At no point during the nerve-wracking drive to the protection of the facility did Ray let his guard down. Training took over, forcing him to be aware of his surroundings and alert for any intrusion. None came.
In due course they made it to safety, the car rolling into the large garage situated next to the lone office structure sitting in the giant field that had been Fairmont. Ray stood watch as Kovacs hurried Hammond toward the elevator nestled in the corner. He heard Kovacs slap the button, the door thud as it closed, and the machinery engage. If what they knew about teleportation was true, Hammond would be safe from James Shane now. Or at least as safe as he could be.
Ray ambled through the massive front door of the garage and walked toward the office, though he came up short when he saw his boss kicking the crap out of someone.
Kit
John Franklin sailed through the air yet again, and Kit found herself impressed against her will. Not with herself, as she was practiced in taking down people far more powerful than her. And not with John's technique, though he was a quick learner and didn't make the same mistake twice. No, it was for the boy's self-control. Though she had seen anger and embarrassment eating at the edges of his face, he had managed to keep himself in check. No lashing out, no shouted curses. If anything, his concentration got better as the exercise continued.
“Last time,” Kit said, waving her pulse gun in a lazy circle.
John wasted no time, moving toward her in a tightening spiral. He had learned not to attack directly. In an hour he went from doing his best impression of a human cannonball to circling his enemy and watching for an opening. Kit didn't let the satisfied smile take root on her face, but she felt it trying.
Kit's foot caught on an uneven clump of ground. The tiny misstep didn't cause her to fall—in fact she caught herself immediately—but the stutter in her step was all the opening John needed.
The boy launched himself forward, but with control. Instead of trying to barrel into her, he slowed at the last second, sliding the last few feet. It was a good use of his abilities; fast and strong without overdoing it. The wind whistled around his arm as he struck out with a punch.
Unfortunately for him, Kit no longer occupied that space.
As she dropped to the ground, the pulse gun thrummed. This time it was dialed up to full strength, the electromagnetic pulse washing over John with enough intensity to visibly cause his hair to stand on end.
Then Kit kicked him.
John didn't fly this time. She had pulled the kick, giving it perhaps a tenth of what she was capable of, if not less. John's face turned crimson, a shocked and pained expression on it. He toppled over with hands clenched to his middle, and curled into a ball on the ground.
Kit hauled herself to a sitting position next to him, legs bent into lotus. She watched in fascination as the scrambling effect of the EMP wore off. John's skin seemed to tighten as his protective energy field reasserted itself. The pain in his eyes began to fade, though it didn't disappear completely.
“I know the last thing you want to hear right now is me giving you some lesson like a badly written mentor in a martial arts movie,” she said as the young man regained control of himself. “I want you to know how proud I am of you. You're learning to use your powers faster and better than I could have hoped. That's why I ended today's lesson this way. Most people wouldn't consider it an advantage to be able to feel pain, but my own training was the better for it. I never had the level of ability you do, the comfort of being able to endure almost anything. I always knew I could be hurt.”
John didn't seem especially interested in what she was saying. Kit briefly wondered if she'd kicked too hard.
“I guess what I'm saying is that I want you to learn to use what you have, to be comfortable with your powers. That's important, because you've spent most of your life without them. You need to be able to get through your day without accidentally tearing off door handles or breaking someone's hand when you go to shake it. The other side of that coin is that you can't rely on your powers, kid. Not solely. With people like you, it's easy to forget you can still be hurt. All it takes is getting hit with something like my gun here and you're back to being as vulnerable as anyone else.”
Kit saw the logic of it work through his brain. The tinge of anger tightening the corners of his mouth faded, replaced with thoughtfulness.
“I hadn't thought of it that way,” he finally said. “I get why you had to make me realize it, but did my education have to be so painful?”
Kit stood, offering a hand. Pulling him to his feet, she met his eyes. “You're lucky. I've seen others get broken bones to drive the lesson home. Nothing teaches caution like two months of agony every time you breathe because of a few cracked ribs.”
John nodded in hasty agreement.
“Beating up little kids? Isn't that a little below you?” Ray asked as he approached the group.
Kit raised an eyebrow at him. “Is that a short joke? Because I just proved I can kick the crap out of people much stronger than me.”
Ray put up his hands in surrender. “I'd never dream of making fun of your height. I can't believe you think so little of me.”
She raised a fist and shook it at him mockingly. “Just for that, you get none of our lunch.”
Peep, who had been watching the lesson and letting out the occasional worried noise, had set out an excellent spread. John groaned slightly as he settled on the edge of the blanket. Kit plopped down next to him, while Ray remained standing with hands in pockets.
“I assume the retrieval went well,” Kit said as she loaded a plate with deviled eggs, ham, and mashed potatoes. John stared at the pile of food, though Kit had mentioned her caloric requirements to him before.
“Yeah, Kovacs is getting him settled now,” Ray answered. “I'm sure one of the analysts would have let you know if we'd lost the guy.”
