Grant's eyes went out of focus, and his thoughts went to ...
Hector.
No definable command was given, no verbal message sent. But Grant immediately knew that Hector had received the summons and was on his way. Just as he knew from a sense deep within that Alex had just arrived nearby and was deterring some of the onlookers with her powers of emotional control. Nora he could feel nearby as well; the man still struggling in the car would be left for her to deal with.
He turned slightly to glance over his right shoulder; one of the gang members stood there, a cinderblock raised to smash against Grant's head. This guy was older than most of the others, probably in his late twenties.
"Your friends will recover," Grant said quietly, glancing at the large brick in the man's hands. "Do this, and I promise you, you won't."
The block was dropped to the ground, and the man ran after his friends.
Grant returned his attention to the old man on the ground and his young charge, who was breathing unnaturally fast. She had hollow eyes that looked as if they'd known nothing but fatigue and fright for a very long time.
Hector arrived. His round body quickly knelt down on one knee, his big eyes closed, his palm pressing lightly against the old man's forehead. The man's eyes, buried beneath the red paint that covered his face, blinked to life and Hector opened his own.
Alex. Nora.
"See what you can do about spreading some calm," Grant called out without looking in their direction. They never used names in the field; it was too dangerous.
Grant exchanged a glance with Hector, who said nothing. But then, Hector hadn't said a word since joining Grant and his team. Not a single word.
Grant and the others were still unsure if their Hispanic friend was genuinely mute, or simply chose not to speak. But he had proven an invaluable ally. Most of the Loci thought of him as a healer, but the truth was that he was able to control the body's functions by taking command of the mind's regulation of those functions. It was a powerful ability, but he mostly used it to force the minds of others to heal their bodies at a vastly accelerated rate.
A nod was all it took from Grant, and Hector replied in kind. Always running from one victim to the next, soon he was gone, off to heal someone else who needed him.
"Guardian! Sir! Can we get a statement, please? Sir?" A female reporter was running toward him, trailed by a cameraman. She held a microphone out far enough ahead of her body that she might've been carrying a bomb.
He was still deciding how best to avoid the reporter when a loud crash from far above was followed by a scream from the little girl on the ground.
Grant turned a sharp one-eighty upward in time to see a gleaming silver tractor-trailer that looked like it was carrying some kind of toxic liquid. It had punched through the cement barrier lining the westbound 405-to-105 overpass high above and was now falling straight at him and the old man and the girl and the reporter and dozens of onlookers like a hundred-thousand-pound bullet. He'd barely caught sight of it when it was right on top of them.
But just as it should have crashed and exploded in a spectacular display, Grant's arm was in the air, palm like a baseball catcher's mitt. The hurtling truck was frozen in place, its grille maybe a foot away from Grant's fingertips. The driver was frozen as well, though not by Grant's doing. His face was drained of color and his hands still frantically white-knuckled the steering wheel.
From the sidelines, Grant heard the reporter whisper to her cameraman. "If you didn't get that on tape, I'm going to scratch your eyes out."
Gina felt her jaw drop at the sight before her but couldn't will it back into place beneath her upper lip. She was staring at the most incredible, most outrageous thing she'd ever seen. It was him-the one everyone called Guardian-holding a tractor-trailer just above the ground.
Suspended by nothing.
Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people-even Guardian's companions-had stopped whatever they were doing to marvel at the sight.
Seeing a cross-sectional view of both Guardian and the truck from her perspective, it was as if the truck were a missile pointing diagonally down at Guardian like an arrow. Guardian stood as the target, keeping it at bay with a single arm.
And despite the showdown with the gang, despite the weight of the truck, despite even the brown leather jacket he wore on this warm day...
Guardian hadn't even broken a sweat.
Later, whenever anyone would ask Gina about what she saw that day, she would swear that Guardian had paused for a moment before settling the truck safely on the ground, and half-swiveled his head in her direction, as just a hint of a smile teased the edges of his mouth.
Washington, D. C. J. Edgar Hoover Building
"Over seven thousand acts of arson, more personal injuries than officials are currently able to count, open looting in broad daylight, fourthousand-some-odd vehicle accidents, defacement of government property, gang wars brewing throughout South Central, and local emergency services so overwhelmed that Governor Bowman called for a full National Guard deployment throughout Los Angeles County less than two hours after the riot began. Agent Cooke, I hope there's some sort of happy ending on the last page of this very dramatic report of yours."
FBI Special Agent Ethan Cooke half rolled his eyes in what could be interpreted as a brazen act of insubordination. But he gave such concerns little thought and eventually met the glance of his superior, Director Lindsay Stevens, who sat opposite him near the head of the table, while absently scratching at one of his many scars, this one on his left bicep.
Ethan had ultra-short blonde hair and green eyes highlighting a round, boyish face. Easygoing creases framed his mouth, hinting at a smile that came very easily. And his body always seemed to be in motion. Even if he collected himself for a meeting like this one, one or both of his knees would bob up and down relentlessly.
It was one of the many things about himself that he knew Director Stevens hated.
