The Pretender (The Soren Chase Series Book 2) (36 page)

One of the policeman looked at Sara in confusion, apparently realizing she looked exactly like the woman he’d just watched flee. Ken was holding up his badge and talking to them.

Soren touched her arm. “Are you okay?” he asked.

She searched his brown eyes, looking for evidence he wasn’t who he said he was, but didn’t find any.

“I have no idea,” she said.

Ken Sharpe sat behind a table in a bare, nondescript room.

As far as places for an interrogation went, this one wasn’t bad. He’d been offered a drink at least three times and someone had given him a dog-eared, day-old
Washington Post
to read.

The SWAT team had taken Soren, Sara, and Ken into custody—but only Ken had been held. He wasn’t sure if he should be surprised by that. By rights, all three of them should be in separate interrogation rooms, but the police had instead unexpectedly agreed to take Sara to the hospital to see Alex. They’d treated Soren, meanwhile, as if he were a victim, apparently unaware that he hadn’t been part of the crowd to begin with. Last Ken had seen, he was being taken to the hospital by an EMT.

Eventually, that situation would change. Soren was on video breaking into a room of the Arlington County police department, and someone would want to talk to him about that.

But for right now, it was just Ken in the hot seat. The chair hurt his back. He kept pondering what his punishment would be. He was guilty of interfering in a police action, among other things. They had more than enough to destroy his career, but he doubted they could put him in jail. There were simply too many weird things going on, and a good lawyer would likely prevent the worst from happening.

His thoughts were interrupted when the door opened, and a woman dressed in an olive green military uniform strode confidently into the room. She was short and stocky, with white hair, probably in her late fifties. Her most distinctive feature was a scar on her face, which extended from her nose down her left cheekbone. She shut the door, placed a briefcase on the floor next to her, and extended a hand to him.

“Colonel Diane Hopkins,” she said, pumping his hand with force. “I’m sorry for the wait, but certain details were being worked out.”

Whatever Ken was expecting, it wasn’t this. His uncertainty must have shown.

“My apologies, Detective. I know this must seem unusual. But this event is being considered a major terrorist attack on US soil. There are more than forty casualties, though thankfully many of them appear to be the terrorists themselves.”

“This wasn’t terrorists,” Ken said.

“No? Then how would you characterize it, Detective?”

She looked at him curiously, and he began to have a glimmer of what was going on.

“You know,” he said. “You know what attacked that theater.”

Her face remained neutral.

“I’d prefer if you tell me,” she said crisply. “Please be honest.”

He’d been prepared to lie, to make up some story about Rakev being part of the Russian mob. But it suddenly seemed very important to be as precise as possible. “A demon attacked the Kennedy Center with a force of shirkens, stoneskins, gaunts, and men,” Ken said. “He hoped to break through an interdimensional barrier by committing a mass human sacrifice.”

Hopkins looked nonplussed.

“And would you prefer for us to tell that to the American public?” she asked.

Ken nodded slowly.

“I suppose ‘terrorists’ would incite less panic,” he said cautiously.

“Just so,” Hopkins replied. “The attackers’ real identity is strictly need-to-know, is that understood? Please tell Ms. Ignatius the same. You’ll be pleased to know we’ve kept her name out of everything. The media would have a field day if they knew the woman whose child was recently kidnapped was found at the scene of a major terrorist attack. It would be unwise for her to reveal she was there.”

“She would sound crazy,” Ken said.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Hopkins answered. “The world is changing rapidly, Detective. We have been aware for some time of the—shall we say—supernatural threats this country faces, but they appear to be growing in number and impact. This attack on the Kennedy Center was the most public, and we fear it will not be the last.”

“You know about what’s going on?”

“Why do you think we built that gun Mr. Rakev was waving around? It is unacceptable that it fell into his hands, but we were unaware anyone knew about it. It was our only working prototype. Mark my words—we will track down and find the pretender that escaped with it.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Ken asked. “Are you charging me with something?”

Hopkin’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“Charging you? No, no, no,” she said. “I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood the situation entirely, Detective. You aren’t being reprimanded. You’re being promoted.”

