Blindside Page 9

  “I always wondered how it was possible.”

  With the pad of his thumb, Mac smoothed the frown line between her eyebrows. “You were adopted.”

  “And?”

  “If your parents had power, it would be natural for you to be susceptible to it.”

  A sneer this time. “It was Soviet Russia. Anyone with even a possibility of power would have been taken by the government or killed.” She moved off him and snatched his leather jacket as a shield. Cold air rushed in to reclaim the warmth from where she’d touched his skin. “When did you start feeling yours?”

  “Ten or eleven.”

  “I felt nothing. No inkling. If my parents, real parents, had it, wouldn’t I have felt something?”

  He stayed where he was, sated and tense and naked, letting her look at him, his body hardening again. “I’ve never heard of someone able to keep what had been transferred. But maybe that’s your power. You’re able to absorb.”

  “Like a leech.” Hard tone under the fake disguise of laughter.

  He’d hoped to stay like this, warm and at peace, with the city lights reflected in each sliding raindrop. He’d have to be content with just a momentary thrill.

  “I should get going. Unless you are taking me in.”

  “Yeah, let me call Williams.” He hadn’t meant for the words to come out as a slap. Because he couldn’t take them back, Mac got up off the couch, uncomfortable with the still blatant need for her.

  His jeans lay in a tossed heap by the steamed up window. The exposed needle glistened on the floor where he’d knocked the syringe out of her hand.

  She shoved her arms into his leather jacket. “I don’t know what else I can say.”

  Nothing to cover himself with, so he laughed, raw, harsh, and ugly. “I’m not strong enough to stop you. You can say I failed.”

  “You didn’t fail. Williams set Nicky up—I don’t need Night Rook anymore to get the answers.” Lightning snapped in the distance and she winced against the pain, but didn’t back away.

  “Just Williams? Or all of San Mike PD? You’re going to go after all of them?” Freezing cold, Mac stalked across the room to get his clothes.

  She lifted up her chin in icy determination. “I’m going to destroy him.”

  “Kill him?” Short word, an abyss of dark meaning. Mac watched her face, that hard, glittering gaze.

  “If it comes to it? Yes.”

  He forced his voice to remain calm while the wind outside rose up to screaming. “Heroes aren’t meant to become judges.”

  “It’s a good line. And it’s a load of crap.” Lightning slashed over pale fingertips peeking out of leather. Her fists clenched on the opposite lapels to keep his jacket closed. “Haven’t you ever wanted it? Vengeance? Justice? When you think about it, it all sounds the same.”

  He didn’t know how to reach her. Mac feared that he never would. Power. That hot, bubbling bitch could save lives or destroy them, but it did nothing to make her understand.

  “My father died to save me. He let me tag along—supposed to have been an easy enough transpo gig.” This time, he didn’t fight the surge of grief. “If I knew, then, how to use the power…. I’d probably have killed every damned one of them.” The yells, the burn of gunpowder. The blackened teeth bared in horrid screams.

  “Well…then you understand.”

  “Vengeance wouldn’t have brought him back.” Dead limp form lying still on the ground. Soldiers with grim faces pushing on his shields to keep him back.

  “I know what I have to do.” Soft words spoken with steel behind them. Regal in trailing black, she stepped over the exposed needle and headed for the bathroom, leaving Mac standing naked in the dark.

  He dressed with the accompaniment of running water. Under the beat of rain, he shoved open the wooden panels of the armoire that always stayed locked. Automatic running lights glided over an old fedora, with a black cape neatly folded underneath. And there was Dad, Old Spice, and mild Jamaican coffee.

  “What would you do?”

  His blank eyes stared back at him from the small mirror. The exposed needle of the syringe screamed at him from the floor.

  “What would you do?” he asked again, and reached out to run a fingertip over the hat, the felt just as soft, just as smooth as when Mac brought it back. He never thanked the staff for getting rid of the bloodstains.

  And then he knew the answer. The one that made him pick up the syringe as Lana came out of the bathroom, her damp curls swept away from that heart-shattering face.

