Shades of Gray (11 page)

It did nothing for Jet’s headache. She hissed as Nocturne bleated, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. The pain had begun when she’d stopped relying on physical training and skill against Nocturne and started tapping into her extrahuman power—a subtle thing, then, a stroke of discomfort as Jet had released a creeper of Shadow to startle her opponent. But as the fight had progressed, the stroking turned to knocking, then to pounding. And now her head felt stretched taut and her senses were as keyed up as a junkie’s—colors too vivid, bleeding and raw; smells of pollution and ozone and sweat combating for domination. As Jet and Nocturne soared over Wreck City, Jet pressed her fingers against her temple, massaging, silently pleading for what was surely a migraine to vanish.

And maybe the Light was shining on her, because the other woman’s voice finally gave out. When Nocturne fell silent, Jet breathed out a sigh of gratitude. Her head, though, continued to throb softly.

It’s getting worse.

She knew it in her heart. The headaches were coming steadily now, in rolling waves of pain that lasted for hours. As much as she wanted to say it was due to sheer exhaustion—the last time she’d slept was two nights ago, and she’d already maxed out on caffeine patches for the day—Jet knew better.

Whatever else Corp’s brainwashing had done over the years, at least it had kept the Shadow voices in check. Now, without whatever frequency they’d used to soothe that part of her mind, it was getting harder for her to ignore the Darkness that licked at her thoughts.

She was going to lose herself to the Shadow again.

As they flew, she peered down at the blurs of buildings, the cars and hovers that looked like children’s toys, at the people marching antlike to their destinations. It would be so easy to step off the disc and let herself fall, until the ground came up to meet her.

She nodded, determined. If it came down to it—if the voices grew too strong—she would kill herself. Better that than to become something worse than rabid.

By the time they touched down in front of the Sixteenth precinct, Jet was feeling better. Her head still hurt worse than the scorched earth, but at least she felt in control, if exhausted. Nocturne had curled into a tight ball and wouldn’t untangle her limbs even when on solid ground. Jet debated leaving the woman tucked in a fetal position right there by the commissioner’s doorstep, but she decided against it. Wouldn’t do her any good if the police or even Wagner himself tripped over Nocturne and wound up breaking an ankle.

As Jet hauled her captive up the precinct steps, a black limo pulled up to the curb, followed by a battalion of minihovers overloaded with screamingly bright news-channel logos.

Jet distinctly thought,
Fuck.
Then she prodded Nocturne harder, telling the woman to move. Peripherally, she saw a brute stuffed into an expensive suit climb out of the limo. Strictly bodyguard material. As he scanned the block, taking in both Jet and Nocturne, flashes and glares and pops from the newsies burst like localized fireworks.

Almost there,
Jet thought, propelling Nocturne toward the massive front doors. If she could escape inside the building, that would be the end of it; the media didn’t make it a habit to set foot inside the police station, not since Wagner had nearly taken off a reporter’s head for interrupting an interrogation by asking the prisoner to smile for the vids.

“Jet,” a man’s voice called out. “A moment of your time.”

She turned to see the large man standing in front of the limo. Overhead, the cameras whirred and clicked.

“A moment, citizen,” she agreed, despising that the conversation was being recorded and simulcast to the networks. Motioning to Nocturne’s bound form, she said, “Then I must return to business.”

“Understood.” He opened the limo passenger door with a perfected flourish. The well-dressed man who emerged was small, fat, and wore enough cologne to fell Colossal Man at two hundred meters.

Mayor William Lee.

Behind her optiframes, Jet’s eyes narrowed. Two weeks ago, this man was practically falling over himself to show Jet his gratitude for all the work she did as the official Hero of New Chicago. But then she’d offended him when she’d ditched an award ceremony (in her honor) to confront Iridium—at the time, still Public Enemy Number 1. Lee hadn’t taken it well. In fact, he’d almost gotten her sponsorship with the City revoked.

So how to play this?

Jet wished she could get Ops online for advice, but there was no time—the mayor was approaching briskly, his face set in a scowl. Jet pushed aside her exhaustion and her worries, straightened her spine, and lifted her chin.