Kit cocked her head slightly as she chewed on a mouthful of food. The news was good, but there was something off in his voice. She hurriedly downed her bite and looked at Ray. “There's more,” she said. “You're worried about something.”
Ray grimaced, eyes darting around. It took Kit a moment to realize he was scanning for threats. Shane must have scared the shit out of him.
“Our briefing was wrong,” he said. “Or at least it wasn't fully accurate. We were told teleporters need time to recharge, but Shane didn't. He seems to be able to pop in and out as fast as he can gather up his concentration. I think we got lucky, if I'm being honest. We caught him off guard. Next time, he's going to be prepared. Two agents won't be enough.”
Kit considered that as she popped a deviled egg into her mouth. It was true enough; any Next who could make the fabric of space/time his bitch was dangerous. James Shane had apparently grown in power—or had hidden the range of his abilities during his tests—to the point where their information about him had to be considered suspect.
“Head in and let Archer know,” Kit said, jerking her head toward the employee's entrance. “Tell him I'll be in shortly, and to have Waid put together everything he can on Shane's abilities. I want the notes from the people testing him, anything that might help.”
“Sure,” Ray said before jogging off. Kit frowned as she ate. Worry or no, the workout had given her a mighty appetite, and experience had taught her not to ignore it.
“Sounds bad,” Peep said a little while later, breaking the silence. “Do you think you'll be able to catch him?”
Kit was aware of John watching her with interest. He hadn't made a secret of his desire to do something with his powers, whether it was joining the OSA or some other avenue. Like any teenager, his opinion on what his future should be changed with the wind. He had hinted more than once that the OSA, specifically working for Kit, was a serious option.
“One way or another,” Kit said. “Though we might have to rethink how we do it if he doesn't have to take time to juice up his batteries.”
They chatted for a few minutes more, though Kit was
mostly silent as she wolfed down a frightening amount of food. Her comments came in fits and bursts between hurried bites. The thing about being in charge was that, at the end of the day, you were the one held responsible. Which meant you had to cut short lunches, ignore friends, and decide where to spend your time and energy. Even if it meant shirking duties like mentoring.
The good news, Kit thought as she said her goodbyes a quarter hour later, was that James Shane didn't pose the threat Thomas Maggard had. He was not a broken child capable of murdering thousands of people at a time. The bad news?
He was an adult who knew exactly what he was doing, and that made him much harder to catch.
An hour later, Kit sat at the head of a huge and gleaming conference table. The room occupied the far end of the office's second floor, a mirror image of Archer and Kit's offices but without a dividing wall. It was rarely used, as the directors were the sort to check in with their departments often and thoroughly enough not to need meetings to catch up.
This meeting was of a different sort; it was that rare occasion when a strategy needed to be worked out beyond Kit and Archer simply giving orders.
They sat at one end of the massive table, with Archer, Nunez, and Ray on one side. Kovacs, Deakins, and Waid sat on the other, with Kit sitting at the head. Waid was rapidly tapping and dragging his fingers across an over-sized tablet computer. Everyone else quieted as Kit leaned forward and laced her fingers together.
“You've all read the message I sent out a little while ago,” Kit said, referring to an email she had written briefly outlining Hammond's retrieval. “Ray and Dan here agree that we need to mount a better-staffed effort to bring James Shane in. Being able to teleport with only a slight delay changes things.”
“It'll obviously be tough to grab him,” Archer said. “We'll have to keep him still long enough to lock him down with an EMP.”
Nunez cleared his throat. “As to that, we have new prototypes which may be of use. A few of our engineers have been working on several new projectiles that seem ideal.”
“Waid?” Kit said, nodding at the analyst.
“On it,” Waid said. “I'll have the specs in a minute.”
Nunez seemed surprised by this, but said nothing. Waid had proven himself expert at finding any and all information as needed, but Kit felt no need to explain.
“We have the manpower,” Deakins said in her deep voice. “Between the freelancers we've taken on from Louisville and our trainees, there are plenty of bodies to go around.”
“I don't think we should use any trainees on this one,” Archer said.
Kit shook her head. “I disagree. They're going to have to get in the field eventually. Face danger. I'd rather it be someone like James Shane, who doesn't have an offensive power, than a Next capable of killing them with a thought or taking over their minds.”
Archer mulled this over, then nodded. “Makes sense, but we'll use them as support staff. Fair?”
Kit smirked. “I wasn't planning to make them part of the tactical unit, you know.”
“Agent Waid passed along the files he dug up on Shane,” Nunez said. “I read them just before we sat down.”
Waid looked up, confused. “That was something like fifty pages.”
Nunez smiled. “I am a very fast reader.” His expression became somber. “One fact we missed before, though thankfully it didn't cause any problems so far, is that our man isn't just a teleporter. He's a touch teleporter.”
Archer and Deakins grimaced, but the rest of the faces at the table registered no reaction.
“Explain, please,” Kit said.
“For most people with the ability,” Nunez said, “teleporting anything or anyone requires them to travel along. Touch teleporters are able to stay where they are, but send people and other matter somewhere else. All they have to do is touch their target. It is a remarkably useful ability in combat.”
