Time, page 24
Prettyboy cocked his head at me, about to ask what the hell I meant, but I landed a foot on his chest and shoved as hard as I could while simultaneously reaching down and twisting his arm, then shredding the front of my shirt to escape his grasp. It wasn’t tough; I wasn’t light, and he was hanging onto clothes not meant to support that much weight. Amateur move, really.
My shove with my foot managed to send Prettyboy back a few steps, and as I landed, I exploded off my feet as quickly as I could. I hit Prettyboy in a football tackle, my shoulder to his gut, which was like sledging my shoulder into a garbage truck. The difference being Prettyboy didn’t have nearly the mass of a garbage truck, and so when my feet got traction, I was able to rip him off the ground and carry him forward in my charge.
“No!” Akiyama shouted, but I was already committed. Prettyboy, clenched in my arms, got plowed forward toward the time freeze around Akiyama’s family. He jerked and stuttered, but didn’t really do anything because I realized, when I was about two feet from colliding with Akiyama and seven or so from plowing into one of the nurses next to the bed …
Prettyboy was frozen in time.
I let him loose, and he just hung there, mouth slightly open, limbs askew from where I’d yanked him off his feet. I took a step back, rolled my neck around, popped my joints a few times, cracked my knuckles—
“What are you doing?” Akiyama asked, and he was sweating furiously, now down on his haunches. I didn’t think he was going to last much longer in holding on to all the shit going on in his bubble.
“Achilles are supposed to be invincible, right?” I asked. “Iron skin? But I have theory about this, see—I think they’re invulnerable up to a point. I’ve dropped garbage trucks on someone with that power, and it hasn’t really hurt them, per se—but there’s got to be a logical limit to that. Meaning, they can take, say, a 747 crashing into one of them full force, but could they survive being thrown into the heart of black hole? I think not.”
“… What?” Akiyama was seriously showing the strain, sweat beads popping on his forehead.
“If Prettyboy is frozen to me,” I said, putting up my fists, “every hit I land is magnified in its strength, because my speed and momentum are off the charts relative to his complete lack of both. It’s going to be like delivering a freight train to him every time I land one.” I punched the air a couple times experimentally. “So … let’s see how much he can take, shall we?”
“Wh—” Akiyama started to say, but didn’t get it out.
I went to work on Prettyboy like he was the heaviest heavybag I’d ever practiced on. Each punch felt like I was hitting concrete. My knuckles were bleeding in seconds, but I didn’t care. I’d burst through concrete block before, pounded hard enough to bend steel, punched sandbags built to withstand my fury—
Hitting a semi-solid substance like Prettyboy? Hell, the biggest challenge was that every time I struck him, he moved a little and I had to keep up.
Akiyama was speaking, but I couldn’t hear him over my breathing and the flurry of punches I was throwing, adding the occasional kick just to spice things up. I imagined Rose’s face over Prettyboy’s, imagined long red hair instead of black, thought about everything she’d taken from me, everything she’d done to me. I poured all my hate, all my anger, all that pent-up frustration and fury—
The press hated me.
The world hated me.
Every government on the planet was after me for crimes I didn’t commit.
I let it all out in the hardest workout session I’d had in years, my knuckles busted wide open as I lit into the near-motionless Prettyboy while he hung there and took every hit. I gave him so much juice I thought if time snapped back into motion he might hit orbit when all the momentum and force I’d directed his way came crashing in at once. To counter that, I circled him, trying to stick and move so that he’d feel it all over his entire body when he came back to normal time.
I didn’t know if I was doing any good, if I had the ability to even really hurt him, but I gave it all I had anyway. And when I’d finally had enough, I collapsed, my breath coming in hard gasps, my hands a bloody pulp, soaked in crimson up to the elbows. Prettyboy’s clothes were covered with a thousand bloody knuckle prints.
“Do you … feel better now?” Akiyama gasped from behind me.
