Perhaps because he understood how outlandish it sounded and that, without hard proof, Jill would’ve never taken him at his word. Even the flash drive Stanley Erikson had left, with Dr. Lo talking openly about the scientific process, had been easy to dismiss as mere theory.
Paul Andersen was no theory.
The burner phone tucked into Jill's boot buzzed. Leaning against one of the many brick walls leading into any of a couple dozen nondescript alleys, Jill fished out the device and opened it to answer without checking the screen. After all, only one of two possible people could be calling her.
"Go," she ordered.
"You ain't gonna believe this," Detective Earl Stevens greeted in that thick drawl of his, one that still managed to bring a smile to Jill's face. When they had first met, Stevens made fun of the way Jill and other homegrowns said certain words, so she in turn had playfully jabbed at his accent. Sometimes, she thought Stevens laid it on a bit thick to egg her on. "But half these Collective fucks are dead people who ain't dead no more."
"You're right." Jill bit her lower lip. The smile was threatening. "I don't believe it."
Only she kinda did.
"It's true," Juanita added—clearly, Jill was on speaker. "DNA checks out on the shooter and everything."
Jill frowned. Wait, shooter? She glanced over her shoulder—because that was gonna clear everything up—and cleared her throat. "Shooter?"
"You ain't hear? Two of these Collective fucks shot up the Inner Harbor today. Killed, like, ten people."
"It would've been more," Ramon added, "but turns out Mitch is a badass Good Samaritan."
"Okay, in the interest of time, I'm just gonna pretend all that made sense," Jill muttered, again glancing over her shoulder. "What's the point, Stevens?"
"One of the gunmen was a fuckwad by the name of Erik Wagner," Stevens and his way with words. "Dude died two years ago, and he ate it again today. Been on J's slab ever since."
Ramon again: "And the other shooter who's in custody, Patrick Gordon, he died a year ago. And right now, he's not looking so hot."
"And my dad." Jill shook her head. "Three members of The Collective who died and came back."
"But how?" Juanita sounded as baffled as ever. A woman as smart as her didn't get flustered like this. It just didn't happen. Then again, neither did the whole rising-from-the-grave thing. If there was something to make a medical examiner bust a synapse or two, dead bodies who are no longer dead would do the trick. "Pretty sure I never picked up resurrection in medical school."
"Ramon, check in with Castillo." Jill stood up straighter, her free hand pressed against the wall. "I had him tracking a Dr. Sebastian Lo. I think he’s the guy behind the whole dead people living again thing."
"On it."
The line went dead, and Jill bent down to stuff the flip phone back in its hiding spot. The device was ten years or so past its cool date, but it did what she needed it to do. Besides, there was still something satisfying about hanging up on someone through a flip phone that today's smart devices couldn't replicate. One more glance over her shoulder—because dead people no longer being dead made one paranoid—and Jill rounded a corner into the nearest alley.
Where she was promptly hit upside the head and knocked unconscious.
CHAPTER 47
Coming to in the middle of a dark alley, surrounded by trash and rain puddles, was not Jill's idea of a good time.
Even less of a good time? The throbbing in the back of her head, the vivid reminder of what knocked her out in the first place. Not that she had seen what hit her. But given her strength and constitution and the fact that her skull was laced in titanium, for something to knock her out like that... she hated to think of who—or what—it might have been. Given recent events, she had a couple guesses anyway.
She looked up and saw the barrel of a semiautomatic trained on her. Far from the first time she had found herself held at gunpoint like this, and it didn't get any better the more she experienced it. Her blood ran cold when she saw who was holding the weapon in question. If nothing else, her second guess would've been right. But the only thing worse than having buried her murderous father little more than a year ago was staring at him right now, seeing him with a machine gun pointed at her.
"There's Daddy's little girl." The smile on the man's face—the man who looked too much like Paul Andersen for Jill's liking—made her shudder. It was not the smile of a man who was looking at his daughter for the first time in years; it was the smile of a predator who knew its target was cornered.
