06 - Vengeful by Robert J. Crane Read Free Book Online Page A

that old chestnut again.
    “Well, gosh, Rogers,” I said, realizing that I didn’t even know his first name. “I can’t take them with me, so …” I shrugged, as though helpless. Borosky stood up straight, and I figured Rogers had about three seconds to make a decision that was probably a lot more difficult than his usual fare. Beef or chicken, Rogers? Bud or Michelob? Death or dishonor?
    “Okayokayokay!” he shouted, waving a hand in surrender while clutching tight to the M4 with the other, barrel only a few degrees off from pointing at Borosky’s head. Those few degrees would matter in about a second, but fortunately for him, I was quicker.
    I swept Borosky and Shafer off their feet, crossing the distance between us and slamming their faces into the tile floor. Excessive force? Nonsense. These people were killers, and given half a chance they’d rip Rogers to pieces and take his M4 as a prize for their wall—if I hadn’t burnt all of them down.
    I put a knee on each of their backs and then put their shirts between my hand and the back of their necks, enough to give me some nice grip on their scruff but enough cloth between us that I wouldn’t drain their souls.
    “Oh hell,” Rogers muttered, blinking at the speed with which I’d done my thing. “Oh hell, what am I doing?”
    “Your job,” I said, hauling the prisoners to their feet as Rogers opened the door behind him with a key card, looking nervous as a cat in a room full of dogs, sweat pouring down his temples. “Funny that I have to remind you of what it really is, since I’m the one on suspension.” And I frogmarched them both down into the prison, knowing full well that my next argument was going to be with a man who wouldn’t respond with nearly as much flop-sweat to my bluffs.

12.

    “You just deposited two prisoners downstairs while on suspension,” Andrew Phillips said as I opened the door to his office and strolled in uninvited. He was sitting behind his desk, the sun not quite up yet, the glow of his computer monitor lighting his face with pale color. He didn’t deign to look at me, and whether it was because he thought I wouldn’t hurt him or because he somehow thought himself immune to harm, I didn’t know. “What are you doing?”
    I also didn’t care. “I’m on a mission from God,” I said in my best Midwestern accent. “And if you know I dropped those two down there, I assume you also know why I did it?”
    “J.J. forwarded me the pertinent intel.” Phillips looked up, impassive as ever, his large head perched atop broad shoulders. He was a big guy. And the bigger they are, the harder I tend to hit them, because that generally meant they were more of a threat. “What happened when you showed up?”
    “They threw explosive chemicals in my face and tried to blow my head off,” I said. “Best first date I’ve had in months.”
    He processed that, his eyes not moving. “What do you want me to do with them?”
    “Your job,” I spat back acidly. “I just policed a metahuman threat and responded to it. Don’t block me now.”
    “You’re the one who’s suspended,” he said, like I needed another reminder. “It’s not your job right now. Besides, you’re on a mission from God.” He didn’t add the Dan Aykroyd accent when he said it. “Not from the U.S. government.”
    “Can you even tell the difference between the two on any given day?” Maybe this wasn’t the time to mouth off, I hear you saying. I hear you now; but then I was without any reason to think mouthing off as anything other than my best option.
    “One’s wrathful,” he said, in the closest I’d ever heard to a quip from him, “and one’s just incompetent.”
    “Where do you stand in all this, Phillips?” I asked, fixing him with a hard gaze. I suspected his knees were not exactly knocking under the desk.
    “You’re suspended,” he said, repeating his mantra again. I wonder if he said it during morning meditation. “You don’t work