“A little,” I conceded, falling over onto my back, staring at the ceiling above. “I don’t know if that did any good, but it sure felt good.”
“I think … you will find out … in a moment …” Akiyama said weakly, and I turned my head to look.
He was on the ground like I was, like he was about to kiss the floor.
A grunting squeal came from in front of me, and I lifted my head to see Prettyboy hit the ground, landing on his feet. His face was curiously pinched, and I stared at him. He did not seem to register me.
He opened his mouth as if to say something, but didn’t get anything out. It stayed open for a moment, then flapped once—
Then blood spurted out in great red sprays, running down his lips and chin, soaking into that already coating his drenched white shirt.
He keeled forward motionless, thumping down next to my knees. I didn’t waste a lot of time; I sat up and plunged fingers into his neck, trying to do the wise thing and assess the status of my quarry while simultaneously getting my only effective weapon remaining—my touch—queued up and ready to go.
I didn’t need it, as it turned out.
There was no pulse, and Prettyboy was leaking gallons of blood out of his mouth, his nose, his ears, his eyes, his fingernails … he was crying blood, and he was not taking so much as a breath. There wasn’t even a weak pulse.
I kept my fingers on his skin for a few more seconds, but there was nothing going on there.
“I give you … peace,” I said, and collapsed myself.
Sienna: 3, Achilles-types: 0.
Bow to the champ, bitchez.
CHAPTER FORTY
Jamal
Time slowly ground away, hours and minutes, like a pencil in a sharpener being slowly reduced to wood shavings. Augustus and I didn’t dare speak until we heard a click in the lock, and both of us sat up, human speed, as the door swung open with a squeal to herald the arrival of … someone.
“Get up against the wall,” a guard said, holding a baton in his hands. “Once you’re in position, we’ll come cuff you.”
Augustus moved to follow his command. “Where are we going?”
The guard looked like he was going to spit out a nasty reply but instead said, with only a little irritation, “Your lawyer’s here to see you.”
We shared a look as we both put our hands, palm down, against the wall. They cuffed us, not gently, chained our legs, and then led us out of the dim, grey cell into a more brightly lit hall.
It was almost blinding at first. Three guards were around me, one at each shoulder and another at my back, baton thumping into his hand inches from my spine, like a thinly veiled warning. Augustus was a few paces behind as we were escorted through concrete halls and into a brightly lit room where someone waited.
“Miranda,” I breathed as we came in.
Miranda Estevez rose as I entered, her long brown hair with its highlights gleaming in the dim light. Miranda was a cool lady, and she didn’t give much away. “Remove those chains, please, so I can consult with my clients.”
“We didn’t chain their mouths shut,” the lead guard quipped, but after a leaden glare from Miranda, he nodded and they started to unlock us. “They’re due for an injection of suppressant in the next hour.”
“The US Attorney is coming in to talk with us in the next few minutes anyway,” Miranda said. “I’m sure we’ll be done before the hour is up.”
The lead guard looked like he wanted to say something to that, but whatever it was, he must have buried it because he and the others left without a word. Once the door clicked shut and the lock turned, we were alone with Miranda.
“Well, this isn’t where Reed sent you,” Miranda said dryly, eyes evincing not a glint of amusement at our current predicament.
“Yeah, yeah,” Augustus said. “We wrapped that up this morning.”
“And ended up in jail in DC by night. Well done.” She slow-clapped a couple times for mocking effect.
“We obviously weren’t aiming to,” I said. “We got framed.”
That made her raise an eyebrow. “So says every criminal.”
“You think we’re criminals?” Augustus asked, and the heat was rising in his tone.
“No,” Miranda said. “But it doesn’t matter what I think. I’m your lawyer, I’m in your corner no matter what.”
“Does Reed know we’re here?” I asked, mouth a little dry from hours without a drink.
