I shifted aside a handbag that was filled with some pretty prosaic crap to find a folder. I opened it up, hoping it might say something like, “Secret Plan to Destroy Gravity Gal and blow up the FBI,” but instead I found this:
Are you frustrated with your business failures?
Sick of being slowed down to a crawl while everyone else races past you?
Feel like you’re missing the key to success?
You probably are, but it’s not your fault! The secrets to wealth and success in the modern economy are closely guarded. But we at Success Planning Technologies have partnered with some of the most successful minds in modern business to bring you a plan for the modern age, one that takes classic, proven wisdom of the ages and melds it with cutting-edge strategies that will bring you wealth.
Welcome to the Balls Out!™ Success Plan!
Recognizing that fear is the most demotivating factor that works to hold you back, the Balls Out!™ Success Plan has captured the essence of Wall Street’s Alpha Male system of dominance. Stop waddling toward your goals with your pants around your ankles! Take them off and sprint toward success with the Balls Out!™ Success Plan!
And down at the bottom:
Endorsed by Nadine Griffin, the Queen of Wall Street.
My first thought was … are you shitting me?
I pulled out my phone and called J.J. again as I strolled to the women’s bathroom and threw the door open. I recoiled at the smell; apparently Nadine had embraced the Balls Out!™ method of trying to pee standing up or something. Either way, she wasn’t here. “J.J.,” I said, a millisecond before he could greet me. “Griffin’s not here. Can you find her on traffic cams or something?”
“Ah, no can do,” he said. “Cameras around the city are down. They’re fixing the damage from that cyber-attack. Sorry.”
“Sonofa,” I said as I hung up, frowning.
I heard something at the door to the receptionist area. I froze and listened. The door opened, and a guy in a grey jumpsuit came walking in with another dude right behind him dressed just the same.
“So he says to me, ‘Yeah, I can do that for you—for a hundred bucks.’” He shook his head, and the guy with him did the same, in sympathy. “Can you believe the nerve of that—” He saw me and stopped. “Can I help you?”
“God, I hope so,” I said, letting the bathroom door swing shut as I strode up to him. The embroidered nametag on his jumpsuit pronounced him “Mike.” “I’m looking for Nadine Griffin.”
Mike gave me a suspicious look. “You a reporter?”
“No,” I said.
“Oh, okay then,” he said, relaxing instantly, then stopped, a skeptical look popping back up. “Reporters have to tell you if they’re reporters when you ask, right?” He directed the question toward his buddy.
“I think that’s the police, when they are with a hooker and she asks,” his pal said, thinking it over.
“Well, I’m not a reporter or a hooker, though I can see how you would confuse the two of them,” I said, and we all shared a nod.
“I ain’t seen her today,” Mike said, apparently comfortably with that answer, “and we been here for—what, an hour or so, trying to get the window measured for replacement.” He glanced at his buddy, whose nametag introduced him as Mikhail, in what I’m sure was a really fun bit of naming synergy. “You?” Mikhail shook his head, too. “She’s not in her office?”
“No, but her stuff is,” I said. “Suggests to me she’ll be back, but I don’t have a lot of time and my message for her is … urgent.”
“You check the bar?” Mike asked, shrugging. “Because these Wall Street people? They drink like Beluga whales. She probably just nipped out to get a quick one.”
Mikhail tapped him on the shoulder. “It’s ‘drink like a fish.’”
Mike looked at me like, What a moron I gotta deal with, am I right? But he said patiently to Mikhail. “I know that. But a Beluga whale is bigger, see, so its water intake is going to be correspondingly larger—”
“Thanks, guys,” I said, and flew back through Nadine’s office and out of the building. I heard Mike swear behind me and Mikhail’s fingers dance across his chest hurriedly in what I’m sure was him crossing himself as he whispered a prayer. Now all I had to do was make a quick survey of my Around Me app to find the nearest bars …
77.
