Painkiller (3 page)

“Oh, that’ll end well,” Reed said, slumping back in his seat. “This guy could be a megalomaniac wanting to use Sienna for world domination, for all we know—”

“Ms. Nealon will be in charge of this new organization,” Mr. Chang said. “Fully, completely. She can choose her own team—”

“Oooh,” Kat said, raising her hand in the air and waving it drunkenly. “Pick me!”

“—and I can assure you,” Mr. Chang said with a gleam in his eyes, “the salary pool will be considerably better than government scale. In addition, there is funding for research and development, a medical unit …” He looked at Ariadne. “Someone will, of course, need to manage the budget of this entity.”

“I told you finance was a hot sector right now,” I said to Ariadne.

“You also said there wasn’t much market for your skill set,” she said without looking at me.

“You’ll be able piece together your very own version of your old agency,” Mr. Chang said, “without the government breathing down your necks.”

“That is so very, very generous of some random stranger who’s concerned about the world,” Reed said, by now fully suspicious. “This guy is willing to throw away millions and millions of dollars to let Sienna run a meta fantasy camp. That’s damned decent. But what does he get out of it?”

“Your benefactor gets a sense of self-satisfaction,” Mr. Chang said, “knowing that the world is a better place with Ms. Nealon delivering aid to those who need it. In addition, there are some tasks you’ll be able to decline involvement in that you otherwise might have been forced to take while in government service, and also some things you’ll be able to investigate or consult on that you might not have been able to. Opportunities abound in the metahuman world.”

“Meaning we could hire ourselves out to be security guards if we wanted to,” Reed said, a cloud over his face.

“If you wanted to,” Mr. Chang said. “But you could also extend your talents into other arenas if you wished. Private investigation, for instance—”

“I’ll to need to switch to drinking whiskey if I’m going to become Jessica Jones,” I said, lifting my beer glass.

“You can do whatever you wish,” Mr. Chang said, nodding at me. “However you feel you would best serve the world at large, whether holding out until the world-ending sort of events require your attention, or getting involved in human missing persons cases is your … area of interest. This opportunity is flexible, and you will be able to set your own course.”

I stared at Mr. Chang, almost not daring to look away. I took a breath, the smell of my beer wafting up at me. “Tempting,” I said. “Very tempting.”

“You cannot be serious,” Reed said, looking at me with stark disbelief.

“So would there be college paid for in this deal?” Augustus asked seriously.

“I’m sure something could be worked out,” Mr. Chang said with a smile.

“Could I structure filming on my new season around this job?” Kat asked, her eyes half-open.

“That would be entirely dependent on Ms. Nealon, as head of the organization,” Mr. Chang said, “but I don’t see a conflict there.”

Kat turned to me. “Could I—”

“You can do whatever the hell you want with those cameras as long as they don’t land on me even once,” I said, brushing her off. “Could we—” My phone buzzed, hard, in my pocket. “Dammit.”

“The sky is the limit,” Mr. Chang said as I pulled out my phone.

“Not according to the FAA,” I muttered, thrusting the envelope at him as I answered the phone. “House of Style,” I said into the phone.

Andrew Phillips was at the other end. I could tell it was him by the disappointed sound of the breathing. “Where are you?”

“At a whorehouse,” I said.

“What?”

“Yeah, I took a job with the Secret Service,” I said. “They have the weirdest initiation rituals, but hey, who am I to argue as the new gal, right?”

“You are not working for the Secret Service,” Phillips breathed into the phone, his annoyance rising.

“You never supported my dreams,” I said, letting my voice faux-break. “Why didn’t you believe in me?”

“Probably because of your frequenting of whorehouses,” he grunted. “We’ve got a murder victim in Chicago.”

“Chicago has quite a few murder victims as I understand it,” I replied. “What makes this one special?”

“That is cold,” Reed said, frowning his disapproval from across the table.

“It’s winter,” I threw back at him, “and I’m me.”

“Who was that?” Phillips asked.

“Just a sweet little gigolo with a heart of gold, clearly,” I said. “Why are you calling me about a body in Chicago? What’s the Sienna of this?”

“The—what?”

I rolled my eyes. “What does this have to do with me?” Duh.

“Oh, yeah, that’s obvious,” Augustus said. The sarcasm was strong with this one.