“Of course,” Miranda said, like, duh. “J.J. and Abby called him first. He was the one who flew me to get here.” She ran a hand through her hair, which did look just a little windblown. “He’s outside, waiting. And you should know—he’s not happy.”
“Well, we’re sitting in jail, so …” Augustus said. “You can let him know I’m not exactly jumping up and down and singing show tunes all up in this place.”
“That’s good,” Miranda said coolly, “because I’m pretty sure that you’d hit those high notes like a bird on a window.”
Augustus got an offended look but someone rapped on the door, and he shut his mouth. Miranda called out for them to enter, and a few seconds later, a glasses-wearing, disheveled, middle-aged white dude popped in the door. His hair was dark, but thin at the top and heavily combed over. He came over to the table as Miranda scooted her chair around to sit on the side to Augustus’s right, and this new guy, who introduced himself quietly as “Martin Browning,” sat down pensively across from us.
We all sat in silence for a few seconds while Martin Browning appeared to gather his thoughts. I was no lawyer, but wasn’t it usual for detectives to interview you before a US Attorney came in?
“We seem to have arrested you gentlemen in error,” Browning said, clearing his throat. “Based on anonymous tips. But, uh …” He reddened a little. “We, uh … don’t have any evidence that you guys were actually involved … at all … in this crime. In fact, just the opposite appears to be, uh … showing up in the evidence.” He smiled, rather weakly.
“That’s interesting,” Augustus said flatly, and thrust his chained hands out. “Because here I am, chained up like a criminal, jabbed in the damned neck by a needle, my powers suppressed—and for no damn reason?”
I was surprised how quickly my brother moved from relieved to belligerent. I was still sitting here trying to turn over in my head how they’d lost all that evidence. I had a theory, of course, but the pleasant rush of relief at the prospect of getting the hell out of here clouded all clear thought about how it might have gone down.
“Sorry about that,” and Browning motioned toward the window. The door clicked open, and a couple of the guards came in. They looked about as surly as I might have expected, faces down, just doing their jobs, as they unlocked us. “We have to follow what evidence we have, you understand.”
“I—” Augustus started to say.
“My clients understand, of course,” Miranda said, rising, “but I hope you’ll have them processed for release immediately?”
“Of course,” Browning said, nodding furiously as he rose with her. “We are sorry about the … misunderstanding, and we want to make sure we get your clients out of here ASAP, especially given the, uhm, profile of … them.” And here Browning nodded at us once, didn’t even bother to shake our hands—which was probably quite smart given how much Augustus was seething—and bolted for the door, the guards hanging around.
“Come on,” one of them said—the same guy who’d been kind of a douche to us on the way here. “Let’s get you cashiered out.”
“I’ll wait for you guys outside,” Miranda said as we started to follow the guards out of the room.
“Along with Reed, I’m sure,” Augustus said tightly. He sounded like he was wound so tightly he might just blow up.
“I’m sure,” Miranda said coolly, and we were off, back into the labyrinth of the jail—and hopefully on our way to getting the hell out of here.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Sienna
Icame back to myself as time unfroze and stuttered around me, the sound of people speaking Japanese coming through somewhere over my head. I rolled to my belly and looked, and sure enough—
Akiyama’s little still life had sprung to actual life, first swiftly and then slowing down to regular time. I could hear the elevated concern in the doctor’s voice even though I couldn’t understand a word he was saying.
I got to my feet, stumbling a little as I rose, my knuckles still bleeding from lack of healing. They ached, the bones were probably cracked, and if I needed to do any punching, my only advantage would be the numbness in both of them.
But I had feeling … it was more of an ass kicking I was going to have to deliver here, at least of a type.
Akiyama was watching the scene unfold, stoic again, though he showed faint signs of strain in the lines of his forehead. “This … is where I remember … first getting the feeling that things were going wrong.”
I came up next to him where he had pulled himself up on both knees. He must have sensed me through the sudden burst of activity around the table, though neither doctor, nurses or the patient so much as glanced my way. I was a spectator for this, and I felt utterly out of place.