Kit groaned. “Which means we won't be able to touch him.”
“Not without first disabling his ability,” Nunez agreed.
Which set off a long, winding discussion about how exactly to do that. Nunez pushed for technological solutions, as Kit knew he would. Deakins crafted reasonable arguments for using tactics based on the abilities and judgment of their agents, as she always did. Archer abstained from putting in his own thoughts, instead deciding to point out flaws and weak spots in what others said.
Waid was essentially tech support in this meeting, and wisely kept his head down save to answer questions. Kovacs and Ray put in their two cents where possible, and they were the ones Kit gave the most attention to. Field agents were the boots on the ground for the OSA. Their perspective mattered to her a great deal, a lesson she had learned as a field operative at Helix.
Once the discussion began to wind down, they had a loose plan in place. Kit would work with everyone to finalize it, but there was a key variable they simply had to work around, one they couldn't change.
“When is Kevin Gray coming back?” Kit asked Waid. Having been assigned to her full-time, he was aware of every detail of the case. More than she was, actually, since he was the researcher who fed Kit information.
“Three days, according to his employer,” Waid said without hesitation. “I checked his flight reservation a few hours ago, and it hasn't changed.”
“There you go,” Kit said to the group. “We've got three days to figure out how to capture James Shane. Let's get to work.”
Ray
The best thing about living in bourbon country, in Ray's opinion, was the fact that shots of prime spirits could be had for a reasonable price.
He sat hunched over the bar at Drake's, the watering hole frequented by OSA employees. It was mostly underground, the windows hugging the ceiling about even with the street outside. Ray had been reluctant to drink at first, worried about his ability to keep his powers under control, but careful experimentation eased his fears.
Archer, who had invited him out, sat on the stool next to Ray with one massive hand curled around a glass of dark beer. From the way the big man was putting them away, Ray thought Archer must be trying to put Drake's kids through college. Maybe even med school.
“It never fucking ends, you know?” Archer griped, then swigged his beer. “It's always one damn thing after another. I'm not talking about the day to day stuff. That's all fine. It's dealing with one crisis only to have another one fall into my lap. It sucks.”
Ray smiled, and didn't point out to his boss that this was the third or fourth time he'd said essentially the same thing. “But you handle it well,” he said instead, raising his tumbler in a small salute. “Without you and Kit, who knows where we'd be.”
It was an understandable frustration; they had spent the day going over (and over, and over) different methods they could use to capture James Shane. Ray figured into about half of them, since his powers were an effective way of cutting off the man's ability to teleport. He had been in the room as the group grew more frustrated, each pushing their own ideas while minimizing the input of others.
Hence the drinking.
“I know,” Archer said. “It's just...we have other stuff to deal with, remember?”
Ray's eyes flashed a warning, which Archer thankfully caught on the first try. Their small cabal—Ray, Archer, Kit, Deakins, and the mystery technopath whose identity Archer kept to himself—were stalled on their investigation into Fairmont. While Ray wanted to know the truth as much as, if not more than, any of them, circumstances were what they were.
In the wake of Thomas Maggard's attack on the facility there had been too much work to do for Archer and Kit to free up much time. Ray had been in training. Deakins, who had been inducted into their little club a few days after the attack, was tasked with setting up, staffing, and training the Operations department. Kit did what she could to weasel information out of Robinson when the man called her, but had to be careful not to raise suspicions.
That left their technopath, and from what Archer said he hadn't
been able to find any new material. It was hard not to be frustrated, but Ray reminded himself that without the initial proof the technopath had culled from the NSA facility he had hacked, none of them would even know that Ray's explosion at Fairmont had been anything but an accident.
Archer had the good grace to look embarrassed, but Ray pointedly ignored it. There were few places and circumstances safe enough to talk about the situation, and a bar full of OSA employees was nowhere on the list.
“We're always gonna have a bunch of stuff to do and half the time we need to do it,” Ray said, because it was true and to cover for Archer's near-gaffe for anyone who might have overheard. “I did ten and twelve hours some days with training, and still made sure to do my required hour a day with Nunez so I could be his lab rat. It blows, but what are we gonna do? Quit?”
Archer shrugged. “I don't know, man. Some days it feels like quitting would be the best thing. The stress is just unreal.”
Ray laughed, unable to help himself. “You? No way. You sleep in your office most of the time. You're the most driven person I've ever met. Do you even have your own place anymore?”
“Sure, I still have my house,” Archer said defensively. “I was there...two weeks ago, I think.”
Ray shook with more laughter. “Two weeks? Wow. Dude, you need a life.”
Archer waved a dismissive hand. “If you'd seen the thing growing in my fridge, you wouldn't want to go back either.”
“Okay, big fella, in you go,” Ray said as he stuffed Archer into the passenger side of his car three hours later.
“Hahaha, that's what he said,” Archer slurred.
“Very funny,” Ray agreed, shutting the door and circling the car.
“Because you're GAY, get it?” Archer shouted.
The Next Chronicle (Book 2): Damage Page 8