"Oh, how I've missed you..."
Whether this man was actually her father or not almost didn't matter. His mere existence was enough to strike Jill to her core. The ache was buried deep in her chest, but it spread with a warmth that nearly doubled her over. Jill had daydreamed in the past of clearing her father's name, saving him from Death Row and building a family again. That dream had persisted over the years, even as it became a nightmare when Paul was not only executed, but proven to have actually committed the crimes for which he had been convicted. The man Jill had worshipped as a hero was little more than a monster.
And now, he stood before Jill, a semiautomatic trained on her forehead and a toothy grin on his face. It was him. She knew it. There was no logic to convince her otherwise, no alternate explanation that would make her feel better. No, this was Paul Andersen, every last bit of him, and he saw fit to use his inexplicable second chance to come after his daughter.
Whatever was worse than a nightmare, this was it.
Jill scrambled to her feet, the throbbing in her head now little more than a dull thud. Shifting her weight to her back foot, and bringing her fists level with her shoulders, Jill pursed her lips and narrowed her gaze. The man standing across from her lowered his weapon and had the audacity to pout.
"Aww," he muttered. "Don't you miss your old man, Jill?"
"I miss who I thought he was," she answered, stepping to her right when the man before her did the same. She wanted to keep as much distance between them as possible, even though she knew that would do her little good if he decided to pull the trigger. Faster than a speeding bullet was not one of her powers.
"Sadly, that man died a long time ago." Paul cast his eyes to his feet, shaking his head. "Come to think of it, I'm not sure that man ever existed."
"Bullshit!"
Jill was on her father before he could react, the force of her elbow into his gut enough to bend him forward at a ninety-degree angle and send the weapon skittering along the ground. Jill slammed her other elbow into the base of Paul's skull, sending him falling face-first before she stomped on the small of his back. Paul screamed and clawed at the ground. Jill kept the pressure constant.
"I don't know who you really are," she said, grinding the sole of her boot into the man's spine. If anything, his grunts and cries of pain only made her press down even harder. "But I will be damned if I let you parade around with that face anymore."
"It..." The man grunted and ground his teeth together. "It doesn't matter. Kill me and five more will take my place."
"Then I'll deal with them, too."
"No, you won't." Paul spat blood onto the ground before peering over his shoulder. "You'll run yourself into the ground. You'll wear down under the weight of The Collective's heel. You might kill me again, but they—we—will destroy you."
Reaching down and grabbing a tuft of her father's hair, Jill lifted him off the ground. His feet dangled inches from the surface, and Jill squeezed tight enough that some of the hair came up from his scalp. She could feel the blood rising to his skin. "Why?"
Paul spat blood again; this time, it landed on Jill's eyeplate. "Because you are weak."
"Did you miss the part where I'm holding a man twice my weight in the air with one hand?"
"Your physical strength is considerable. Always was, even before the procedure." Paul smirked and shook his head. "But you're not willing to do what it takes. You never have been."
Jill s
lammed her father face-first against the closest wall. His nose snapped and blood poured down his face before she dropped him in a heap at her feet. Before he could get up, she kicked him with all the strength she had. Three ribs snapped and Paul curled into himself on his side, coughing with such force that it nearly made him sick.
"I'm not like you," she growled. "I'm not a murderer."
"And that..." Paul broke into another coughing fit, grimacing. "That will be your undoing."
"No." Jill shook her head. "I refuse to believe that."
"Then..." Paul gritted his teeth and slowly rolled onto his back. He stared at the sky with glassy eyes, his right hand resting on his stomach. "Then... you will lose. You will always lose."
The next time Jill kicked her father, the sole of her military-grade combat boot connected with his chin. The resulting crack was not nearly as satisfying as the sight of Paul falling limp, eyes rolled into the back of his head and his jaw bent to the side. And if she was telling the truth, Jill hated how she felt for that.