The doctor shouted something, startling one of the nurses, who dropped the tray she was holding. She scrambled, hurrying for a drawer across the room, and as she did …
Akiyama’s wife passed out, neck going limp, head lolling back.
That prompted another cry, this time from the other nurse, one echoed with a grunt from the doctor.
“I can’t imagine what you’re going through,” I said, blood dripping from my knuckles. I felt like I’d gone twelve rounds with a heavyweight, not the equivalent of a heavybag. Either way, it was a lot of punching, even for me.
“Every day,” Akiyama said in that choked whisper. “Every day I relive this.”
“Shin’ichi,” I said gently. “This isn’t healthy. You know that old saying about ‘time healing all wounds’? Well, it doesn’t really work that way if you keep re-wounding yourself over and over.” I knew a thing or two about that these last few months.
Scotland still felt … so close. Like yesterday.
And yet … a million days past.
Like my mother’s death. It felt like we’d just talked, even though I knew it had been seven years.
“I don’t want to heal,” Akiyama said, voice rising. He looked at me, and his eyes were dark. “I want to live this. To live before this—”
“You have to let them go,” I said, turning on him. “This isn’t good for you, and it’s wrecking the world—”
“To hell with the world,” he said, rising to his feet. “To hell with all of you!”
“Hanging on, keeping them in this perpetual loop of torment,” I said, not backing off, “it’s not doing you or them any good! You can’t move on with—”
“I WILL NOT MOVE!” Akiyama bellowed in my face, and here I took a step back. The world seemed to crack a little around me, little mirror threads breaking throughout the room, time splintering. The scene before me sped up in some of the panes, slowed down in others.
“I …” Didn’t know what to say to that. I didn’t want to throw a punch at him, because—hell, he had to sleep some time, and apparently he could maintain his control on time through that. Knocking him out presumably wouldn’t be any more effective.
The bitter conclusion was coming fast—if I couldn’t reason with Akiyama, his death seemed to be the only solution.
But how could I kill him if he was going to travel back and help me kill Weissman?
“I don’t have time for this,” I said, shaking my head, taking a step back.
Akiyama laughed bitterly. “Time … is all I have anymore.”
I looked at him as he sagged back to his knees, watching the fracturing of time as the scene played out in front of him. I eased out of the room and found Harry moaning softly, his eyes moving about like a feverish man who was seeking water or solace.
Dropping back down, I seized his arm above the sleeve, careful not to touch him. “Hey,” I whispered as he looked at me.
“What … happened?” he croaked, turning his head to indicate Kat, who, although pale, was still breathing.
“Totally awesome things,” I said, lifting a bloodied hand and making him grimace away from it. “I killed Prettyboy, who showed up without an invite. Also, some—okay, all—of his yakuza friends. So, there’s that.” I chucked a thumb behind. “And I got the door open to Akiyama’s secret sanctum, so … yay, me. Things are moving.”
He stared up into my eyes, frowning lightly. “Time … it’s coming to a quick end, Sienna. Sooner than I predicted. And it—” He cringed, eyes pinching tightly shut. When his pain passed, he opened them again. “It’s … bad.” He turned to look at Kat. “What happened to her?”
“She tried to save you,” I said, a little tensely, maybe a touch reluctantly.
He stared at me, and the corners of his mouth moved just a little. “Huh. Really?”
“Try not get too excited about your baby mama doing you a solid,” I said, a little snippily this time.
His eyes floated, then locked on me. “I’m … in love with you. She’s not …” And he passed out again, going limp in my arms.
“The hell, Harry?” I started to say, but time went and did its inside out, wildly psychotic colors act, and I found myself in another Japanese hospital room, standing behind Harry again, and over Kat, who had that baby on her chest once more. The nurse spoke, in Japanese, and Kat started to say something—
And just as quickly I was back, holding onto Harry’s arm, rolling my eyes so hard I thought they might spin out of my head. “Choice timing, universe,” I muttered, rising to my feet. “Really rub it in right after he said—what he said.”
