One shoe caught the cast and ground the freshly broken bones. Francis cried out and curled into a ball. The door flew open with a bang. Several Miami cops spilled into the room. Crow was roughly pulled away and dragged from the room. shouting, “Magic won’t work on an OCI man, asshole. You better warn your friends.”
The cops were trying to help. Somebody asked him a question. His head was swimming and he couldn’t remember what his answer had been. His Power had failed him. For the first time in his life, when he’d reached for it, the magic hadn’t been there. They got him onto the bench. Somebody stuffed a towel against his nose to catch the blood. There was more commotion in the doorway. Francis recognized the man standing there waving a briefcase as a UBF attorney. How had his Power failed? Somehow he was on his feet, and weaving his way down the hall. The lawyer was talking to the police, rapid-fire legalese flying faster than bullets. They were heading for the exit.
Crow had been backed into a corner and blocked off by two cops. His face was red. “Everything’s changed now, Francis. Your kind aren’t untouchable anymore.”
“This isn’t over!” Francis shouted back.
“We’re watching you.” The cops had to hold Crow back. “Hunting season’s coming! Opening day…” He stuck out his finger like a pretend gun. “Bang.”
Francis made it outside. He hadn’t realized how late it was. The darkness was a bit of a shock. He stumbled down the steps to a waiting car. Flashbulbs popped and photographs were taken. The attorney made sure that the press got plenty of shots. From how hot his face felt, he knew he had to look like a bad meatloaf. The driver came around and opened the door.
“Get us out of here. Snap to it,” Francis ordered. The attorney barely had time to climb in before they were rolling. “Give me your pen.”
“Huh?”
Francis reached over and snatched a golden ink pen from the lawyer’s pocket. He held it in the palm of his hand and concentrated. The pen lifted, spun in a lazy circle just like he wanted it to, then fell back in place. His Power had returned. It felt perfectly normal, but when he’d tried it against the government man it was like his magic wasn’t even there.
He tossed the pen back to the surprised attorney. “Crow’s right,” he mumbled.
“Excuse me, sir?”
Francis stared out the window. “Everything has changed… Driver, get us to the airfield.”
The Miami Police detained Crow. Federal lawman or not, he had just assaulted a prisoner, and not just some prisoner off of the street, but an extremely important man, and the press knew. Heads were going to roll. The locals put calls in to contact Crow’s superiors, but rapidly discovered that his superiors were very difficult to reach. Crow waited long enough for the cops to not have a direct eye on him and then easily made his escape. There was no cell that could hold him if he didn’t feel like it. He even stopped long enough to pick up everything that had been confiscated: his fabricated identification papers, his. 45, the Dymaxion nullifier, and his coat, before walking right out the door.
Later, the police would finally get through to somebody at the mysterious Office of the Coordinator of Information, only to be told that they had no officer by the name of Crow. The U.S. Attorney’s office would be stymied as well. Eventually the whole thing would go away like these things tended to do.
His men picked him up on the corner. The automobile barely even slowed as he got into the back. “Status?” he asked in greeting.
“The President is going to live, but he might still lose the use of his legs.”
“That’s unfortunate news.” Crow feigned sympathy rather well. “I don’t know if the country is ready for a cripple to be in charge. What about the prisoner?”
“He’s been secured, sedated, and sent with two Dymaxions to headquarters.”
“Good news. Where is Stuyvesant now?”
“Heading for the air station like you predicted.”
“Excellent.” Crow’s manner was completely different than when he’d been questioning Stuyvesant. Inside, he’d acted hot-headed, erratic, and violent. That had been necessary. He needed Stuyvesant rattled. Out here it was back to business, so Crow was collected and focused. Hot, cold, good, evil, friendly, vicious, it didn’t matter, they were just modes. He picked the one he wanted and wore it like a suit. It was all about whatever it took to get the job done.
The brazen assault on Stuyvesant would raise questions as to why an investigator had been so angry with the rich kid and supposed hero of the hour-even though Stuyvesant’s presence had been an unexpected development and certainly not one to be wasted-but with the press there, rumors would begin to spread about Stuyvesant’s possible involvement. And all that would occur without the OCI having to say anything official at all.
“I rattled him. I want Stuyvesant’s every move watched. I want to know who he talks to, who he calls, who he meets, where he goes. I want to know how his breakfast tastes and I want to know the temperature of his bathwater. The second he meets someone else on the list, do the same to them.” He thought about it. “And I want two layers on that kid. Make one obvious but put our best men on the second. When Stuyvesant thinks he’s lost the first, that’s when he’ll make contact with his conspirators. Don’t underestimate him. He’s sharper than he looks. Most importantly, watch out for that Traveler girl. The second she shows up to check on her boyfriend, I want her brought in.”
“Yes, Mr. Crow,” the OCI agents answered in unison.
“ Alive. ” The girl was the most valuable one in the bunch. If they lost her, the boss would be very upset. “What else have we got?”
The driver spoke. “The situation in New York has improved. That mercenary girl found the Heavy. Our men will snatch him shortly.”
“No. I want a soft touch on that one. Play it easy. Check the reports. He’s worked with the Bureau a bunch. Find somebody he doesn’t hate, if there is such a thing, and use them to make contact. Borrow whoever we need to, but do not let the BI know what this is about.”
There was a serious professional rivalry developing between the new OCI and the entrenched Bureau of Investigation. J. Edgar Hoover thought that Active criminals should be treated like any other type of criminals. He saw OCI’s lumping of all undesirable Actives together as foolish. Hoover grumbled about violating civil liberties, but Crow figured he just didn’t want to lose clout.
“Let the Heavy take the call and see what that’s all about. Then we’ll take him down.” Crow didn’t use the word arrest, because from what he’d heard about the Heavy, it would be a bloodbath. “Nothing flashy. There’s no way we could take that one alive.”
They only knew who a handful of these people were. Stuyvesant was one, but he was just a kid. The Mover was like a tree. You could shake a tree to see what fell out. Sullivan? That son of a bitch had strolled through Second Somme. The Heavy was a rock. You shake a rock and it was liable to just roll over and squish you.
“How do you want us to handle it?”
“Wait until he’s done talking, then put a bullet in him… Make that lots of bullets. Don’t let our boys take any lip from the military intel types that are there, either. Let the Heavy take the call, then pop him. I’ll fill out the paperwork.”
“Yes, Mr. Crow.”
Crow wasn’t his real name. He’d gone by dozens of names over the years, doing things outside the law for people too squeamish to do them through official channels. He’d worked for everyone from United Fruit to Woodrow Wilson, though this was the first time he had an entire government agency at his disposal. Plus the laws were actually on his side for once, or would be soon at least. Those were being written now.
No, Crow wasn’t his real name, but it was real enough to accomplish his current assignment.
Eliminate the Active group known as the Grimnoir Society.
Chapter 3
