got?” I called as I flew on, seconds from arriving.
“All cameras on the train are out,” he said, brusque. He didn’t sound like he was having any fun. “I have nothing on the interior.”
“Reed?” I asked again, more tentative this time. There was a sound of grunts, of pain, of screams in the background, all bleeding into the microphone.
I was almost to the train when the front windshield shattered, spitting plastic or plexiglass or actual glass out in a shower. A dark object followed, a bundle that did not move as it fell, rolling across the tracks. There was a faint sound of crackling electricity as it hit the third rail, and it—he? I could hardly tell—filled the tunnel with anguished cries as he jerked wildly on the ground.
I struck him purely out of reflexive action, felt the electricity pass through me and scourge my nerves with agony. I’d felt worse, but it was no happy picnic day in Central Park. Not that I’d ever had one of those. The lump of a man flew into the wall, clear of the rail, and thumped down on a ledge next to the tracks, wide enough for a single maintenance worker to walk along it if he were not too large.
“Reed!” I shouted as I shook off the effects of the shock and flew over to the mass. I rolled him face-up, stared down and saw—
Eric Simmons?
“I’m fine, thanks,” Reed said, the whoosh of wind filling the tunnel as he coasted out of the hole he’d made in the front of the train windshield and landed next to me. I hit him with a very uncharacteristic and unexpected hug, lifting him clear of the ground before he could protest. I set him back down a moment later, remembering myself. “I can take of myself, you know,” he said slyly.
“I know,” I said, brushing it off like I hadn’t just overreacted in relief. “I was just … uhm …” I stopped trying to come up with a flimsy excuse. “Whatever. I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Clearly,” he said with a smirk that was visible even in the dark. He made a gesture at the train. “Numbnuts here vibrated us so hard we derailed. I managed to get airborne in order to avoid the worst of the crash, but …” He got a distinctly unhappy look. “It’s bad in there, Sienna.” I felt my relief at his safety evaporate. “We messed up big time on this one.”
8.
Emergency services responded quickly. No fatalities, which was the only bright spot. News trucks showed up even before all the ambulances got there, and they had live reports going out as the first stretchers were being carried out of the Canal Street Station. I got caught on camera, of course, and even though the NYPD had established a cordon, about ten thousand shouted questions hit my ears as I made my way to the nearest squad car and sat in the passenger side, trying to shake off the cold.
“Rocha,” I said, “Harper. Status report.”
“We’re blocks away,” Rocha said. “Parked up on Broadway.”
“Status? Well, that was a Charlie Foxtrot,” Harper opined.
“Not only did we lose the brain,” I said, “but Simmons’s phone was destroyed and he managed to injure twenty-eight people and wreck a subway train in the process.” I did not put my head in my hands, acutely aware that I was being watched by more cameras than I could count. “Reed?”
“Yeah,” he said, and he didn’t sound happy.
“We need to get out of here,” I said. “You got Simmons?”
“Trussed up like he’s a roast ham,” Reed said. “You think the NYPD is going to happily let him go after this?”
“Not happily, no,” I said, “but I doubt they’re going to want to put a guy who can cause earthquakes at will into any of their jails or prison units. This is our jurisdiction. I’ll talk to Welch and get it cleared.” Again I had to fight the urge to hang my head, the despair at how badly this had gone wrong was so thick. “Also, I’m starving.”
“I’ve made arrangements with the plane,” Rocha said. “They’re waiting at LaGuardia, but they
“All cameras on the train are out,” he said, brusque. He didn’t sound like he was having any fun. “I have nothing on the interior.”
“Reed?” I asked again, more tentative this time. There was a sound of grunts, of pain, of screams in the background, all bleeding into the microphone.
I was almost to the train when the front windshield shattered, spitting plastic or plexiglass or actual glass out in a shower. A dark object followed, a bundle that did not move as it fell, rolling across the tracks. There was a faint sound of crackling electricity as it hit the third rail, and it—he? I could hardly tell—filled the tunnel with anguished cries as he jerked wildly on the ground.
I struck him purely out of reflexive action, felt the electricity pass through me and scourge my nerves with agony. I’d felt worse, but it was no happy picnic day in Central Park. Not that I’d ever had one of those. The lump of a man flew into the wall, clear of the rail, and thumped down on a ledge next to the tracks, wide enough for a single maintenance worker to walk along it if he were not too large.
“Reed!” I shouted as I shook off the effects of the shock and flew over to the mass. I rolled him face-up, stared down and saw—
Eric Simmons?
“I’m fine, thanks,” Reed said, the whoosh of wind filling the tunnel as he coasted out of the hole he’d made in the front of the train windshield and landed next to me. I hit him with a very uncharacteristic and unexpected hug, lifting him clear of the ground before he could protest. I set him back down a moment later, remembering myself. “I can take of myself, you know,” he said slyly.
“I know,” I said, brushing it off like I hadn’t just overreacted in relief. “I was just … uhm …” I stopped trying to come up with a flimsy excuse. “Whatever. I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Clearly,” he said with a smirk that was visible even in the dark. He made a gesture at the train. “Numbnuts here vibrated us so hard we derailed. I managed to get airborne in order to avoid the worst of the crash, but …” He got a distinctly unhappy look. “It’s bad in there, Sienna.” I felt my relief at his safety evaporate. “We messed up big time on this one.”
8.
Emergency services responded quickly. No fatalities, which was the only bright spot. News trucks showed up even before all the ambulances got there, and they had live reports going out as the first stretchers were being carried out of the Canal Street Station. I got caught on camera, of course, and even though the NYPD had established a cordon, about ten thousand shouted questions hit my ears as I made my way to the nearest squad car and sat in the passenger side, trying to shake off the cold.
“Rocha,” I said, “Harper. Status report.”
“We’re blocks away,” Rocha said. “Parked up on Broadway.”
“Status? Well, that was a Charlie Foxtrot,” Harper opined.
“Not only did we lose the brain,” I said, “but Simmons’s phone was destroyed and he managed to injure twenty-eight people and wreck a subway train in the process.” I did not put my head in my hands, acutely aware that I was being watched by more cameras than I could count. “Reed?”
“Yeah,” he said, and he didn’t sound happy.
“We need to get out of here,” I said. “You got Simmons?”
“Trussed up like he’s a roast ham,” Reed said. “You think the NYPD is going to happily let him go after this?”
“Not happily, no,” I said, “but I doubt they’re going to want to put a guy who can cause earthquakes at will into any of their jails or prison units. This is our jurisdiction. I’ll talk to Welch and get it cleared.” Again I had to fight the urge to hang my head, the despair at how badly this had gone wrong was so thick. “Also, I’m starving.”
“I’ve made arrangements with the plane,” Rocha said. “They’re waiting at LaGuardia, but they
Similar Books
