“Thirty-fifth?” she said to no one in particular, “How did I wind up on Thirty-fifth?” And she didn’t even recognize the name of the cross street.
“Excuse me, miss?” A chill went down Sam’s spine at the cultured voice. “You look a little disoriented.”
Armani stood behind her. A few feet away, smug smile playing on his lips. Heart pounding, Sam took a step back, suddenly short of breath. Armani took a step of his own to close the gap. “Do you need help, miss?”
Sam tried to think of a reply, but the pain in her head blocked out almost all rational thought: “I—no—I just—” She couldn’t even stutter out a protest.
Armani moved forward: “You don’t look too well.”
“Stay away from me,” Sam said, and took another shaky step back from his approach, heart pounding. Her brain may have been addled, but she still knew danger when it smiled at her blandly.
Armani held his hands out: “I only want to help.”
She tried desperately to think of a counterargument, something she could say to make him leave. But he kept advancing, and her headache kept increasing. Stop! Think! But her thoughts were muddied, her head and heart pounded in unison, and Armani was within arm distance, reaching out, and he was going to touch her. No!
Samantha spun on her heels and took off running. She’d sprinted two blocks when she realized the gravity of her error. The streets in this area were more deserted than the last. She fumbled for her cell phone, pulling it out of her pocket and shakily dialing 9-1-1. She waited as the phone rang, and rang, and rang. This was the middle of Los Angeles, and 9-1-1 was giving her a busy signal.
Stupid, Sam cursed to herself, stupid. Stupid. Stupid. She needed to get to a place where there were people, where the apathetic couldn’t just walk past and pretend they didn’t hear her calls for help. She’d have to backtrack. Another block, still no people. How the hell could a city this overpopulated be so deserted? It just didn’t make sense!
Armani dogged her steps, toying with her, taking his time. Digging down into her reserves, Sam put on an extra burst of speed and managed to increase the distance between them—almost half a block now. But the boost had its drawbacks. Sam felt a familiar constriction in her lungs. She reached for her inhaler and realized, with a sinking feeling, that she’d dropped her purse.
Don’t think about suffocating, she told herself, think of where you’re going to go. She could take a turn down the next street. Do a loop and head towards the nearest major street. Maybe she could find a bus stop.
She turned right at the next corner. Spotting an alley, Sam got an idea. He was too far back to see her—she could cut through the alley and retrace her steps. Then, maybe, she could slow down and breathe. Warning bells rang in her subconscious, but Sam ignored them. This was her only chance. It had to work, it would work—aw no.
It didn’t work. Dead end.
Sam stumbled to a stop, wheezing, struggling desperately to get her lungs to absorb oxygen. Little dots punctuated her vision. Dead end? Now that was something that did happen in the movies. Right before the girl was saved by the superhero. Or killed. Depending on the genre.
Sam knew that, with her luck, it would most likely be the latter. Two miracles in one week were more than any mortal could hope for. God, she needed to get out of here, but she couldn’t run if she couldn’t breathe. Placing her hands on her knees, she crouched behind a dumpster and tried to control her wheezing. The dim glow of a streetlight cast a long shadow as Armani crossed the entrance to the alley. Please don’t stop here, Sam thought, please keep going. I’m not here. I’m invisible.
If God existed, he wasn’t listening. Armani turned down the entrance to the alley: “Not too many places to hide? Or is transition just muddling up your mind?”
What the fuck? Sam silently cursed. Wonderful, just brilliant. The disgusting part was that his suit remained impeccable, his hair neat and tidy, and his shoes shiny and unscuffed. Already feeling dirty, exhausted, and shabby, it was enough to make her sick to her stomach. Time for Plan B. Now that there was no use for hiding, maybe false bravado could buy her a chance.
Sam straightened and strode out from behind the dumpster, hands on her hips, a well-practiced glower on her face. “Can’t you just consider me harassed and go back to whatever tacky neo-nazi villain catalog you crawled out of?” She hoped he wouldn’t notice the gasping breath she had to take every fourth word.