“Good day, sir,” she said—not simpering, no, but borderline deferential. The cameras and vids caught every nuance.

The mayor glared at her, then at Nocturne. “Isn’t littering a finable offense?”

She smiled tightly. “We’re on our way inside to see Commissioner Wagner.”

“Of course you are.” He walked up closer until he was well within her personal space. “Nocturne saved my daughter’s life last year.”

Careful,
she told herself. “Last year, Nocturne was a valuable member of the Squadron.”

“And now?”

“I caught her breaking into First National, sir, then she fought me and tried to escape.”

“And you prevailed. Miraculous,” he said dryly. “So why is it that all of the Squadron goes insane except for New Chicago’s own patented hero? Why is Corp refusing to comment? Can you give me any answers, Jet?”

If it were Hornblower here instead of Jet, he certainly would open his mouth and censure Corp-Co, damning them to the deepest Darkness. But the years of conditioning still held; if Jet tried to breathe a word against Corp, her brain would catch fire. She knew—she’d tried before.

So all she said was, “I wish I could, sir.” And that was the Light’s honest truth.

He held her gaze, and around them, the reporters salivated. Cameras flashed and vids gleamed in a dizzying array. Jet’s optiframes irised, canceling out the blinding effects.

“Well, you have a long history of service to the city,” he said loudly in his smooth politician’s voice, smiling. He offered his hand, and as Jet took it, he leaned in close enough to kiss her. Lee whispered, soft enough that the vids wouldn’t catch it: “One false step, and I’ll have Wagner drop everything to haul your ass to Blackbird.”

“I appreciate your words, sir,” she said, her voice far too tight.

He shot her a look filled with venom, then released Jet’s hand. “Dawson,” he said, “take this burden off Jet’s hands, would you?”

The bodyguard approached them, indifferent to the reporters, and hefted Nocturne over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. They disappeared inside the police station.

A long moment passed, and things unspoken hung in the air. Jet sensed the crowd of citizens that had gathered around the precinct steps, drawn in like moths to the light of the news vids. In her gauntlets, her hands were sweating. She hated being the center of attention.

“You go on with your heroing,” Mayor Lee said. “I have an appointment with the commissioner.”

She stretched her smile to its limit. “I’m surprised he didn’t come to you.” A tiny zing, one she shouldn’t have let loose.

The mayor smiled in return, a nasty smile filled with promise. “He doesn’t know we have an appointment yet.” And then Lee straightened his lapel and walked up the remaining steps to the station.

As if on cue, the reporters swarmed her.

“Jet! How does it feel going after your own teammates?”

“Jet! Do you think you’ll be going rabid too?”

“Jet, what assurances can you give the people of New Chicago that you won’t put them in harm’s way?”

“Jet! Over here, smile!”

“Jet! Give us a fierce look!”

She tried to get a word in, tried to think, but they kept coming at her, firing questions at her and flashing their lights, demanding. Insisting.

Enraging.

all of them all of them vultures suck them dry

Light, no.
She wanted to cover her ears, but the vids would see her weakness and the reporters would never let her forget it. She had to get away before the Shadow grew too strong. She—

“Jet!”

The man’s voice was loud, almost crystalline, easily carrying over the sounds of the reporters and paparazzi. And it came from above.

She looked up and saw a man swathed in black, his head covered in a ski mask fitted with goggles. His hover revved, and he extended a gloved hand.

Her heart skipped a beat.

“Sorry to break up the impromptu press conference, honey,” Taser shouted, “but you’re needed!”

Desperate, she smiled for the cameras. “My sincere apologies,” she said brightly. “But duty calls.” A spring of Shadow propelled her upward, and she grabbed Taser’s outstretched hand. He pulled her onto the back of his hover with ease.

“Jet!” a reporter cried. “Is this your new boyfriend?”

She nearly gagged.

“Might want to hold on to my waist,” Taser suggested. And then he gunned the engine and they took off.

Jet clutched onto him, hating him and thankful for him. As the wind whipped her cowl back and sent her cloak fluttering madly, the Shadow voices giggled and teased, whispering things that made her want to cry. Then they receded.

For now.