“The guy was killed with one punch to the side of the head,” Phillips said.

“Brock Lesnar could do that,” I said.

“He was thrown ten feet by the impact, into a brick wall—”

“Seriously, have you checked with Brock Lesnar for an alibi? He’s a really big guy. I mean, I'd say Floyd Mayweather, but you said this vic was a guy—”

“—fractured skull even before the impact—”

“—I mean, big. Big, big, big. And have you seen Lesnar fight? I wouldn’t want to tangle with him, and I’m
me
—”

“—Chicago PD says it’s a metahuman incident,” Phillips said tightly, his annoyance and loathing draping themselves over every syllable. I could tell he was just barely controlling himself. “Are you going to do your job or are you already mentally out the door?”

“Fine,” I said, sighing. “But will you at least get the FAA to lift this stupid cease and desist order so I can fly down to Chicago without having to take a commuter flight?”

“No,” Phillips said. “It’s not my department first of all, and second of all … just no. I’m not doing it. It’s less than an hour flight to Chicago. I already had my secretary book you and Reed on the last one of the night. Get to the airport.”

“Your secretary?” I asked, arching an eyebrow. “How is Guy Friday?”

“Busy,” Phillips said, and then he paused. “Also, he’s not my secretary and this is not really his … area of expertise.”

“You’re gonna miss me when I’m gone,” I said, smirking. I was sure he could hear the smirk over the phone.

“No, I’m not,” he said, certain. “Get your clothes on and get to the airport.”

“Clothes on?” I asked, frowning. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You said you were at a whorehouse.”

I laughed. “I’m at a bar, with the team, celebrating our imminent emancipation from your dictatorial rule, but it’s nice to know I can still pull one over on you with nothing but repeated assurances.” I hung up on him. “Reed, we’re going to Chicago.”

“We are?” He looked at me funny. “Really?”

“Yeah,” I said, glancing at Mr. Chang, who was reading over the paperwork in the envelope I’d handed him. “You’re a lawyer. What do you make of that?”

“I’m employed by your benefactor as your legal counsel,” he said, and he nodded once. “I’ll work on it. It’s not exactly a settled area of case law, though. Try and obey the order until I can see if I can get it reversed.”

“All righty,” I said, and stood. Reed took another drink, leaned over and kissed his sweetie, and then mirrored my movement. “Off we go.”

“One last hurrah,” Reed said, then he glanced at Mr. Chang suspiciously. “I hope.”

“Why would you hope this is it?” Augustus asked with a frown of his own. “You got big plans after this week? I mean, you could hire yourself out to birthday parties as a human wind tunnel experience, but other than that—”

“It’s all right,” Dr. Perugini said, reaching up to pat Reed on the face. “I can find a job easily.”

“You really are going to be a gigolo,” Kat said with a giggle, “just like Sienna said.” She slapped the table and the wood made a cracking sound. “Hahahahaha!”

“Once more unto the breach?” I asked him, trying to draw his sour gaze away from Kat.

He nodded. “Once more,” he said as a woman threaded her way through the platforms over to him and tapped him on the shoulder. Blame it on the alcohol, because it took me a second to realize it was the same woman who’d served me the FAA order.

“Are you Reed Treston?” she asked sweetly.

“No—” I started to say.

“Yeah,” he said, puffing up with pride. “I am.”

“You’ve been served,” she said, slapping another envelope against his chest.

“What?” He blinked, taking the envelope and staring at it. “But I—I barely even fly!”

“And now you won’t at all,” she said, walking away. “Have a good night.”

“I think the ship has already kind of sailed off the edge of the world on that one,” I said, motioning to Reed. “Come on, we have to get to the airport before our flight.”

“But it’s the Windy City,” Reed protested, looking completely crestfallen. “The updrafts between the buildings, the wind off the lake—I was practically born to fly there!”

“Consider my offer, Ms. Nealon,” Mr. Chang said as I started to walk away. “We’ll talk soon.”

I nodded at him, threading my arm through poor Reed’s and dragging him away, his face still fallen like someone had stolen his best toy. “Sounds good,” I said to Chang. Turning my attention to Reed, I said, “Come on, bro. One last adventure on the government dime.”

“Why do they hate me?” he asked, sounding all broken and pathetic.