My shove with my foot managed to send Prettyboy back a few steps, and as I landed, I exploded off my feet as quickly as I could. I hit Prettyboy in a football tackle, my shoulder to his gut, which was like sledging my shoulder into a garbage truck. The difference being Prettyboy didn’t have nearly the mass of a garbage truck, and so when my feet got traction, I was able to rip him off the ground and carry him forward in my charge.
“No!” Akiyama shouted, but I was already committed. Prettyboy, clenched in my arms, got plowed forward toward the time freeze around Akiyama’s family. He jerked and stuttered, but didn’t really do anything because I realized, when I was about two feet from colliding with Akiyama and seven or so from plowing into one of the nurses next to the bed …
Prettyboy was frozen in time.
I let him loose, and he just hung there, mouth slightly open, limbs askew from where I’d yanked him off his feet. I took a step back, rolled my neck around, popped my joints a few times, cracked my knuckles—
“What are you doing?” Akiyama asked, and he was sweating furiously, now down on his haunches. I didn’t think he was going to last much longer in holding on to all the shit going on in his bubble.
“Achilles are supposed to be invincible, right?” I asked. “Iron skin? But I have theory about this, see—I think they’re invulnerable up to a point. I’ve dropped garbage trucks on someone with that power, and it hasn’t really hurt them, per se—but there’s got to be a logical limit to that. Meaning, they can take, say, a 747 crashing into one of them full force, but could they survive being thrown into the heart of black hole? I think not.”
“… What?” Akiyama was seriously showing the strain, sweat beads popping on his forehead.
“If Prettyboy is frozen to me,” I said, putting up my fists, “every hit I land is magnified in its strength, because my speed and momentum are off the charts relative to his complete lack of both. It’s going to be like delivering a freight train to him every time I land one.” I punched the air a couple times experimentally. “So … let’s see how much he can take, shall we?”
“Wh—” Akiyama started to say, but didn’t get it out.
I went to work on Prettyboy like he was the heaviest heavybag I’d ever practiced on. Each punch felt like I was hitting concrete. My knuckles were bleeding in seconds, but I didn’t care. I’d burst through concrete block before, pounded hard enough to bend steel, punched sandbags built to withstand my fury—
Hitting a semi-solid substance like Prettyboy? Hell, the biggest challenge was that every time I struck him, he moved a little and I had to keep up.
Akiyama was speaking, but I couldn’t hear him over my breathing and the flurry of punches I was throwing, adding the occasional kick just to spice things up. I imagined Rose’s face over Prettyboy’s, imagined long red hair instead of black, thought about everything she’d taken from me, everything she’d done to me. I poured all my hate, all my anger, all that pent-up frustration and fury—
The press hated me.
The world hated me.
Every government on the planet was after me for crimes I didn’t commit.
I let it all out in the hardest workout session I’d had in years, my knuckles busted wide open as I lit into the near-motionless Prettyboy while he hung there and took every hit. I gave him so much juice I thought if time snapped back into motion he might hit orbit when all the momentum and force I’d directed his way came crashing in at once. To counter that, I circled him, trying to stick and move so that he’d feel it all over his entire body when he came back to normal time.
I didn’t know if I was doing any good, if I had the ability to even really hurt him, but I gave it all I had anyway. And when I’d finally had enough, I collapsed, my breath coming in hard gasps, my hands a bloody pulp, soaked in crimson up to the elbows. Prettyboy’s clothes were covered with a thousand bloody knuckle prints.
“Do you … feel better now?” Akiyama gasped from behind me.
“A little,” I conceded, falling over onto my back, staring at the ceiling above. “I don’t know if that did any good, but it sure felt good.”
“I think … you will find out … in a moment …” Akiyama said weakly, and I turned my head to look.
