Heat Wave, page 13
“I heard that,” another voice said. “Lighthouse, I’ll remind you that threats don’t work unless there’s follow-through.”
“I read you loud and clear, Pyro Storm,” Jazz said. “And I’ve threatened more people than you have, so why don’t we leave that to the professionals?”
“Goddamn,” Gibby breathed. “I’m so turned on right now.”
“Me, too,” Guardian said. “It’s very confusing. Pyro Storm, where are you?”
“See the building in front of you? East?”
“Uh,” Guardian said. “Yes. Right. East. Exactly. Because normal people use cardinal directions rather than just saying right or left.” He turned and looked across the street, ignoring the people gaping at them. “That’s east. Right?”
“And you wanted to leave me behind,” Gibby said. “For shame.” She grabbed Guardian by the shoulders and turned him around. “That’s east.” She nodded toward the building in front of them, an eight-story thing of old brick and mortar that, according to the sign out front, housed different offices on each level—a law office, an architectural firm, and half a dozen others.
“Got it,” Guardian said.
“On the roof,” Pyro Storm said. “I have a view of the rally. Lighthouse, scanning the faces in the crowd. Should be up on your screen.”
“It is,” Jazz said, keyboard clacking. “Guardian, I have a way to get you by the cops blocking the road without being noticed. Incoming. Gibby showed me how to do the line thing.”
A map appeared inside Guardian’s helmet, a red line stretching through the building and out on the other side. It would put them on a back street to come up behind the precinct. Nick knew this area well. His dad had worked at this precinct since before he was born, and he’d gone there countless times.
“Line thing received,” Guardian said. “Lighthouse, we’re on the move.”
“How do I look?” Gibby asked.
He turned toward her to see she’d wrapped the bandana around the lower half of her face, her nose a bump of green fabric. “Like it’s 1867 and you’re going to rob a train filled with rich people.”
She snorted. “Exactly what I was going for. Let’s go.”
He jogged toward the building, Gibby at his side, the roar of the crowd and Burke’s booming voice growing louder, people moving out of his way, eyes wide, phones following his every step.
“Thank you, citizens,” Guardian called as he moved through them. “Have an Extraordinary day and remember: say no to drugs unless prescribed by your physician.”
“Should’ve workshopped that one a little more,” Gibby muttered as they reached the heavy ornate door. She pulled it open, and a wave of cold air washed over them.
Guardian stepped inside, lenses brightening slightly to make up for the difference in light from outside to inside. A security guard sitting behind a large desk said, “Welcome to … what?” His jaw dropped as he rose slightly from his chair.
“Just passing through,” Guardian told him. “Continue doing what you’re doing. I appreciate your cooperation.”
The security guard nodded dumbly, sitting hard back down on his chair.
As Guardian and Gibby moved through the lobby toward a set of doors on the opposite side, Pyro Storm said, “I’m not seeing him. Lighthouse, anything?”
“No,” Jazz said. “Are we sure he’s there?”
“She said he was,” Guardian said as they reached the doors. He opened the left one, leaning out to make sure no cops were standing outside. “If she saw him, then he’s there. Keep looking.”
“On it,” Jazz said. “Let me see where she … huh.”
“What is it?” Guardian asked, looking left, then right. This side of the building was mostly empty, used for deliveries to the back of the businesses. No sidewalks. One-way street with yellow arrows on black pavement.
“TK’s tracker is off,” Jazz said. “Why would she do that?”
“Might be a glitch,” Gibby said, though she sounded unsure. “She’s the one who saw Owen. She has to be here by now.”
“She should be,” Guardian said, opening the door all the way and motioning for Gibby to go through. She did, and he followed her out. “Don’t worry about her right now. Focus on finding Owen. Have you heard from Miss Conduct? Where’s—”
A snarl of electricity came from above, and Guardian raised his head in time to see crisscrossing power lines begin to shudder, blue arcs like lightning snapping. The air became heavy, stagnant, and Guardian grabbed Gibby by the arm, pulling her back just as electricity shot toward the ground. Guardian turned his head away from the bright light, the lenses on his helmet almost not enough to keep his eyes from burning.