Jamie
Jamie was miles past mere panic when the helicopter showed up. She was striding across Staten Island on giant gravity channels, mind whirling, trying to figure out what to do next, where to go next, how to search for Kyra to make sure she was safe. If she wasn’t at the house, and she wasn’t at school …
Melanie’s house, she thought, turning to her left as a chopper swept in front of her, halting her forward progress. The chopper was all black, swooping low, as though it meant to block her forward motion. She could see men with guns in the open back doors, and the loudspeaker shouted to her:
“Jamie Barton, stop! Lower yourself to the ground with your hands behind your head and—”
She didn’t wait for them to get any farther. She dropped, freefalling, and attached an anchor to the bottom of the helicopter. She used it as a swing, reeling herself to within a few feet of the bottom of the copter as it rocked from her momentum. The pilot swore loudly through the speaker, and Jamie cringed. She hadn’t meant to make it rock like that, especially since she was now hanging on for dear life to it. But at least they can’t get a clear shot at me now …
She hung, suspended over a neighborhood in Stapleton, her back against the chopper’s cool metal belly. The sound of the rotors was deafening, and she closed her eyes for a moment, trying to figure out her next move. How was she supposed to get to Melanie’s house from here, with a chopper following behind her? Sure, she could bolt it to a city street to keep it from pursuing, but the men with rifles in the back would probably shoot her down as she tried to get away.
The helicopter started to circle lower, but the pilot had turned off the speaker, so she couldn’t hear what was being said inside, at least not over the rotor wash. She hung there, trying to plan, when she suddenly saw something sparkling in the distance, a couple blocks away.
She peered toward it, staring, as it came closer and closer, leaving a trail behind it, sparkling like diamonds in the summer sun. It was only a block away and a hundred feet down when she finally realized what it was.
Captain Frost.
He rode his trail of ice, angling upward toward her. She could see his grin from here, and felt her heart drop. Of course he’d come now, to revel in her fall, to aid in it if he could, probably. She closed her eyes for a second and composed herself, then shouted, “What do you want, Frost?” praying she was wrong.
He zoomed toward her on his trail of frozen water, making a slalom pattern from it as he circled up toward the helicopter. “I just want you to give up to the cops, Jamie,” he said, and he sounded oh-so-pleased.
“I didn’t have anything to do with what happened,” she said. “Please. My daughter is missing. I have to find her before I can surrender.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s gonna happen,” he said, grinning. He was actually enjoying this. He stopped about twenty feet away from her. “You know, it’s funny … after what you said to me, I had people telling me you were gonna get yours. Karma was gonna come around—”
“I criticized you for not stepping up and saving a person you had the power to help,” Jamie said, sick of being horizontal against the bottom of the chopper. “Don’t play like I’ve ruined your whole life, killed your family or something.”
“You humiliated me,” he said, the luster fading briefly from his smile.
“Yeah, well, I’m wanted by the cops for a crime I didn’t commit, my life is in the toilet, and my daughter is missing,” Jamie said. “You want my comeuppance? You win. I’m screwed. I’m going to be arrested, and I’m willing to be—once I make sure my daughter is safe.”
“That’s not the way th
is works,” he shouted over the sound of the turning blades. “You don’t get to dictate the terms. You surrender now, and I’ll maybe see what I can do about your daughter. Otherwise …” He held up a glistening hand in menace, an icy blue glow surrounding it. “I’ll give you a three count to give up and then I’m taking you in.” He smirked a little, and somehow she knew he was imagining the picture of her being led along into custody by him proliferating across the internet like a virus.
“I can’t come with you,” she said, “until I can guarantee my daughter is safe.”
“I was kinda hoping you’d say that,” he said, “because now, suddenly it’s all right to hit a girl—” And he wound up like a pitcher and threw a blue, frosty blast at her.
She watched his throw go wide, wide of the mark, wide of her, and right into the tail rotor of the police helicopter. There was a sound like mechanical failure, harsh and grinding, and suddenly something broke, very loudly, metal rending and a crunch! that was followed by the helicopter spinning wildly in a fixed circle, the ground below Jamie blurring like she was stuck in a high speed washing machine watching the world outside as the agitator ran her in high-speed circles.