He said nothing as they rode, and neither did she, but there was an energy between them, dancing, suggestive. She gripped his waist and gritted her teeth, and in a charged silence Taser and Jet cut through the polluted skies.

When they landed on a rooftop somewhere in the Waterfront Grid, Jet nearly flew off the hoverbike.

“Usually, the damsel gives her savior a token of her affection,” Taser said.

She clenched her fists, felt the Shadow pulsing around her curled fingers. “I’m so very grateful that you saved me from the evil press corps,” she said curtly. “What do you want, Bruce?”

Under the mask, the outline of his mouth pulled into a grin. “You, of course. You’re looking particularly sexy tonight in your skinsuit.”

“Don’t,” she said quietly.

“That’s right, you have no sense of humor. I remember that from your file.”

“And I remember how you lied to me,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm, “how you used me and seduced me, how you betrayed me and nearly got me killed!” She was shouting now, the words erupting from her mouth. “You’re a bastard, Bruce Hunter!”

He watched her for a moment, then slowly brought his hand to his chin and lifted the mask. His face, pale against the black fabric and the dark mass of his hair, was still upsettingly handsome. Bruce Hunter smiled at her, but his blue eyes held regret.

“It wasn’t personal, Joan,” he said. “It was business.”

“Right. Because mercs will sign on with anyone, for any cause, as long as the money’s good.” Suddenly cold, she rubbed her arms. A small part of her had been hoping that the mercenary called Taser had lied to her, back when he’d captured her and Iri weeks ago, that he wasn’t really the same man who had been her Runner.

The same man she had taken to her bed.

But the proof was right there in front of her. No, he hadn’t lied—not then, and not now. Though she despised that she had been his assignment, she could appreciate his work ethic.

And damn it all to Darkness, she was still attracted to him. Stupid hormones.

“What do you want, Bruce?” she asked again, her voice flat.

“You and the others are in a bind,” he said. “Too much chaos, not enough control.”

“Your point?”

“I was a Runner,” he said. “I can gather up the others, organize them into a cohesive unit.”

“The others?”

“The other Runners. Think about it—a dedicated civilian group that would support you and the others.”

She frowned. “You could do that?”

“Honey, I’m damn good at my job. When I was your Runner, I made sure to learn everything I could about the Runner network, how they operated, and what they did. How to contact others in a pinch.” He grinned, and Jet’s stomach fluttered. “They’re running scared now, like sheep. All I have to do is herd them, and they’ll be back in support mode in no time flat.”

Light, how much easier things would be, having even a little help. They could work with Frostbite on sorting through the Corp data, decrypting it in their search for information on Martin Moore and his horrific serum. Meteorite would create their communications unit and start working the streets, countering the Everyman message and publicly reassuring the citizens of New Chicago and the world that, even in the face of madness, a handful of them still stood strong.

But … this was Bruce. And as tempting as his offer was, she couldn’t bring herself to trust him. “What do you get out of it?”

“You mean other than the satisfaction of helping those on the side of justice?” He chuckled. “My standard rates apply.”

Of course. Taser was a mercenary. He never did anything for free. Even when he’d seduced her, he’d gotten paid for it.

“I’ll call for a meeting with the others,” she said tightly. “I’ll let you know what we agree to.”

His sensuous lips pulled into a smirk. “You do that, honey. Not like there’s a crisis or anything.”

She opened her mouth to say something she’d certainly regret, but that was when Meteorite’s voice hummed in her ear.

“Babe, you free?”

“Just slumming,” Jet said, staring hard at Bruce.

“Slum later. A bomb went off in the Downtown Grid, on Third. I need you to help New Chicago’s Bravest.”

“On it.” She paused, then said, “Firebug’s busy?” The Fire power was a natural for such situations.

A longer pause from Meteorite. “She opted out of this one.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard.”

A Squadron soldier choosing not to help firefighters? Unfathomable. Baffled, Jet asked, “Where’d the bomb go off?”

“The Everyman Society regional office.”

Jet closed her eyes. Her head throbbed, and she was drained, and the thought of dealing with Everyman, even for something like this, made her heartsick.

“Jetster? You’re going, right?” Meteorite sounded uncertain.