A moment later, a powerful voice said, “Miss Conduct, reporting for duty and ready to save the day while looking fabulous.”
“Her entrance is infinitely better than yours,” Gibby said. “Full offense.”
“Tell me about it,” Guardian muttered as he looked at Miss Conduct standing before him.
The curls in her blue wig bounced, white mask covering her eyes, the corners of which turned up, almost like horns. Her bangles jangled as she came to them, the sequins on her black leotard glittering like a universe of stars. She grinned as she squeezed his wrist. “Look at you, honeybunch. You fill out that costume well. Looks like you’ve moved up to the ten-pound barbells. Good for you.”
Guardian flexed, knowing the bumps in his arms almost caused the fabric of his costume to stretch. “Thank you for noticing. If all goes well, Seth said I can start using the heavier barbells. The fifteen-pound ones.”
“Dare to dream,” Miss Conduct said seriously. She nodded at Gibby—eyes widening slightly at the bandana around her face—before taking a step back. “Now, what’s all the fuss about? Jazz didn’t give too many details aside from telling me I needed to get my lovely posterior here.”
“Owen Burke,” Gibby said. “Supposedly at the rally.”
Miss Conduct frowned, looking over her shoulder before clucking her tongue. “He is? How do you know?”
“Mom saw him,” Guardian said.
Miss Conduct nodded slowly. “She thinks he’s going for Burke. And remind me again, if you could, why are we protecting that man after all the shit he’s pulled? Seems to me that if Owen wants to take him out, shouldn’t we just … I don’t know. Let him?”
“We can’t,” Guardian said. “It’s not just about Simon Burke. There are innocent people in the crowd.”
“People who want to see us drawn and quartered,” Miss Conduct said. She held up a hand before Guardian could speak. “Yeah, yeah. I get it. Protecting people means protecting everyone. Still doesn’t mean I like it. They wouldn’t lift a finger to help us, but then I guess it falls on us once again to be the bigger people. And on my one day off, no less.” She sighed. “Such is the life of a drag queen. Good thing I look amazing as per my usual.”
“You do,” Gibby told her. “Your costume makes the rest of them look like crap.”
Miss Conduct grinned as Guardian and Pyro Storm spluttered. “I like you. You’re a good one. What the hell are you doing hanging out with these nerds?”
“We’d be lost without her,” Guardian said. “She’s—”
“Pyro Storm,” Jazz said. “Back of the crowd, left, in front of the protestors. Left. Keep going. Keep—there.”
Guardian straightened, skin buzzing in tremulous excitement. “What is it?”
“Man,” Pyro Storm said. “Wearing a hoodie. Hood up around his head. Bad angle. I can’t see his face.”
“In this heat?” Miss Conduct asked. “That can’t be good.”
“Pyro Storm,” Guardian said. “Be our eyes. Keep him in your sights. We’re headed for the rally.”
“On it,” Pyro Storm said. “Look up.”
They did, and Guardian gasped when a figure leapt between the buildings, backlit by the blazing sun. He landed on the roof of the building on the opposite side and briefly disappeared from view before he leaned over the edge, waving down at them.
“Please ignore my erection,” Guardian said. “It’s not my fault.”
“Ah, young love,” Miss Conduct said, patting the side of Nick’s helmet. “Come on. Let’s get this over with so I can go back home and try to crawl inside my freezer. Drag queens aren’t meant to survive in humidity like this. It’s ruining my wig.” She turned and hurried toward the rally, Guardian and Gibby close at her heels.
* * *
The street was awash with noise and excitement, flags waving side to side, people cheering. Burke droned on and on, his words at odds with the shouts of the protestors gathered behind wooden sawhorses, a row of cops standing in front of them.
Guardian pressed his back flat against the building, peering around the corner. “Pyro Storm, you have him?”
“No. Lost him. Lighthouse, you see him?”
“Negative,” Jazz said. “Too many people. Are we sure about this? I can’t get TK on the line. Tracker’s still off.”
“We can’t take the chance,” Guardian muttered. “We need to get to him before he tries anything.”
Gibby looked like she was going to argue but sagged instead.