“It’s not that easy, Miss Gibson. I gave you the option of coming quietly.” He raised his hand. As ridiculous as it seemed, there was something in that gesture that implied a threat. A lingering potential hummed, malevolent, in the air around it.
They said the best defense was a good offense. Growling, Sam leapt forward, preparing to claw the man’s eyes out, punch him in the groin—whatever, it would come to her and it would be dirty. Instead of forward, however, she found herself flying backwards, colliding with the brick wall. Her head followed in short order, slamming into the implacable wall. She slid to the ground. Mass times acceleration equaled... ouch. Her ears rang.
No. No way had she just magically flown backwards. Sam forced herself to her feet, her brain rushing to find some logic in the situation.
Before it could, something big and metal slammed into her. Sam was thrown to the ground, her legs pinned under the dumpster that, last time she had checked, had been several feet away. And Armani still stood on the other side of the alley. He smiled condescendingly and cocked an eyebrow: “Done yet?”
Again, Sam tried to push herself up. It was no good. Not only were her legs pinned, it was at such an angle that she couldn’t do much more than prop herself up with her arms. Still, she tried to wiggle loose, pushing at the impossibly heavy dumpster with no results.
Ignoring her struggles, Armani made a show of checking his watch. He clucked his tongue. “OK, kiddo, your persistence is admirable but I’m already about twenty minutes behind schedule. Which means I don’t have time for the full theatrics.”
Armani straightened his jacket and dusted off a piece of invisible lint. Without deigning to bend down, he swiftly kicked Sam in the side of the head. Lights flashed, stunning her so she didn’t have a chance to fight back as he placed his alligator loafer squarely on her neck.
“You see, the trick to this little maneuver here is to apply enough pressure to restrict breathing, without crushing the ribs or windpipes. That way it’s not obviously a murder. It’s a little tricky. I admit, I haven’t perfected it yet, but practice makes perfect, they say.”
No way. This was not happening. Sam grabbed at his leg, her mouth opening and closing like a gasping fish on land. Headaches—fine, she could handle that. The accident, the fainting, lights flashing, cups exploding, whatever. But a man who could throw her around without physically touching her? Flying dumpsters? This was taking things too far. She began desperately wishing she had a brain tumor and this was all just a massive delusion. But that would be too easy. Delusion or not, Sam was fading fast. She needed to fight back.
What if—what if she did what she did on the bus?
Except, she didn’t really remember what she’d done on the bus. Just that the world had seemed to slide into focus, that she’d felt a strange energy fill her and—that was it.
But it couldn’t be that hard. After all, if Armani had done it, she could too, right? Spotting a brick a few feet away, she decided it was time to find out.
She focused, attention zeroing in on the brick. She let the anger fill her, the same righteous fury she’d felt on the bus. For a moment, she seemed to feel the pull of something around her, the bend and weft of potential. And then, nothing. The brick stayed put. Maybe she really had been imagining things. Maybe Armani had pushed the dumpster himself. Maybe her seriously deprived brain was playing tricks on her. Maybe this was just the worst asthma attack she’d ever had in her entire life.
Sam’s chest spasmed, working to pull in oxygen. Her lips felt fuzzy and numb. Desperately, she tried to form a
n idea, some effective defensive action, but her mind blurred. Connections between thoughts faltered. Movements turned choppy. The world became distant.
“Yo, man!”
A homeless man, drunk, rumpled, and bedraggled, stumbled into the alley. Sam’s heart leapt with hope and crashed. A drunk bum was no match for, well, whatever Armani was. Her captor turned, staring with a look of derision. “Leave.”
The bum tripped over a garbage can, falling further into the alley, his words slurred, “I just was wondering if could you... if you maybe could...”
Help me, you idiot! Sam screamed mentally, turn your head! Look at me! Woman dying, ten yards to your left! Please! Tiny little lights danced in her vision, and the world started to spin. Now the homeless man looked in her general direction. Yes, yes! But he only squinted at her, as if he couldn’t quite focus on her face, and half-bent over to regain his balance.