"As a rule, I try not to draw conclusions, Director," Ethan coolly replied. "I'm a field agent, here to collect and present you with the known facts. As I understand it, drawing conclusions is reserved-particularly in this case-for agents above my pay grade. Such as yourself."
Stevens's eyes flared, almost imperceptibly. Ethan had fired the opening shot. One point for the visitor.
His fingers fidgeted, tapping on the tabletop.
Seven other members of various intelligence committees and agencies sat around the table, here under utmost secrecy to be briefed with the latest information about the world's new status quo and determine a recommended course of action to deliver to the president. Yet for now, none of them spoke; most seemed content to watch the battle brewing beneath the surface between FBI Director Stevens and the Agency's leading expert on the man known as Guardian.
Stevens, wearing her customary crisp blue skirt and jacket over an impeccable white blouse, appeared right at home in this setting, a private briefing room. Ethan, on the other hand, even though he'd dressed in his best denim and long sleeve button-up, felt completely out of place. He belonged outside, in the field, pounding the pavement. He hated the indoors, preferring a setting that would let him take unrestricted action.
At a meager twenty-eight, Ethan had racked up more field experience in various other agencies-police, the state bureau of investigation, military-than the rest of his graduating class at the Academy. He'd also had the lowest qualifying test scores of the group that made it in.
But that was almost three years ago now, and one need only look at his rapid rise through the ranks and the glowing recommendations of his various superiors to see that he was among the Agency's finest, particularly in the field, where he thrived. What he lacked in psychology or business degrees, he more than made up for with solid instincts, deductive reasoning, charisma, and old-fashioned determination. And despite his lack of graduate studies, his intelligence and quick thinking on his feet were unquestionable.
Put simply, Ethan Cooke was the agent as
signed when you had to have results and you had to have them now. And everyone in the Agency knew it.
Despite this, he knew it remained something of an irritant to many in the upper echelons that this agent with only a handful of years under his belt had been named the company's top man on the Guardian situation.
Director Stevens was one of his most vocal critics. And right now, she was doing everything in her power to underscore the fact that he was out of his league.
She lobbed his report onto the tabletop and fixed her unflagging gaze on him. "If Guardian is on-site at the riots now, as your report suggests, perhaps you would be good enough to explain to us why a vigilante with such extreme power at his command is being allowed to operate unsupervised. Or more to the point, unhindered."
Ethan hesitated; his tapping on the table stopped. He stifled the initial sarcastic response that entered his head. "As I understand it, there is no one available on-site to deal with the Guardian situation, with the riot still in progress as we speak. I would be there right now myself, had I not been ordered to report to this meeting. And as my reports over the last three weeks have made clear ... with all due respect, Director, if there is a way to `hinder' this man, in any fashion, it has yet to be found."
"Yes, yes," Stevens replied impatiently. "We've all heard about how he can do anything. Yet how much of this is verifiable truth? All we know for certain is that he appears to be the most powerful of the superhumans, with the ability to manipulate any object-great or small-in his immediate vicinity. Which makes him potentially a walking, breathing, living weapon of mass destruction."
"I'm afraid I have to take issue with such a categorization," Ethan replied. A few of the others in the room stiffened. Ethan knew he'd spoken out of turn, as it was uncustomary to speak up in a briefing of this nature unless addressed-but this could be his only chance. "What little evidence we do have-along with dozens of firsthand reports-suggests that Guardian and his band of fellow superhumans are using their powers not offensively, but defensively, and most often in rescue operations or the prevention of crime.
"A Hispanic man with some kind of healing ability has been seen at three different hospitals this morning alone, after which all the patients in all three ERs-even the most critical of cases-were given clean bills of health and discharged. Two women identified as members of Guardian's team have helped stabilize numerous violent situations that threatened to spiral out of control. Just today, Guardian himself has been documented using his powers to save lives, end crises, and avert disasters.
"Forgive me, Director, but I must wonder if the issue at stake here today is clear. Are we investigating Guardian's capabilities or his intentions?"
Stevens's eyes narrowed on him. "Your weakness, Agent Cooke, is that you believe there's a difference. The situation in Britain demands that we consider the safety and sovereignty of maintaining authority over this nation. But you have misinterpreted my concerns, which is unsurprising. Considering your position on this task force, it is not Guardian's intentions that are foremost among my concerns here today. It's your intentions that have my full attention. You have repeatedly showed a proclivity for sympathetic terminology in your reports on Guardian and his activities. Such actions force me to wonder if your priorities might be misplaced."
Ethan paused, swallowing this pill that went down bitterly. It wasn't that she'd come right out and said it, in front of all of these important people. It was that she'd taken her time getting around to it, making sure that he played into her accusations as fully as possible.
That was a big misstep, he thought. Allowing yourself to be so transparent? Director Stevens, I thought you were smarter.
He leaned forward into the table, framing his next words with deliberation. "One thing I think we can all agree on is that our world has become a powder keg that's ready to ignite at any time. What's happening in Los Angeles today is just the first salvo. But there's an elephant in the middle of this room that no one is acknowledging."