Was she more like him than she thought?
No. She refused to believe that. Because if that were the case, then that made The Collective, at least somewhat, right. And Jill would die before she lived in a world where such frontier justice was commonplace.
CHAPTER 48
Amazingly enough, Mitch's stunt left her relatively unscathed. Aside from a scrape on her elbow, the inevitable result of skin grinding against pavement, she had suffered no injuries in taking down the Collective gunman at the Inner Harbor. Truth be told, the hours of questioning she had just endured from investigators had done more harm—but even then, the worst that could be said about her was that her nerves were frayed and her patience was shot. And the fact that she was close with Agent Gutierrez seemed to have won her some brownie points, because that was by far her easiest encounter with law enforcement.
Still, given what Mitch had experienced throughout the day... could one really blame her for wearing dark bags under her eyes and shuffling along as if she were a zombie on the verge of passing out? Not even studying for midterms had left her this exhausted, and she had once been awake for nearly fifty straight hours.
Side note: Red Bull and coffee were a bad combination. It took three days for the jitters to stop. Five for her digestion to return to normal.
Jorge Santos had sat in the bullpen waiting for Mitch, his own turn with investigators only taking a fraction of the time. He bolted from his bench when Mitch came into view, closing the distance until he threw his arms around her shoulders and pulled her into a hug. The hug was a little too tight, and though Mitch's first instinct was to pull back, she remembered why they were here in the first place—and let her arms slip around Jorge's waist.
Were it not for a break here or there, or sheer dumb luck, one or both of them could've been a victim. Mitch was being praised by everyone who knew what she done—which was awkward in its own way—but the only reason she didn't get hit sooner was... luck? Timing?
Sure, she and Jorge went into hiding once the shooting started, but so had others, and they weren't around to get pats on the back. They were sitting on a metal slab somewhere, eyes vacant as some stranger pulled slugs out of them.
Random? Absolutely. Unfair? Probably. But Mitch had decided to do something with what little opportunity she had, and it had worked out.
"I still can't believe you did that," Jorge muttered as he broke the hug.
"Neither can I." Mitch huffed a laugh and shook her head. "You okay?"
"Now that you're outta that room, yeah."
"Guys!"
Both Jorge and Mitch turned to see Ramon jogging toward them, stuffing his phone in his pocket before crashing into Mitch with a hug of his own. Ramon's momentum caught Mitch off-guard, and she nearly lost her footing when she caught him. If Ramon had been as built as Jorge, they would've piled up on the floor. Fortunately, the agent was scrawny enough that Mitch was able to stay upright.
Breathing, though, would be an issue if Ramon didn't let go.
"Thank you so much," he whispered in Mitch's ear, but the embrace ended before she could respond.
Because Ramon was on Jorge just as quickly, but Jorge was ready for it—so instead of trying to find his footing, Jorge caught his husband with ease. They melted into each other, sharing a long kiss that had detectives and uniformed officers alike clearing their throats and looking the other way. Their lips came apart only when Jorge needed to come up for air, and there was a red hint to his face when he did. The two men chuckled at each other, and Ramon pulled Jorge into a hug that arguably was tighter than the one he gave Mitch.
"I'm so glad you're okay," Ramon whispered.
"Thanks to our little hero over here," Jorge answered.
"Listen," Ramon pulled out of the hug, but ran his hands up and down his husband's shoulders, "we just got a big break in this case, so I gotta go. Don't wait up for me, okay?"
Jorge nodded and leaned in for a kiss—much quicker, not nearly as deep. "Go catch the bad guy, babe. Love you."
"Love you too." Ramon shot a grin Mitch's way. "And when this is over, I owe you a beer."