He was on the ground like I was, like he was about to kiss the floor.
A grunting squeal came from in front of me, and I lifted my head to see Prettyboy hit the ground, landing on his feet. His face was curiously pinched, and I stared at him. He did not seem to register me.
He opened his mouth as if to say something, but didn’t get anything out. It stayed open for a moment, then flapped once—
Then blood spurted out in great red sprays, running down his lips and chin, soaking into that already coating his drenched white shirt.
He keeled forward motionless, thumping down next to my knees. I didn’t waste a lot of time; I sat up and plunged fingers into his neck, trying to do the wise thing and assess the status of my quarry while simultaneously getting my only effective weapon remaining—my touch—queued up and ready to go.
I didn’t need it, as it turned out.
There was no pulse, and Prettyboy was leaking gallons of blood out of his mouth, his nose, his ears, his eyes, his fingernails … he was crying blood, and he was not taking so much as a breath. There wasn’t even a weak pulse.
I kept my fingers on his skin for a few more seconds, but there was nothing going on there.
“I give you … peace,” I said, and collapsed myself.
Sienna: 3, Achilles-types: 0.
Bow to the champ, bitchez.
CHAPTER FORTY
Jamal
Time slowly ground away, hours and minutes, like a pencil in a sharpener being slowly reduced to wood shavings. Augustus and I didn’t dare speak until we heard a click in the lock, and both of us sat up, human speed, as the door swung open with a squeal to herald the arrival of … someone.
“Get up against the wall,” a guard said, holding a baton in his hands. “Once you’re in position, we’ll come cuff you.”
Augustus moved to follow his command. “Where are we going?”
The guard looked like he was going to spit out a nasty reply but instead said, with only a little irritation, “Your lawyer’s here to see you.”
We shared a look as we both put our hands, palm down, against the wall. They cuffed us, not gently, chained our legs, and then led us out of the dim, grey cell into a more brightly lit hall.
It was almost blinding at first. Three guards were around me, one at each shoulder and another at my back, baton thumping into his hand inches from my spine, like a thinly veiled warning. Augustus was a few paces behind as we were escorted through concrete halls and into a brightly lit room where someone waited.
“Miranda,” I breathed as we came in.
Miranda Estevez rose as I entered, her long brown hair with its highlights gleaming in the dim light. Miranda was a cool lady, and she didn’t give much away. “Remove those chains, please, so I can consult with my clients.”
“We didn’t chain their mouths shut,” the lead guard quipped, but after a leaden glare from Miranda, he nodded and they started to unlock us. “They’re due for an injection of suppressant in the next hour.”
“The US Attorney is coming in to talk with us in the next few minutes anyway,” Miranda said. “I’m sure we’ll be done before the hour is up.”
The lead guard looked like he wanted to say something to that, but whatever it was, he must have buried it because he and the others left without a word. Once the door clicked shut and the lock turned, we were alone with Miranda.
“Well, this isn’t where Reed sent you,” Miranda said dryly, eyes evincing not a glint of amusement at our current predicament.
“Yeah, yeah,” Augustus said. “We wrapped that up this morning.”
“And ended up in jail in DC by night. Well done.” She slow-clapped a couple times for mocking effect.
“We obviously weren’t aiming to,” I said. “We got framed.”
That made her raise an eyebrow. “So says every criminal.”
“You think we’re criminals?” Augustus asked, and the heat was rising in his tone.
“No,” Miranda said. “But it doesn’t matter what I think. I’m your lawyer, I’m in your corner no matter what.”
“Does Reed know we’re here?” I asked, mouth a little dry from hours without a drink.
“Of course,” Miranda said, like, duh. “J.J. and Abby called him first. He was the one who flew me to get here.” She ran a hand through her hair, which did look just a little windblown. “He’s outside, waiting. And you should know—he’s not happy.”