“You should probably go now.”
The drunk held his left hand up, grinning lopsidedly, “Hey man, whatever it is you’re doing, it‘s cool. I’ll be going soon, I was just wondering if, if—Ah hell. I forgot my line.”
The drunk straightened and shrugged, “Oh well.” He brought his right hand up. She caught a quick flash of something—a brick? It was heavy, and dark, and collided heavily with Armani’s face: “Let’s see how pretty you are after that!”
And that, of course, was when Sam blacked out.
Chapter 3
“C’mon, wake up, wake up!”
A firm mouth planted itself over hers, and her lungs filled with warm air. Someone else’s air. Eeew! Sam sputtered and came back to life, coughing and trying to sit up. A hand slid around her back and helped her: “Here, try this.”
A plastic inhaler, her inhaler, was placed in her mouth. Sam took a puff gratefully. Within seconds she could feel the medicine doing its job as the pressure on her lungs loosened. She coughed again, eyes on the man who saved her life. A face swam into focus. A face she knew.
“Lit stalker!” Sam gasped.
“Glad to see I made a good impression,” the man said, helping her to a sitting position, “Though you could also call me Lane, if you liked.” Sam blushed. She hadn’t intended to say that out loud. What a way to thank her hero.
Though come to think about it. She assessed him again, tilting her head. Hero. Was he? The situation seemed like an odd and entirely improbable coincidence. The man—Lane—smiled, meeting her gaze squarely and honestly. No worries here, that look said, you can trust me completely. And she did.
For about a second.
What the hell? Sam thought, I can’t trust him. It doesn’t make sense to trust him. Where had that feeling come from? It felt as though her brain was thinking, or in this case feeling, something it hadn’t meant to. Like someone planted something there. Samantha looked around. Where was she? Not in the same death alley, that was for sure. But not in a hospital, or any regular place you might take an injured person. A random street somewhere.
Sam tried to get up. Bad idea. The world reeled and she fell to the ground again, half-supported by Lane. “Whoa, whoa!” he said, “Take it easy!” Sam promptly vomited on his shoe.
“Thanks,” he said, “Feeling better now?” She shook her head and he eased her down again gently, “Take deep breaths. No sudden movements.”
“Figured that out,” Sam muttered, “Where am I?”
“Just a few blocks away. No telling when Stone’s going to wake up, and I didn’t want to be around when he did.”
No joke; “Police?”
“Not such a good idea,” he said, “You and I need to talk.”
Alarm bells went off. Where were the police? Why’d this guy just pick her up and carry her away when he could have called an ambulance? She struggled to stand again, but felt a wave of complacency wash over her. Sure this was all wrong, her brain reasoned, but why didn’t she just wait a second and hear him out? Lane had saved her, after all. Besides, she was sick, dizzy. It would be easier to let him handle things.
“No!” Samantha surged to her feet, nobly resisting the urge to throw up again, “We have to call the police now!”
“Calm down!” Lane followed her, placing his hand on her shoulders.
Calm seeped in, but Sam shook her head, overpowering the foreign feelings through sheer willpower. “We have to call the police,” she repeated, “Let me go! I have to go to the police.” She said it more for her own benefit than his. If her brain had listened to her heart, she’d be asking him to join her for tea and cuddles right now.
“Sorry,” he said, “but you need to rest.” A heavy sense of lethargy overwhelmed Sam. Despite her best efforts, she found herself leaning against the stucco wall of an apartment building, slowly sliding to the ground, exhaustion overpowering even her headache as she drifted to sleep.
#
When the girl was safely asleep, Lane stood up and hefted her into his arms. He headed back to his car, mind racing a mile a minute. He looked down at the sleeping beauty in his arms. Light brown hair, a slight crick in her nose, and big ugly glasses that hid pretty blue-gold eyes. Those eyes. They were too large and ethereal to belong on a normal person, with a gentle slant that reminded him of a cat. It was those eyes that had drawn him into going up and talking to her. He’d meant to keep his distance, but when she looked up and smiled at him—and he knew, knew she didn’t smile at just anybody—he couldn’t resist a few words. Now, curled up, light and tiny in his arms, she still sort of reminded Lane of a kitten. Granted, the kind that hissed and fearlessly went after any Doberman dumb enough to wander into its territory.