The ground came closer and closer as Jamie watched, still tethered to the belly of the chopper, altitude falling and her head spinning. She felt sicker than she already was, and the rooftops of the houses below were getting closer and closer.
This is not my day, she thought, as the helicopter came crashing down.
78.
Nadine
The whiskey burned, but it was a good burn, as she held it on her tongue a little longer than was necessary. She just liked the smell of the good stuff. It reminded her of success, of breaking into this world and tasting the fruits of her labors as they started to ripen.
This was a favorite watering hole, but now that she was broke—temporarily—this was the first time she’d been here since her fall. It looked like it wasn’t going to be the last, though, since the storm clouds were dissipating even now, and the horizon was starting to look clear. Blue, even. Lovely.
The TV in the bar was blaring wonderful news, with Gravity Whore’s face exposed, plastered all over it. She looked old to Nadine, who took another satisfied sip with a swell of joy that almost made her giggle.
Then the door to the bar swung wide, presenting a familiar outline, and Nadine took a much longer drink of her whiskey, because that horizon wasn’t looking nearly so clear anymore.
She put her glass down on the bar and scanned the room; she wasn’t alone, at least. There were witnesses. “So, you found me,” she said, trying to restrain that slight edge of panic.
“Yeah, I found you,” Sienna Nealon said, her walk to the bar an intimidating thing, casual and yet powerful. She eyed the empty glasses on the bar in front of Nadine; the barman hadn’t done a very good job tidying up. “I guess this answers how you maintain your stick figure: alcohol-induced bulimia.”
“Vomiting up aged single malt would be conspicuous consumption on a scale that would bankrupt all but the most wealthy,” she said, rolling her eyes slightly. “I’m afraid in that area, as in so many others, I’m simply better than you.” She turned on her stool to look at Nealon. “So … did you come to get your revenge because of that little picture I sent you?”
There was a faint flicker of irritation in Nealon’s eyes, and then she simmered down, which Nadine found surprising. “No,” Nealon said. “I came to ask if I could buy an advance copy of the Balls Out!™ Success Plan.”
Nadine tensed. “How did you kn—you looked through my office?”
“You left the window open,” Nealon said, inviting herself to sit down at the bar. She was playing this way too cool if she was looking for revenge, almost like she thought she was a real cop or something. “I’m here about Jamie Barton.”
The barman set down another whiskey in front of Nadine and she lifted it toward the TV screen. “I was just watching that,” she said smoothly. “What a shame.” She didn’t put too much effort into it.
“Her daughter’s missing,” Nealon said, voice tight. Oh, so that was why she was here.
“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Nadine said. “I’ve been sitting here for the last little while—”
“I know you wouldn’t get your hands dirty yourself,” Sienna said, not even looking at her. “But this girl’s life is on the line.” Her jaw tightened as Nadine watched, as though it was paining her to speak this humbly. “If you know anything about what’s happening here—”
“All I know is what I see on the news,” Nadine said, trying to keep the smirk from showing. “I mean, really, though, we should have seen this coming.” When Nealon cocked her head slightly, Nadine went on. “Heroes, right?” She waved a hand at Sienna. “You were the first, and look at you now. You set the standard, proved that the people we thought were better than us, that we looked up to—they were just people like us. Petty, venal, angry—in your case, at least—people. No better. Sometimes worse.” She raised her glass to the TV and the image of Jamie Barton. “I mean, look what she was hiding behind that mask.” She giggled and leaned closer to Sienna. “And I’m not just talking about the wrinkles—”
“I can see through your mask,” Sienna said, leaning in, all menacing now. “I think the world’s gotten a good glimpse of you now, so even if you can—trade again or whatever it is you do when you play with your computers all day—”
“You’re really proving me right on that whole, ‘you’re not better’ business, aren’t you, you poor, sweet, simple soul?”
“—they’re not going to accept you back to their little clan,” Nealon went on. “You’re going to be an outcast of humanity.”
“Oh, I’m drowning in sanctimony,” Nadine said, and tipped her glass up to empty it in one good gulp. “I need more Macallan if I’m going to continue this conversation.”