  She didn’t say a single word. Instead, she tilted her head sideways.

  “I’m not strong enough,” he answered to the silent challenge. And then Mac shoved the needle into his own neck.

  ***

  His scent lingered on her skin as if he sat next to her in the silent taxi. Under the whir of motor, the city jerked by, sharp lights stabbing past tight closed lids. The Night Rook didn’t carry sunglasses while working.

  Her body still hummed from his touch, her muscles warm despite the chill of San Mike at four in the morning. And bitter emptiness boiled in her gut.

  Because of her, Mac had shot himself with poison. I’m not strong enough. Except, Lana was certain, he would stop her if she committed to actually taking a life.

  As traffic picked up after last call, the cabbie took the small alleys of stop-and-go snarls of downtown. Bars on the windows gleamed under the streetlamps; squat buildings tagged with thick graffiti and thin mud. And in the muted lights, she squinted at a form sliding between the shadows to hand something to an old man lying on the street.

  Drug drop.

  She sat up straight, cop instincts humming even if it had been three years. Through bleached-out lights, she struggled to see money exchange hands. Instead, she made out a thin, reflective blanket before the cab cut off her view with a sharp turn left.

  “What was that?” She forced herself to look outside despite tears blurring her vision. She made out a skintight outfit under a cape whipping over somebody’s skinny shoulders. A mask with pointed ears covered the upper portion of their face as he or she moved with a lithe grace of youth, reaching into a bag upon coming across what looked like a transient under a broken lamppost.

  “Young people playing heroes.” The cabbie’s voice held a faint whiff of faraway islands. Outside, the homeless man sat up and took his fist up to his mouth, razor lights bouncing off a shiny wrapper. The packet looked like food.

  “Playing heroes?”

  “Costumed Crime Fighters. They carry food and blankets for the homeless.”

  Shock and shame furrowed through her mind. “Do they have powers?”

  She all but felt his little smile. “You don’t need power to help.”

  Above, a bolt of lightning snaked through the sky, bleaching her vision into painful clarity of nothing. She lay her head against the seat, tired, replete, confused, exhausted. With adrenaline gone, her body was reacting to the cold, muscles tightening to knots, her joins aching. She needed a hot bath. She needed…. Mac, she thought, and couldn’t help but taste him on her lips when she wiped blurry, not-from-crying tears.

  Take a damned chill pill.

  Lana eased herself onto the street when the cab stopped by her apartment two blocks from downtown. Helmet looped over her elbow, Lana paid in cash and wondered if the cabbie thought of her as one of those “costumed crime fighters” who didn’t need powers to help.

  Ankle throbbing, she dragged her aching body up the stairs. Big Al brushed by in a hello aimed at her knees.

  “Don’t feel like walking, bud.”

  A small, excited whimper.

  She was finally home, and she hadn’t walked him “in the morning.” And dogs didn’t care about rain or shine or morning light.

  Chapter Eight

  San Michael, three years before….

  She was no longer a trainee, no longer the rookie. Though her dork of a brother still called her that, especially with other cops around.
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br />   Lana’s phone trilled the theme from Cops. She couldn’t help but grin when she picked up after the second verse of “Bad Boys.”

  “You gonna come pick up that horse you call a dog?” Truth was, she loved having Big Al in her apartment, loved it enough to seriously consider having her own dog. The grin, the walks, the chewed-up shoes. He didn’t discriminate between high heels or ratty slippers, but stayed away from her workout sneakers and socks.

  “Maybe this weekend. Still got some overtime to burn.” Light enough tone, barely covered exhaustion.

  “I got him a new collar.” The bright blue weave lay on the passenger seat, sparkling with girly stars just to needle Nicky. “Come over tonight and I’ll order pizza.” And she could finally pry out of him what he’d been after for three weeks.

  “I got a meet up at the harbor in twenty. Don’t know how long I’m going to need after that. Rain check and lunch tomorrow?”

  “You’re on.” And she wouldn’t let him weasel out like the last time.