“Shit,” Pyro Storm said suddenly. “I see him. The man in the hoodie. Lighthouse, do you copy? He’s moving toward the front of the crowd. I repeat, he’s moving toward Burke.”
“Got him,” Jazz said. “Can’t see his face. His head is turned down toward—oh no.”
“What is it?” Guardian asked, feeling jittery, his tongue thick in his mouth. “What’s going on?”
“He’s reaching for something,” Jazz said. “In his pocket. I can’t—there’s too many people in the way. He’s moving.”
Guardian didn’t hesitate. He pushed himself off the building wall and tore around the corner, legs and arms pumping, Gibby and Miss Conduct shouting after him, Pyro Storm growling in his ear.
He flinched when streamers shot out of a cannon, filling the air with colorful strips of paper. The sound of the crowd bowled over him, but all Guardian could think about was Owen whispering in his ear in the bowels of Burke Tower, telling him that all he needed to do was take a pill, and all his dreams would come true.
Tiny things, aren’t they? Though they’ll surely pack a wallop.
Seductive, this, so much so that Nick had almost fallen for it. It’d been close, more so than most people knew, even Seth. Yes, in the end, he hadn’t, but what would’ve happened if Pyro Storm hadn’t shown up when he did? Did he really believe he’d have refused?
Someone like you wouldn’t even be given a chance. And how is that fair? After all, it’s your father who suffered.
It wasn’t fair, but not in the way Owen had meant. It was unfair because Owen had known just how much Nick had wanted it, so much so that he’d been gagging for it. Maybe if Pyro Storm hadn’t arrived at the last moment, things might have been different, but Nick wasn’t that person anymore, and it had nothing to do with the fact that he’d inherited telekinesis. He knew now what he hadn’t before: he didn’t need the pills to be extraordinary because he already was extraordinary, powers be damned.
He was going to stop Owen if it was the last thing he did. It had nothing to do with Shadow Star or Pyro Storm. It had nothing to do with Simon Burke or Mom and Dad. It certainly didn’t have anything to do with the people who feared Extraordinaries.
He knew how it felt to have despair, to feel small and scared, and he didn’t want anyone to feel that way. If he could help them from ever knowing—
Nicky. Oh my god, Nicky.
He stumbled, nearly fell, as he thought, Before. Before and After. There was a Before and an After and I, I—
He pushed through it. Not now. Not when he needed to focus. As if shaking off a terrible dream, Guardian lifted his head toward the mob.
A woman noticed him first. She stood at the edge of the crowd to the left of the stage, wearing a shirt with Burke’s face on it under the words IN BURKE WE TRUST! She must have seen him racing toward them out of the corner of her eye, because she turned toward him, mouth dropping, eyes bulging.
She screamed.
The effect was instantaneous. People around her whirled around, following her gaze, beginning to shout as Guardian ran as fast as he ever had. He waved his arms, yelling at them to get out of the way. They scattered, shoving into each other. A little boy holding the hand of a man next to him was knocked to the ground as panic descended. Another man wasn’t looking where he was going and was about to trample the kid when Guardian reached for him, fingers splayed, the spark in his head bursting in a furious explosion.
The man’s foot fell toward the kid’s legs, but before he could step on him, Guardian pushed, teeth grinding together. The air in front of him rippled and shot forward, hitting the man’s foot, causing him to spin awkwardly, stepping hard on the ground next to the kid, missing him by inches. The kid’s father scooped him up, holding him close even as he glared at Guardian.
“Where is he?” Guardian snapped. “Pyro Storm, you got him?”
“I’m coming,” Pyro Storm said, and Guardian looked up in time to see Pyro Storm jump from the rooftop, hurtling toward the ground.
“Move!” Guardian yelled. “Get out of the way!”
People did as he demanded, the crowd parting even as Simon Burke was practically tackled by cops, pulling him back from the podium, standing in front of him, shielding him and Rebecca Firestone. For a moment, it looked as if Burke smiled, but then he was blocked by a large cop.
Guardian moved through the crowd, those around him creating a circle that collapsed and regrew the farther he went. Hands grabbed for him but he managed to pull free.
Off to his right. Black hoodie casting a face in shadow, but Nick saw the curve of his jaw, the jut of his nose, and he knew, he knew it was Owen.