Stevens sat back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. Educate me, she seemed to be telegraphing. No one else said a word, waiting on Ethan to continue.
"The global disasters taking place virtually nonstop around the world," he explained. "I'm sure no one has forgotten the mysterious atmospheric disturbance that took place over Los Angeles shortly before Guardian first appeared on the scene? That was the day everything began. There's an almost systematic quality to the way these disasters have played out. China, New York, Africa, Central America, and all the rest followed that initial event-an event which Guardian and his followers were present for, and some assign credit to for quelling. Can we really allow ourselves to be so blind as to believe that these various global phenomena are random and coincidental to the sudden appearance of the superhumans? That just when the world needs saving like never before, a team of ... superheroes arrives on the scene?
"Director, distinguished guests. Do not mistake a presentation of unbiased facts for sympathy with a potential enemy of mankind. We are talking about a man who wields unprecedented power in the palm of his hand. His actions tell one story, but his very presence tells another. Why is he here? Where did he come from? Why can we not identify him, with all of our vast resources? These questions plague my every waking thought, as they should plague yours. What are this man and his friends playing at?
"Allow me to be perfectly, unwaveringly clear. I was placed on this task force because I am a blunt instrument. In my observations, most members of this Agency are more comfortable sitting in offices and talking about policy, rather than doing the kinds of things I do every day. Guardian and those like him are a clear and present danger to the safety and sanctity of not just the United States, but the entire human race. We are talking about an individual who can use any object in his immediate vicinity as a weapon. He could be, in a word, unstoppable.
"I'm on a flight to Los Angeles the minute this meeting is concluded, and no matter the hurdles, I will find him, and for the sake of our entire way of life, I will show no hesitation in personally bringing this entire business to a very swift, very definitive end."
Stevens was quiet for a long moment, her mouth bordering somewhere between a frown and grim acknowledgment of Ethan's plainspoken truth. He was right, and he could see how much it bothered her.
She rose from her chair in a signal that the briefing was over, but before moving away, she looked on him one last time.
"Find him," she ordered.
Grant couldn't get the image of that little girl out of his head as he pulled his car to a stop in front of the warehouse. His car was a used SUV they'd purchased not too long ago to replace the Corvette that had been destroyed in the collapse of the Wagner Building; he'd decided that a less flashy car would help preserve his anonymity as he came and went as needed. A forged license plate completed the effect.
There was something about the haunted, hollow quality of the girl's eyes that Grant couldn't shake. The light had burned out in them long ago; they'd known only fear and pain for quite a while. He'd personally escorted her and her grandfather until they were safely ensconced in one of several safe shelters that had popped up behind police barriers throughout the morning.
Am I partly to blame for that? For taking hope out of the world for normal people because I can do so much more than they can?
No, Grant could hear Julie's voice in his head correcting him, you're the one bringing them hope.
He got out of the Blazer and marched toward the entrance of the warehouse. In the wake of the events under the Wagner Building, Daniel's warehouse was the only remaining place for the Loci to take shelter. Protecting its location was of paramount importance.
Daniel was holed up in his office upstairs, but allowed them to convert the main floor downstairs for their needs. Last Grant heard, there were at least thirty-seven of them staying here now, including non- Ringwearers like Julie, Lisa, and Daniel.
"Fletcher?" Grant asked, striding confidently through the
main side door. "What's the word?"
"Most of the violence seems to be dwindling," Fletcher replied from his massive computer workstation-slash-cubicle. "Right now it looks like the overall focus is shifting to rescue and cleanup. Not to mention putting out the fires-of which there are still thousands. Careful with the names; we've got `newbs' in the house."
Just as they never used names in the field, anytime newcomers were accepted into the group, no one was supposed to reveal their first names to the "newbies" until they'd been there at least a month.
Fletcher's work area was a three-sided rig of metal, steel, wood, and wire framework, atop which sat every computer he could get his hands on. Several large flatscreens were on his eye level, with smaller and more outdated monitors above and below. A keyboard extended toward him from the center section, and his desk chair had long ago conformed to the shape of his wiry body. The screens' lights flashed and changed colors unceasingly.
When the group had reorganized itself a few months back, everyone had been encouraged to find a role that suited them. Fletcher took it upon himself to become the eyes and ears of the team, which to him felt like a logical extension of his self-presumed role at the old asylum.
With the help of several of the more technically inclined members of the Loci, including Grant, who had once worked as an IT professional, he had hacked into hundreds of surveillance cameras positioned around Los Angeles. He also had live, ongoing news coverage showing on several of his monitors, twenty-four hours a day. And he'd gained backdoor access to numerous civilian and government top secret databases. From this one workstation, Fletcher kept track of the team's movements, coordinated their efforts, and offered crucial information to those in the field. His unique ability to process more than one thought at a time made him an ideal fit for this job-a job that would require multitasking on a grand scale.
"Alex checked in lately?" Grant asked.
Fearless (Dominion Trilogy #2) Page 3