  “So what happened with that tech analyst? Robson?” The part where he called the man a pussy hung unsaid in her new patrol car. Technically a hand me down, but after her full-time status was confirmed, Nick had bought her one of those sprays with new car smell.

  “You heard about that?” Funny, considering there was only one person who held her interest. “What about you? Still going hot and heavy with that secretary?”

  “City employees love to gossip.”

  Another reason she put off being involved with anyone at work, even if it was a different department. And the tech analyst failed to get another man out of her mind.

  “Come by and see your dog tonight. He’s out of food, and I don’t make a detective’s salary to keep feeding him holistic.” A blatant lie, but one she used to at least see him.

  “I’ll wire money in your bank.” Tired, distracted voice.

  “Fuck money. You know that’s not the issue.”

  “Lana.” She all but heard him wincing. She was officially a cop, signed on to work the streets. And ever since he got in trouble teaching her how to curse, whenever the F word left her mouth, he never failed to cringe.

  “Nick, even Dad is worried. You don’t call, you rarely talk.”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry. How about we fly out to see them? I’ll spring for tickets. Red-eye, economy class, off-season. Deal?”

  Finally, something normal, and she’d have smiled if a truck hadn’t flown by, careening between two lanes of traffic. “I’ll hold you to it. Gotta check something.”

  “Ten-four.”

  She hated hanging up but, for the moment, he wasn’t the issue. Hitting her lights, she rolled code three behind a Ford with a new paint job and a busted taillight, the setting sun brilliant and painful gold shining directly in her eyes.

  He led her a good chase before finally slowing down. She could sit here and wait for backup, or she could put on her cop panties and get tough.

  “Good evening, sir. Do you know why I pulled you over?”

  She leaned over the passenger window while the driver, a giant beard of a man, tipped up a paper bag hiding a bottle.

  “Step out of the car, please.” Firm voice hid that her knees slightly shook in the starched creases of her uniform. She kept her hands loose on her belt, ready to draw if he pulled out a weapon. When he did step outside, he hulked above the car, his body that of a has-been high school linebacker, complete with faded flannels and SMH ’98 screaming in reds and yellows across his barrel chest. He held a brown paper bag in one of those meaty hands.

  “Do you know why I stopped you?”

  A loud burp carried over the wind. “No ma’am.”

  “Is that alcohol in that bag?”

  “No alcohol. Just Vodka.” And a hiccup.

  “I need you to take a sobriety test.”

  He simply stared at her, sad little eyes, lips twitching under the beard.

  “You know better than to drink and drive. Now you can take the test, or come with me down to the station.” She considered her options. “You’ll probably try to outmuscle me, considering you weigh about three hundred pounds. You might hurt me, and I’ll make sure to turn on the waterworks when we get in front of a judge. Guess who he’ll feel sorry for,” she said, her voice still calm, the baton handle clutched in a sweaty hand.

  He sighed, his shoulders slumping down then he pushed his hands onto the blue shine of his truck. “My wife left me.” And he manfully tried to control his sobs while she did the breathalyzer test, walking with graceless dignity to her patrol car when it read way above limit.

  He even gave her a small wet thank you when Lana put her hand over his head to ensure he didn’t bonk his forehead on the roof of the patrol car. She exhaled in relief just as a shadow fell over her, cutting off the gold brilliance of the sun. Baton in hand, she whirled around to find Narc, San Michael’s hero standing in the glow of twilight, his features hidden in contrasting light and shadow.

  “Looks like you handled it.”

  “I did.” And damned if she wasn’t proud. “Thanks, though. It’s good knowing you got my back.”

  She flushed as she said that, the sunlight in her eyes blurring her vision. She wished she could see his face, but then again, so did every woman and most men in San Michael.

  “I got your back, officer.…” Velvet tone lifted at the end in an implied question.

  “Rossini. Lana.”

  “Narc.” He offered her a wide leather-clad palm pulsing with disciplined strength. Most men, upon finding she was a cop, tried to assert their dominance, gripping her fingers, squeezing her knuckles.

  Her palm felt…right somehow, held in his hand. Despite the harsh rays of the sun, she tried to look into his features, his build familiar somehow, his wide shoulders edged in in dying daylight.