“Well, we’re sitting in jail, so …” Augustus said. “You can let him know I’m not exactly jumping up and down and singing show tunes all up in this place.”
“That’s good,” Miranda said coolly, “because I’m pretty sure that you’d hit those high notes like a bird on a window.”
Augustus got an offended look but someone rapped on the door, and he shut his mouth. Miranda called out for them to enter, and a few seconds later, a glasses-wearing, disheveled, middle-aged white dude popped in the door. His hair was dark, but thin at the top and heavily combed over. He came over to the table as Miranda scooted her chair around to sit on the side to Augustus’s right, and this new guy, who introduced himself quietly as “Martin Browning,” sat down pensively across from us.
We all sat in silence for a few seconds while Martin Browning appeared to gather his thoughts. I was no lawyer, but wasn’t it usual for detectives to interview you before a US Attorney came in?
“We seem to have arrested you gentlemen in error,” Browning said, clearing his throat. “Based on anonymous tips. But, uh …” He reddened a little. “We, uh … don’t have any evidence that you guys were actually involved … at all … in this crime. In fact, just the opposite appears to be, uh … showing up in the evidence.” He smiled, rather weakly.
“That’s interesting,” Augustus said flatly, and thrust his chained hands out. “Because here I am, chained up like a criminal, jabbed in the damned neck by a needle, my powers suppressed—and for no damn reason?”
I was surprised how quickly my brother moved from relieved to belligerent. I was still sitting here trying to turn over in my head how they’d lost all that evidence. I had a theory, of course, but the pleasant rush of relief at the prospect of getting the hell out of here clouded all clear thought about how it might have gone down.
“Sorry about that,” and Browning motioned toward the window. The door clicked open, and a couple of the guards came in. They looked about as surly as I might have expected, faces down, just doing their jobs, as they unlocked us. “We have to follow what evidence we have, you understand.”
“I—” Augustus started to say.
“My clients understand, of course,” Miranda said, rising, “but I hope you’ll have them processed for release immediately?”
“Of course,” Browning said, nodding furiously as he rose with her. “We are sorry about the … misunderstanding, and we want to make sure we get your clients out of here ASAP, especially given the, uhm, profile of … them.” And here Browning nodded at us once, didn’t even bother to shake our hands—which was probably quite smart given how much Augustus was seething—and bolted for the door, the guards hanging around.
“Come on,” one of them said—the same guy who’d been kind of a douche to us on the way here. “Let’s get you cashiered out.”
“I’ll wait for you guys outside,” Miranda said as we started to follow the guards out of the room.
“Along with Reed, I’m sure,” Augustus said tightly. He sounded like he was wound so tightly he might just blow up.
“I’m sure,” Miranda said coolly, and we were off, back into the labyrinth of the jail—and hopefully on our way to getting the hell out of here.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Sienna
Icame back to myself as time unfroze and stuttered around me, the sound of people speaking Japanese coming through somewhere over my head. I rolled to my belly and looked, and sure enough—
Akiyama’s little still life had sprung to actual life, first swiftly and then slowing down to regular time. I could hear the elevated concern in the doctor’s voice even though I couldn’t understand a word he was saying.
I got to my feet, stumbling a little as I rose, my knuckles still bleeding from lack of healing. They ached, the bones were probably cracked, and if I needed to do any punching, my only advantage would be the numbness in both of them.
But I had feeling … it was more of an ass kicking I was going to have to deliver here, at least of a type.
Akiyama was watching the scene unfold, stoic again, though he showed faint signs of strain in the lines of his forehead. “This … is where I remember … first getting the feeling that things were going wrong.”
I came up next to him where he had pulled himself up on both knees. He must have sensed me through the sudden burst of activity around the table, though neither doctor, nurses or the patient so much as glanced my way. I was a spectator for this, and I felt utterly out of place.
The doctor shouted something, startling one of the nurses, who dropped the tray she was holding. She scrambled, hurrying for a drawer across the room, and as she did …
Akiyama’s wife passed out, neck going limp, head lolling back.