What could the Corp want with a girl like this? He knew exactly who her attacker was, a man by the name of Garret Stone. Stone was high up in the Corporation, acting as something they called an “expediter”, a jack-of-all-trades whose sole purpose was to do those special, dirty, odd jobs requiring care and precision. The Corp tended to send him after bigger prey; he didn’t typically mess around with rookies.
And she was a rookie, no doubt about that. The library books—laughable, honestly. Talk about grasping at straws. Even clearer, she had no idea how in hell to use her power. The Corp didn’t normally mess with rank beginners. They left the rookies alone to muddle through transition, coming in later for the pitch or the elimination. What was so special about this girl that they were willing to break their own rules and move in before her abilities had settled?
Reaching the faded blue sedan he’d called his own for the past four years, Lane opened the door and carefully laid her down on the back seat. He slid into the driver’s seat and fired up the engine. Turning the radio off, he took a few deep breaths, waiting for the adrenaline to wear off. Lane had dealt with his share of hairy situations, but this was only the third time he’d ever been dragged into a physical fight, and the first he’d done it by himself. And he rarely used his powers so aggressively. With so many rash decisions made already, he’d have to start thinking things through more carefully.
Technically, all he had to do was keep an eye on this Samantha girl until Jacobs finished his vacation and got his rear back into town. That was the deal— N.T.U. paid for his schooling, and in return Lane acted as an assistant for Jacobs, who kept tabs on all Southern California talents and initiated the rookies. Lane personally wasn’t qualified to introduce a new talent to their world. He lacked the training, and his real interests lay in researching talents, not babysitting them. It was Jacobs who was trained in this, Jacobs with the expertise—and the powers—to manage rooks like this one. So far, Lane reflected, he was doing a pretty poor job of filling in for his superior.
Releasing her, though, would be a death sentence in the best case. There were stories about what the Corp did to unwilling converts. “Brain monkey” was one popular phrase that came to mind.
Prioritize, Lane thought. Figure out the priorities. In this case, keeping her alive. In order to do that, I have to, one, keep her away from the Corp and, two, keep her from accidentally killi
ng herself. Right, piece of cake. Lane sighed and looked in the rear-view mirror. Samantha had uncurled a little in the back seat, snoring softly.
He couldn’t do this. He didn’t have the power necessary to stop Stone or the rest of the Corp. Her best chance was with Jacobs, whose abilities were stronger than Lane’s. But Jacobs wasn’t here. After two years worth of solid work, the man had been on the verge of a nervous breakdown. So N.T.U. had given him a sabbatical, sent him to Las Vegas. And now he wasn’t answering his phone.
So Lane would just have to track him down. Vegas wasn’t that big, not if you were a Talent.
He put the sedan into drive and pulled onto the street. Flying was out. Definitely out, since he knew the Corp had downed more than one talent in a fiery ball of wreckage. That left only one choice: driving.
Lane glanced in the rear-view mirror and thought of the fight the girl had just put up. He tried to avoid interfering with others’ emotions as much as possible, but when he did, it normally stuck. If those shake-offs were any indication, it was going to be a long trip. Not to mention the all too probable fact that the bad guys were going to lay chase. And that she wasn’t going to be too inclined to trust him after their first encounter. And there was no way he could face the Corp alone, not when he lacked the element of surprise. He needed help.
He knew of at least one willing man-at-arms: Al wouldn’t even need convincing; he’d been angling for Lane’s job for at least a year, and he’d just been talking about using his vacation days to make a road trip. Drop in a hint of adventure and it would be easy to make him move his plans up. Harry might be tougher, but he could be pulled in with an appeal to loyalty. Pulling onto the 110 North, Lane flipped his cell open and hit the speed dial.
Chasing Power (Hidden Talents) Page 2