  “Well. Thanks.” She had to clear her throat to keep it from drying out. “See you around.”

  “Lana.”

  He shouldn’t have said her name. Her name whispered from of his mouth in an intimate caress, a velvet whip of need. Recognition and disbelief slammed through her belly, a conflicting ball of forbidden heat.

  “You should be riding with a partner.”

  She tried to quell her pounding heart. “She called in sick, and we’re thin as it is. The shift’s done anyway.” Then the radio at her shoulder squawked dispatch calling out shots fired at the harbor, all units requested code three to assist.

  She found herself on the floor, back to the wall, still weeping. Big Al sprawled, softly snoring, on her lap. Wiping the tears away, she searched in the dark for her phone, finally finding the cord tethered to her computer.

  She didn’t get up so not to dislodge the warm weight on her knees. With shaking fingers and blurry vision from the razor bright light emanating from the phone, she emailed Crash for information, including personal phone number of Amy Avalon, star reporter of Channel Six News. Al grumbled when she put away the phone and tried to get more comfortable.

  “Let’s get some sleep,” she said, her voice a bag of rust. “Then later, we’ll go visit Nicky at the harbor.”

  ***

  The hours bled together under the gray tears of rain and Mac couldn’t stand the glass prison of the tower. The vials secure against his chest, he sought solace in the silent company of whiskey while the day stretched out like a tired rubber band.

  Almost game time. The poison froze his power but did nothing to dull the pain drilling inside his veins.

  “Drinking again?” Wojo straddled the stool beside him. “I thought that was my habit.”

  “Cops or humans?”

  A small shrug. “Some of both.”

  “How’d you find me?”

  “You’re in a cop’s bar, son. And I still got my ear to the ground.”

  On the screen hung above the bottles, Amy Avalon smoothed her hands through her hair, darting quick, nervous glances at the camera. With the sound turned off, the only noise was clinks of glasses and honks
of rush hour, the TV ticker running letters about Avalon’s Night Rook exclusive. Amy’s been on the roof of the restored Jet Theater for hours, the harbor a dim view behind her pale, rouged up face.

  As the cops came in to unwind after shift change, the bartender slid a steaming mug in front of Wojo. “Hope you still take it black.”

  “No other way.” He primed the brown sludge with six packs of sugar while Mac took another long and tasteless gulp.

  “Get off your ass. Mac. We’re going to the dojo.”

  Mac didn’t budge under the giant hand clapping him on the back.

  “You’re pissing me off.” Hard gaze, hard voice. Yet, Wojo’s demeanor hid a dark kind of sadness. “We’re working out. Whatever the hell’s bugging you, you’ll forget about it on the mat.”

  Mac turned to look at his ex business partner. Mentor. Friend. “How about for once, we focus on what’s bugging you?”

  A moment of silence was followed by a shake of that rain slicked bald head. “Nothing. Lana called earlier.”

  “What’d she say?”

  “Not much. Asked me to take care of Big Al while she’s out. Refused to tell me what the hell is going on.” Wojo finished off his coffee and sat the mug down hard onto the counter.

  So that was it, the line drawn in the sand. The final battleground. The syringes against his chest poked at his ribs with sparks of gleeful pain.

  “I’m getting out of town.”

  “Another cage fight?”

  “Might as well.” Tonight, she would kill Williams.

  Wojo gripped his shoulder. “So. You’re running away. Again.”

  No point hiding the truth. “I’m not strong enough to stop her.” The vials lay against his chest, ice hard and somber. Necessary evil.

  Above them, the ticker tape spelling out the words from Amy’s crimson mouth flashed something about the corruption in San Mike PD, tying in the Night Rook, and how they’d all find out more after a break for a commercial.

  “Yo, turn it up.” Those badges slouching over their beers and coffees, looked up at the screen, their faces grim, their uniforms wrinkled from rain and hours of patrolling. Beat cops, most of them. Mac still didn’t know why nobody had called a unit to arrest him. Williams should’ve had a field day on the news reports.