That prompted another cry, this time from the other nurse, one echoed with a grunt from the doctor.
“I can’t imagine what you’re going through,” I said, blood dripping from my knuckles. I felt like I’d gone twelve rounds with a heavyweight, not the equivalent of a heavybag. Either way, it was a lot of punching, even for me.
“Every day,” Akiyama said in that choked whisper. “Every day I relive this.”
“Shin’ichi,” I said gently. “This isn’t healthy. You know that old saying about ‘time healing all wounds’? Well, it doesn’t really work that way if you keep re-wounding yourself over and over.” I knew a thing or two about that these last few months.
Scotland still felt … so close. Like yesterday.
And yet … a million days past.
Like my mother’s death. It felt like we’d just talked, even though I knew it had been seven years.
“I don’t want to heal,” Akiyama said, voice rising. He looked at me, and his eyes were dark. “I want to live this. To live before this—”
“You have to let them go,” I said, turning on him. “This isn’t good for you, and it’s wrecking the world—”
“To hell with the world,” he said, rising to his feet. “To hell with all of you!”
“Hanging on, keeping them in this perpetual loop of torment,” I said, not backing off, “it’s not doing you or them any good! You can’t move on with—”
“I WILL NOT MOVE!” Akiyama bellowed in my face, and here I took a step back. The world seemed to crack a little around me, little mirror threads breaking throughout the room, time splintering. The scene before me sped up in some of the panes, slowed down in others.
“I …” Didn’t know what to say to that. I didn’t want to throw a punch at him, because—hell, he had to sleep some time, and apparently he could maintain his control on time through that. Knocking him out presumably wouldn’t be any more effective.
The bitter conclusion was coming fast—if I couldn’t reason with Akiyama, his death seemed to be the only solution.
But how could I kill him if he was going to travel back and help me kill Weissman?
“I don’t have time for this,” I said, shaking my head, taking a step back.
Akiyama laughed bitterly. “Time … is all I have anymore.”
I looked at him as he sagged back to his knees, watching the fracturing of time as the scene played out in front of him. I eased out of the room and found Harry moaning softly, his eyes moving about like a feverish man who was seeking water or solace.
Dropping back down, I seized his arm above the sleeve, careful not to touch him. “Hey,” I whispered as he looked at me.
“What … happened?” he croaked, turning his head to indicate Kat, who, although pale, was still breathing.
“Totally awesome things,” I said, lifting a bloodied hand and making him grimace away from it. “I killed Prettyboy, who showed up without an invite. Also, some—okay, all—of his yakuza friends. So, there’s that.” I chucked a thumb behind. “And I got the door open to Akiyama’s secret sanctum, so … yay, me. Things are moving.”
He stared up into my eyes, frowning lightly. “Time … it’s coming to a quick end, Sienna. Sooner than I predicted. And it—” He cringed, eyes pinching tightly shut. When his pain passed, he opened them again. “It’s … bad.” He turned to look at Kat. “What happened to her?”
“She tried to save you,” I said, a little tensely, maybe a touch reluctantly.
He stared at me, and the corners of his mouth moved just a little. “Huh. Really?”
“Try not get too excited about your baby mama doing you a solid,” I said, a little snippily this time.
His eyes floated, then locked on me. “I’m … in love with you. She’s not …” And he passed out again, going limp in my arms.
“The hell, Harry?” I started to say, but time went and did its inside out, wildly psychotic colors act, and I found myself in another Japanese hospital room, standing behind Harry again, and over Kat, who had that baby on her chest once more. The nurse spoke, in Japanese, and Kat started to say something—
And just as quickly I was back, holding onto Harry’s arm, rolling my eyes so hard I thought they might spin out of my head. “Choice timing, universe,” I muttered, rising to my feet. “Really rub it in right after he said—what he said.”