“You’re destroying this woman’s life,” Sienna said, pointing to the TV. “Her daughter’s life. These are people.”
“There are lots of people in the world,” Nadine announced, sliding her glass toward the edge of the bar to see if it would go crashing off the other side. It stopped short. “I don’t let them or their pitiful little woes get me down, and I don’t let them get in my way.” She looked at Nealon and smiled. “That’s what you don’t understand. That’s why I’m the Queen of Wall Street. That’s why I always get what I want.”
Sienna Nealon gave her a hard look. “Sounds like a parenting fail to me.” She leaned in, so that Nadine could smell her breath, which was a little rank. “If I find out you were involved in this in any way—”
“You’ll what?” Nadine announced to the whole bar, the dozen or so patrons. “Kill me?”
“I would never do such a thing,” Nealon said loudly, “I’m upset with you, but that’s no cause for violence.” Then she lowered her voice, the stage whisper for the benefit of witnesses over. “If I found out you’re involved in this, I will take the silver spoon up your ass and use it to carve your heart out. Because, in the words of the late, great Alan Rickman, it’s dull, you twit, and it’ll hurt more.” And with that she stood up, eyes blazing, but smile sweetly fixed as though she’d just given out a recipe for brownies or some such. “I hope you enjoy your drink.”
“Oh, I will,” Nadine threw right back.
“We are interrupting this program to go to a live broadcast on YouTube,” the television announced, causing Nealon’s head to turn, “from a group claiming responsibility for kidnapping Gravity Gal—a.k.a. Jamie Barton’s 16 year-old daughter, Kyra.”
Nadine watched as the screen frizzed into a digital livestream of some sort, complete with the blocky interruptions she’d come to expect from a video at low quality. The scene was dark, and there was a man in a black mask with sunglasses, speaking in muffled tones. “—and if Gravity Gal does not come to us immediately, here at old Sea View Hospital in Staten Island,” the camera swept around shakily enough that Nadine felt a hint of nausea
at its motion, “we will execute her daughter.” The video settled on a tear-stained face of a teenager with duct tape over her mouth. “If the police come in, we will kill the girl,” the man said in a dull tone. “If anyone else attempts to interfere … we will kill the girl. Gravity Gal alone must come for her—and answer for what she’s done.” The picture froze, then cut out.
“Ooh, a revenge scheme,” Nadine said, pretending to shiver. “Someone mad at Gravity Gal for the destruction? Or a criminal getting her back for something she did to them?”
Nealon’s eyes settled hard on her. “I pick the latter. Where’s Sea View Hospital?”
“Staten Island, I guess,” Nadine said in disgust. “How should I know? No self-respecting Manhattanite gives a damn about Staten Island.” She turned back to the bar.
“You did this,” Nealon said flatly, hovering in shadow between Nadine and the door.
“Prove it,” Nadine said, bored now. “But if I did … let’s face it … you’re nowhere near bright enough to pin it to me.” She smiled sweetly. “No one is. But hey,” she brought her glass up in a toast-like motion, “you could still kill me. Here, in front of witnesses. Later, with no witnesses, except these people who saw us arguing, and would probably drop a dime on you.” She smiled. “You feeling like crossing that line, Nealon? Want to rip my memories out of my head?” She ran a hand over her neck. “Rip my throat out like a rabid dog? Do you think that would improve your situation at all? They,” she waved a hand around the bar, around the world, “do hate me right now. You might not even get convicted if you did it right here, in front of everybody.” She leaned closer. “But I suspect that’d be all the confirmation your ex would need to really believe he was right—that you are a villain, not a hero. It’s not what good guys do, after all.”
It was a measure of how effectively she’d read Sienna Nealon, Nadine thought, that the girl just stood there, almost quivering with anger. “I’m going to go fix this problem you’ve thrown into the life of others,” she said, “that’s all. But I can tell you that someday, the law is going to catch up to you—and on that day, I only hope I’m there to see it.” And with that, she was off, out the door of the bar with a whooshing sound as the air was disturbed by her swift passage.
Masks (Out of the Box Book 9) Page 29
