vertiginous, but the tableau became visible. A speck, which resolved into a human figure, streaked across the view, flying thirty feet above the tenement rooftops. The camera sped along to keep up with it. Two helicopters approached from opposite directions, apparently hoping to cut off Breezeway’s path. They should have known better than to try something like that. Breezeway was setting them up for a spectacular, cinematic head-on collision designed to make them look like idiots.
Reporter Gina continued. “You probably can’t hear it, but the police in one of the helicopters are calling over a loudspeaker for Breezeway to turn himself in to avoid charges of resisting arrest.”
Gina was right, her microphone didn’t pick up the loudspeaker, but Breezeway’s form shot ahead, speeding up, a response that would surprise no one. The two police helicopters swung around to follow, one of them climbing in altitude, the other one dropping, as if they could sandwich him between them.
Celia never thought she’d be rooting for Breezeway.
The camera managed to continue tracking the flier. The superhuman had veered left, apparently heading toward the uptown district where he could lose himself among skyscrapers, where the helicopters wouldn’t be able to follow. She wondered: If she went to the roof, could she flag him down and offer him a place to hide out?
Then, the unexpected. A third police helicopter shot up from a hidden place behind a warehouse, in front of Breezeway, cutting him off. He pulled up, arcing away to avoid the new threat.
But they were ready for him. Something launched from the police helicopter, and suddenly Breezeway was dropping. Even Gina the reporter gasped in shock.
Breezeway didn’t keep falling, however. He stopped short, dangling some twenty feet under the helicopter.
“Paula, can we have a replay on that? What just happened?”
Back at the studio, the technicians worked their magic, magnified the image, enhanced it, and replayed it.
The police had fired a net, like something a big-game hunter would use to catch his quarry. Weighted at the ends, it flew at Breezeway and entangled him as soon as it struck. The net remained attached to a rope, which was connected to a winch inside the helicopter. The cops hauled him in as if he was a fish.
Breezeway struggled, swinging under the helicopter until they pulled him inside, but his power was wind and flight, not strength. The net trapped him.
“They got Breezeway,” Celia said, amazed, staring at the monitors.
The others joined her, equally entranced by the replay of the cops’ triumphant moment. Typhoon stood next to her, her shoulder newly swathed in clean bandages, holding the injured arm to her chest.
“Damn punk,” Olympus muttered, but he didn’t sound terribly righteous.
Gina ended her report. “We’ll be back as soon as we confirm that Breezeway is in police custody, and if they decide to reveal his secret identity. Back to you, Paula.”
Arthur said, “Celia, turn to the other station. That one, yes.”
Celia switched the sound over to the station that was covering the search in the harbor district.
“… missing officers have been found.”
Celia’s stomach clenched. She looked at Arthur, who watched the screen and gnawed at his lower lip.
“One of the officers was found clinging to the base of a pier a hundred yards from where he’d disappeared, with minor injuries. Unfortunately, the second officer was not so lucky. The body of Officer Douglas Grady was pulled from the river moments ago. Reports from the scene confirmed he drowned when a tidal wave swept him into the harbor. The police have issued a statement that Typhoon is now wanted for murder.…”
Typhoon turned away from the monitors and found the nearest chair. Lowering herself into it, moving in slow motion, she murmured, “It was an accident. I swear to God it was an accident.”
Arthur moved to her side. “We know, my dear. Look at me.” She closed her eyes and shook her head, until Arthur took hold of her chin and directed her. “Look at me.”
With the weight of his power behind the words, she couldn’t help but obey. Trapping her gaze in his, he murmured, “Sleep. Very good.”
She slumped into his arms without so much as a sigh.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Celia said, too tired to sound as irate as she wanted.
“Perhaps not,” Arthur said, easing Typhoon back. “But with the evening’s shocks, she’s emotionally ill- equipped to deal with this new information.”
“Who are you to decide that?”
“Would you rather have her lose control and burst the building’s water pipes?”
“She wouldn’t do that.”
“You can’t guarantee that.”
And she couldn’t.
Spark said, “We can put her in one of the guest rooms until she wakes up.”
“She’s going to be pissed off,” Celia said.
Olympus crossed his arms. “This wasn’t her fault. They can’t pin this on her.”
Arthur said, “Technically, it was. Maybe not murder, but they’ll want to charge her with manslaughter, maybe negligent homicide.”
“This was rigged. This is exactly the kind of bad press Paulson wants to pin on us to get us out of the way,” the Captain said.
“But why?” Spark asked.
“Does it matter?”
Ultimately, a universe filled with conspiracies was so simple, so elegant, a series of interlacing clockworks.
“We’re in a world of trouble, my friends,” the Bullet said.
“No more so than usual,” Olympus replied with false cheer as he gently picked Analise up and carried her in his arms.
Suzanne led him out, to show him which guest room to use. The Bullet followed.
“Sleeping out the night isn’t going to make things any easier for her,” Celia said to Arthur, who remained behind. “You just made it easier on the rest of us, not having to deal with her right now.” She hugged herself tightly and watched the monitors, which showed replays of Breezeway’s capture, of the police boat in the harbor, of a file photo of Officer Douglas Grady in uniform, proud and smiling.
“Perhaps,” Arthur said. He walked over to her, tentatively touched her shoulder. She wanted him to. She had begun to wonder if their time together that evening had happened at all—they both reverted to their rigid selves so quickly, so firmly.
Then, he squeezed her shoulder, put his arms around her. She leaned into his embrace, and he kissed the top of her head. How could he have been so afraid of emotion? His feelings for her wrapped her in a warm cocoon. She’d never have to wonder if he loved her.
He pulled away abruptly. She started to complain, but a moment later the others returned to the command room. She was sure she blushed as red as her hair. Arthur quietly watched the monitors. He’d had much more practice maintaining that mask of calm.
Suzanne and Warren had pulled street clothes—shirts and trousers—on over their skin suits. Suzanne had pinned her hair into a bun.
“Warren and I are going to try to post bail for Breezeway. If we’re lucky, maybe we can talk Chief Appleton into releasing him into our custody.”
Warren, the Captain, added, “Robbie, Arthur, I want you to stay here and monitor the situation. Don’t go out, unless it’s an emergency. We don’t want to give the cops an excuse to start shooting.”
Arthur said, “It begs the question: After all this, what constitutes an emergency?”
“The Destructor breaks out of the asylum?” Warren said, offering a cocky grin. He put his arm around Suzanne’s shoulders and the two of them left, side by side. Like they were just going to bail their kid out of jail or something.
Arthur huffed. “As if I’d be able to do anything about that.”
Nobody told Celia what she was supposed to do.
“Perhaps you could keep an eye on Typhoon,” Arthur said softly.