Mitch grinned at that—because hey, free booze—waving at Ramon's back as the agent jogged in the direction of the elevator. Two detectives followed, the ones Mitch knew used to work with Ramon, but damn if she could remember their names. She admired Ramon in a way she didn't think of other cops; he was a bright light in the middle of a dark profession overrun with testosterone and humanity's worst impulses. He was, to her, what cops should be.
And the idea of him being the one to chase down a bad guy brought a smile to her face. But even now...
"Where's Jill?" she asked. "Aren't they still partners?"
"They are." Jorge put his arm around Mitch as they wandered to the bank of elevators on the other side of the bullpen—the ones they suggested civilians use—and threw a glance over his shoulder. "She might be wherever he's going already. Or maybe she's dealing with something else entirely. No telling with her."
Stopped in front of the elevator, exhaustion pushed down on Mitch's shoulders. She stared at her hands, her fingers now trembling. The adrenaline had worn off hours ago, and now that she had also dealt with the hassle of being questioned by the cops, Mitch could feel the weight of what she had done, the reality of just how close she potentially came to being one of the victims herself. But that didn't frighten her like she thought it would—or even like it should. Instead, the hint of a smile tickled across her lips, and she had to bite her lip to keep it at bay.
The elevator dinged to announce its arrival, the doors opening snapped Mitch from her trance.
"What a day," Jorge huffed, stepping into the car. "Let's go home."
Mitch followed, staring straight ahead when the doors shut again. The elevator began its descent with a shake and a loud clang, which startled Jorge into grabbing the railing. But Mitch barely noticed it, cocking her head to the side as the events of the day played over and over again in her head. Every movement. The sound of spent shell casings dancing along the pavement. The shouts and screams of innocent tourists and locals ducking for cover. And the moment of truth—the surge of speed, the rush of adrenaline. The perfect form tackle her cousin would've been proud of.
And just like that, it was all over.
Then why did Mitch feel like it was only beginning?
CHAPTER 49
"I worshiped you!"
The tears burned the edge of Jill's human eye, but she refused to let them fall. She had shed enough tears over this man, responsible for so much angst in her life, and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Even the terror in his eyes, the blood running down the side of his neck, wasn't enough to make her back down. She pressed her forearm against her father's neck just hard enough for him to feel the pressure, and the glare on her face told him she could choke him without warning.
"You were almost a god to me!" Jill's free hand balled into a tight fist; she briefly considered socking
him in the face again, but physical pain had diminishing returns at this point. Instead, she pushed off her father, stomping away from him and biting her lower lip to keep the emotion at bay. "And all that time, you were nothing but a dirty, money-grubbing murderer..."
Listing to his right, Paul grimaced at the pain running up his side before bending at the waist and spitting out the blood that had pooled in his mouth. It landed on his shoe, a scuffed black boot with the sole coming apart. The gun no longer in his grasp, the man deflated. His shoulders slumped; the bravado he had just minutes ago had faded. His eyes, once coal black, returned to their natural color.
Even when he was upright again, Paul couldn't bring himself to look his daughter in the eye. At this point, bloodied and broken in places he didn't even know he had, Paul couldn't do much of anything. Exhaustion sank into his bones, a physical and mental weariness that threatened to overwhelm his very being. He knew he had no business still being alive, and he certainly didn't deserve anything but the scorn his daughter had for him. She could have driven that sword, that family heirloom, into his heart, and Paul wouldn't have argued.
"I'm sorry," he muttered between pained coughs. Getting his breath was almost impossible, like his lungs were trying to give out on him. "I'm sorry I wasn't... what you thought I was. What you thought I could be..."
With a scream that bellowed from the bottom of her lungs, Jill grabbed her father with both hands and slammed his back against the wall. He grunted at impact, the surface giving way and cracking beneath his weight and the force of the attack. A trail of blood ran from Paul's bottom lip down his chin. He had bitten his tongue to keep from screaming, and he still averted his gaze. Even with his head held high, his eyes focused on everything but his attacker.
Betrayal Page 21
