hours, we spent the last forty minutes of the flight ignoring each other.
• • •
Simon Hewitt met us on the tarmac. He stood next to an official-looking black car, hands in the pockets of his slacks, with the look of a guy pretending he doesn’t know he’s being watched by the entire airport security staff. I had no doubt at least a dozen sets of eyeballs were observing from windows and monitors, making sure the Metas didn’t destroy anything during the simple process of disembarking. The urge to do something petty—like stir the breeze and knock over a luggage cart—was almost too strong to resist.
I was here to do a job, though, and to make our team look good. Petty shit like that was out.
I hadn’t seen Simon in about a month, not since his last visit to the West Coast. The first time I met him, he’d reminded me of a man coming off a six-month drunken bender who desperately needed a good meal and a hot shower. Teresa had plucked him out of Manhattan to assist us in capturing an old Bane pal of his, and in doing so, he’d earned both her trust and his freedom. Granted parole, he’d been working with us ever since, dividing his time between Manhattan and our headquarters, and freedom had done him good.
Today he stood straight-backed and self-assured, like someone who’d worked for the federal prison system for years and was comfortable in his position. It was a mirage, of course. Government agencies used us to control our own kind, but they had no qualms about letting us hang if it served their needs. Simon was too smart to not know it, too. He played their games because he had a five-year-old son named Caleb to protect.
“Tempest,” Simon said as we approached the car. “Good to see you again.”
“Likewise.” I shook his offered hand, then stepped to the side so I could perform my part of the preplanned script and introduce him to my traveling companion. “This is Scott Torres.”
Obviously “Scott” was Aaron wearing a different face. The Changeling’s ability to create a glamour—a new appearance, without any actual defining characteristics, like voice and smell—had been used to generate a new identity for Aaron, based on a young man he’d touched back when he was inhabiting the life of Officer Miguel Ortega. Aaron couldn’t very well run around wearing his own face, and no one would believe he was Gage or Marco.
Scott Torres was actually designed a few weeks ago, but Aaron refused to assume another false identity while hanging around Hill House, so this was Scott’s first test run. On paper, Scott was twenty-four, of Mexican descent, and had worked for two years as a stockroom coordinator at a major retailer in Austin, Texas, before discovering he was Meta. With a little money (thank you, Dr. Kinsey) and a lot of computer know-how (thank you, Marco), getting Scott Torres into the system wasn’t a huge problem. The first name made it easier for us not to screw up and call him the wrong thing. We’d even given “Scott” the glamour abilities Aaron actually had, except that unlike Aaron’s seemingly endless supply of stored faces, Scott could hold only one at a time.
The difference between Aaron and his disguise were pretty physically striking. Where Aaron had dirty-blond hair and green eyes, Scott had black hair and dark brown eyes. Scott appeared the same height as Aaron, but was a bit bulkier, with more muscle tone. Not that Aaron was a skinny wimp or anything, but prior to being taken over by King, he’d been a drugged-out meth addict on the verge of killing himself via overdose. While otherwise healthy now, Aaron was still getting his body into proper physical form.
If I ever had to choose between the two, I definitely preferred looking at Aaron over Scott—even if Aaron’s personality left a lot to be desired.
Simon hesitated a split second before offering his hand to shake. “Simon Hewitt.”
“ Hola,” Aaron said, affecting a perfect accent. Miguel Ortega,
• • •
Simon Hewitt met us on the tarmac. He stood next to an official-looking black car, hands in the pockets of his slacks, with the look of a guy pretending he doesn’t know he’s being watched by the entire airport security staff. I had no doubt at least a dozen sets of eyeballs were observing from windows and monitors, making sure the Metas didn’t destroy anything during the simple process of disembarking. The urge to do something petty—like stir the breeze and knock over a luggage cart—was almost too strong to resist.
I was here to do a job, though, and to make our team look good. Petty shit like that was out.
I hadn’t seen Simon in about a month, not since his last visit to the West Coast. The first time I met him, he’d reminded me of a man coming off a six-month drunken bender who desperately needed a good meal and a hot shower. Teresa had plucked him out of Manhattan to assist us in capturing an old Bane pal of his, and in doing so, he’d earned both her trust and his freedom. Granted parole, he’d been working with us ever since, dividing his time between Manhattan and our headquarters, and freedom had done him good.
Today he stood straight-backed and self-assured, like someone who’d worked for the federal prison system for years and was comfortable in his position. It was a mirage, of course. Government agencies used us to control our own kind, but they had no qualms about letting us hang if it served their needs. Simon was too smart to not know it, too. He played their games because he had a five-year-old son named Caleb to protect.
“Tempest,” Simon said as we approached the car. “Good to see you again.”
“Likewise.” I shook his offered hand, then stepped to the side so I could perform my part of the preplanned script and introduce him to my traveling companion. “This is Scott Torres.”
Obviously “Scott” was Aaron wearing a different face. The Changeling’s ability to create a glamour—a new appearance, without any actual defining characteristics, like voice and smell—had been used to generate a new identity for Aaron, based on a young man he’d touched back when he was inhabiting the life of Officer Miguel Ortega. Aaron couldn’t very well run around wearing his own face, and no one would believe he was Gage or Marco.
Scott Torres was actually designed a few weeks ago, but Aaron refused to assume another false identity while hanging around Hill House, so this was Scott’s first test run. On paper, Scott was twenty-four, of Mexican descent, and had worked for two years as a stockroom coordinator at a major retailer in Austin, Texas, before discovering he was Meta. With a little money (thank you, Dr. Kinsey) and a lot of computer know-how (thank you, Marco), getting Scott Torres into the system wasn’t a huge problem. The first name made it easier for us not to screw up and call him the wrong thing. We’d even given “Scott” the glamour abilities Aaron actually had, except that unlike Aaron’s seemingly endless supply of stored faces, Scott could hold only one at a time.
The difference between Aaron and his disguise were pretty physically striking. Where Aaron had dirty-blond hair and green eyes, Scott had black hair and dark brown eyes. Scott appeared the same height as Aaron, but was a bit bulkier, with more muscle tone. Not that Aaron was a skinny wimp or anything, but prior to being taken over by King, he’d been a drugged-out meth addict on the verge of killing himself via overdose. While otherwise healthy now, Aaron was still getting his body into proper physical form.
If I ever had to choose between the two, I definitely preferred looking at Aaron over Scott—even if Aaron’s personality left a lot to be desired.
Simon hesitated a split second before offering his hand to shake. “Simon Hewitt.”
“ Hola,” Aaron said, affecting a perfect accent. Miguel Ortega,
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