He pivoted just as Pyro Storm hit the ground a few feet in front of him, the red lenses on his mask flashing. They moved in tandem, pushing their way through. The man—Owen—turned away, looking as if he was going to flee.
Pyro Storm reached him first, grabbing him by the shoulders and spinning him around.
The hood fell off his head.
It wasn’t Owen. It didn’t even look like him. The man was at least thirty years old, his skin pale white, brown eyes bright with fear. He pulled his hands from his pockets, and a camera fell out, bouncing on the ground. Pyro Storm let him go, and he fell back into a group of women who kept him upright.
“Oh no,” Guardian whispered.
“Hands up!” someone cried, and Guardian turned his head to see three cops standing at the front of the stage, guns drawn and pointed directly at Pyro Storm. “You, there! Stand down now! Don’t move, you hear me?”
Guardian took a step back and bumped into someone. He glanced over his shoulder to see Gibby, Miss Conduct bringing up the rear, both of them looking worried.
“Where is he?” Gibby asked, a sheen of sweat on her forehead. “Did you get him?”
“It’s not him,” Pyro Storm snapped as people in the crowd began to film them instead of running which, what. Did no one have a sense of self-preservation anymore? “He’s not here.”
“Ah, shit,” Miss Conduct groaned. “Are you serious?”
Movement on the stage, cops yelling for Burke to get back, sir, get back. But Burke ignored them, approaching the podium once more, never once looking away from the Extraordinaries. Guardian felt a chill run down his spine at the look on Burke’s face. If he didn’t know any better, he’d have thought Burke seemed almost … pleased.
“And this is exactly what I’m talking about,” Burke said into the microphone, voice loud through the speakers, causing almost everyone to look at him. “Here we are, peacefully assembling, as is our right, only to once again have our lives interrupted by Extraordinaries. Don’t you see? They want you—us—to be scared. They want us to doubt ourselves. Our mission. Our way of life.”
The crowd nodded as one, and if looks could kill, then Guardian, Pyro Storm, and Miss Conduct would sure as shit be dead right then and there. Maybe even Gibby, too.
“They may think they’re gods, but we know better than that, don’t we?” Burke said, a nasty curl in his voice. “Pyro Storm, as you all well know, is nothing but a seventeen-year-old boy named Seth Gray.”
“You’re right,” Pyro Storm said. And then, without hesitating, he removed his helmet, causing the people around them to gasp dramatically, as if Seth hadn’t already done this once before. What a bunch of freaking drama queens. “I am Seth Gray. And I may only be seventeen, but I’ve still done more to help this city than you ever will.”
Burke, for his part, didn’t seem fazed. His gaze crawled over Gibby and Miss Conduct dismissively before landing on Guardian. His smile widened. “And you there. I haven’t seen you before.” He leaned forward, practically swallowing the mic. “Who are you supposed to be?”
“Guardian,” he spat, ignoring the loud whispers buzzing around him like a hive of angry bees. “And you know damn well that—”
“Guardian,” Burke said, the echo bouncing off the buildings. Guardian, Guardian, Guardian. “Is that right? The same Guardian who once haunted the streets of our fair city? No. Of course not. You picked up a discarded mantle and tried to make it your own, like you have any right.”
“Gibby,” Seth muttered under his breath without looking away from the stage. “Get back.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Guardian saw Gibby nod and melt back into the crowd, though she didn’t go far. He took a step toward the stage, the cops shouting at him to freeze, their guns all trained on him. He did, but continued to glare up at Burke. “I have every right. Your son is—”
Burke scoffed. “My son isn’t here. We have done nothing wrong, and yet here you are, trying to stop the inevitable. Perhaps you’re working with the protestors. Is that it? Did they want you here to interrupt us?” He shook his head. He paused for a moment as Rebecca Firestone stepped forward, whispering in his ear. He nodded slowly at whatever she said.
The doors to the precinct burst open, more cops streaming out. Chris Morton was among them, shoving his way to the front and telling people to get out of his way. He barely glanced at Guardian and the others as he raised his hands, standing between Guardian and the stage. “Stand down!” he bellowed. “Put your guns away! Are you out of your damned minds?”
