…I’ll get the job done.”

  “I hope so.” He waved the paper at me. “Your flight is already booked. Leaves out of JFK in two hours.”

  “I really prefer to call it by its hipster name, Idlewild,” I said, rising. “Anything else I need to know?” I took the note.

  Shaw shrugged lackadaisically. “Stop the assassin?”

  “That was implied,” I said, glancing again at the paper. “They used ice?”

  “An ice bullet,” he said. “Did it from two thousand feet.”

  “The ice bullet is intriguing,” I said. “The distance, less so. That’s about 550-600 meters. A Canadian sniper made a kill from over 3,500 meters a couple years ago in Iraq. Missing makes it even less spectacular.”

  “It was a near miss, apparently,” Shaw said. “The governor was delivering a speech and stepped aside for a second to grab a missing index card from his chief of staff. Bullet whizzed past his elbow, buried itself in the ground. By the time they extracted it, it had melted to a nub.” He held his thumb and forefinger millimeters apart. “No forensics to speak of.”

  I frowned. “I could be wrong, but I think I heard once that it’s physically impossible to make a bullet out of ice.”