“According to Kat, it’s because—”

“Oh, shush,” he said, switching to sullen as we followed the rail toward the bar’s exit. He stopped me about ten feet from the door, taking hold of my elbow and pulling me gently around to look me in the eye. “Why are we doing this? We’re government employees leaving service at the end of the week. We don’t have to do anything. They can’t fire us, and even if by some miracle or act of Congress they could … who cares at this point?”

I opened my mouth to answer with snark, but sincerity fell out instead. “Because this is what we do,” I said.

He blinked like I’d slapped him across the face. “Okay, then,” he said after a moment.

“Okay,” I repeated, and off we went to Chicago.

I found myself standing in a back alley in Chicago in the early hours of the morning, next to an overripe dumpster that even the cold couldn’t contain the stink of. Fortunately for me, the smell of the murder victim was being contained by the cold, and was not yet overripe in spite of having his life’s blood splattered across the brick all the way to the mouth of the alley. I surveyed the scene from within the police tape barrier that fenced me in, casting wary glances as the CPD investigators milling around out on State Street as I looked up at the enormous buildings I could see in either direction.

“Well, it’s certainly looking like Chicago is my sort of town, isn’t it?” I muttered to Reed, who stood with his arms folded next to me, apparently undeterred by the nearest dumpster’s wafting aroma of rot or the sight of the murder victim’s shattered jaw and the strange tilt of his neck.

“I’d follow up on that,” Reed said, nodding at the photographers and video cameras lurking behind the police tape, “but we’d probably get sued for copyright violation or something.” He nodded at the body. “You think anyone’s going to come along and explain anything to us, or are we supposed to just start poking around the corpse ourselves for clues?”

“I’ve always been met by the local cops at these things,” I said, folding my own arms in front of me to ward off the cold. It was better than lighting my skin on fire, probably. “They don’t typically love surrendering to federal involvement, but what choice do they have?”

“Apparently a new, privatized option now,” Reed said sourly.

I glanced at him. “You’re really cynical about this whole thing, aren’t you?”

He grimaced. “A powerful, invisible ally sitting in the shadows and offering you everything you’ve ever wanted—essentially the same job, but without the government strings? I’m sorry, no.” He shook his head. “We had that once, remember, with the Directorate? Once the genie came out of the bottle on the meta secret and the world found out about us, working in the shadows went right out the window. This is either a fantasy daydream or your backer’s got ulterior motives, and either way … yeah, I’m suspicious about it.” He gave me a careful look, lips pursed. “And I’m trying to figure out why you’re not.”

“I haven’t had much chance to think about it yet,” I said, brushing him off as I nodded to the corpse in front of us. “You know, soberly, with lots of time for reflection and consideration.”

He rubbed his forehead, and I could tell he was feeling the “soberly” part of it. “Yeah. I’m kinda glad no one’s said anything to us yet. I feel like I need a little more time to regain my wits.”

I knew what he meant; the flight certainly hadn’t helped. We’d breezed through security with our federal agent IDs and gotten on the small commuter plane just before it pulled back from the gate. We hadn’t even had time to stop off to grab a suitcase or a change of clothes.

Or a toothbrush, which, I reflected as I breathed into my hand and felt like I’d been punched in the face by my own dragon breath, was a more pressing need.

“Sienna Nealon?” I turned to see an older guy standing at the mouth of the alley, a traditional trench coat with the collar turned up and a wrinkled white shirt and khaki pants beneath. His badge hung on his belt, which was old and showed plenty of wear at its current notch, like he’d had it for years. The cop had a file in his hand, and he sauntered over to us. “I’m Detective Maclean.”

“Nice to meet you, Detective,” I said with a nod, keeping my fingers firmly anchored inside my coat since I’d forgotten my gloves. Not because I minded him brushing my skin, but because it was chilly. “This is my brother—partner—Reed.”

He frowned. “Uhh … nice to meetcha.” He had an accent that I would describe as Chicago by way of cop. “You taken a look at the scene yet?”

“I’ve seen that this man is dead,” I said with a nod at the body. “Also, that this dumpster stinks, and that this night is dark. Everything else, you can feel free to explain to me.”

Detective Maclean pursed his lips with an utter lack of amusement. “Fine,” he said, and I knew it wasn’t. “Victim is one Dr. Carlton Jacobs, a professor at a nearby college—”