“What?”

He thought he’d heard her wrong. He was going to lose his career—he wasn’t being promoted.

“We’ve reviewed the security files in Arlington and at the Kennedy Center,” she said. “We are highly impressed. You alerted authorities to an attack, evaded a security net that was tightening around the center, and attempted to take down a class A threat with only a civilian by your side. To put it bluntly, you have guts, Detective. We need people like you.”

“We?”

“You’re being transferred to an interdepartmental task force,” she said. “Officially, it’s to combat a new breed of terrorists who use powerful hallucinogenic drugs on victims to make them believe impossible things occurred. Unfortunately, there were a few videos of the attack which were uploaded to the Internet before we shut them down. We are deriding any reports of ‘real’ monsters as conspiracy nonsense, but it will be a tough road ahead.”

She shook her head as if resigned to something unpleasant.

“Still,” she continued, “the official version of events should play well with the American public. Several victims report seeing a glimpse of a shadowy figure in the aisles killing the guards. That’s you. Congratulations, Detective, you’re a hero. This time tomorrow, the president himself will be asking to speak with you.”

“But that’s not what happened,” Ken said. “I’m not a hero. At the end, I was mesmerized by the knife like everyone else.”

“The moon landing didn’t happen, either, but most people believe that,” Hopkins said.

Ken looked at her in alarm.

“That’s not true,” he said, and then waited a beat. “Is it?”

She spread her hands.

“Actually, I’m pretty sure that really did happen, but it underlines my point. People believe what they want to believe. We’re the US government, Detective. We’re here to protect people. And that is what we’re going to do. Hopefully, with you on the team.”

Ken’s mind was racing. “And if I refuse?”

He thought perhaps she’d make a threat, but she smiled instead.

“Why would you, Detective? It’s better pay, a more fulfilling job, and you’ll be tasked with protecting this country from a grave and growing threat. Your country needs you, Detective.”

Ken merely nodded. She clearly knew how to play him. And whatever else she said, he knew she would make it impossible for him to refuse this new assignment.

“When do we start?” he asked.

Hopkins picked up her briefcase, put it on the table, and opened it. She withdrew a pad of paper and a pen.

“I need to do a quick debrief, and it’s helpful to avoid computers,” she said. “They are too easily compromised.”

Ken looked at her curiously.

“What do you want to know?” he asked.

“I need you to tell me everything you can about Soren Chase.”

*****

Lochlan sat in the dark on a park bench in Great Falls Park, waiting for his contact to arrive.

The park had closed two hours earlier, and he’d effortlessly avoided the feeble efforts by park rangers to ensure no one was left inside. Now he sat listening to the roar of the waterfall several yards away.

He heard the sound of someone’s foot scraping a rock nearby, and turned as a young, black woman stepped in front of him. She was holding a smartphone and texting as she walked.

“Not good to do two things at once,” Lochlan said.

She looked up, appearing to notice him for the first time.

“I’m checking that my son is okay,” she said.

Lochlan snorted.

“Yer son? Yer kind don’t have kids,” Lochlan said. “Ya know yer not Alex’s real mum, right?”

She gave him a frosty look. “Of course, I know that,” she said. “But I still want to make sure he’s okay. I tricked Glen into texting me about his condition. He’ll make a full recovery.”

Lochlan nodded. “Glad to hear it,” he said. “I always liked the kid. He was brave. Made friends with my daughter, too.”

It was her turn to look at him skeptically.

“‘Yer kind don’t have kids,’” she said in a perfect imitation of an Irish accent.

“Adopted daughter, if ya prefer,” Lochlan said. “The world is a surprising place. Sometimes it even catches me off guard.”

They stopped as another person appeared next to them. Unlike the two of them, this one appeared to materialize out of thin air. There was a shimmer, as if they were looking through an icy pane of glass, and then a portly man in tailored clothes stood before them.

Lochlan knew he couldn’t normally teleport, but The Council occasionally liked to use complicated magic to impress people.

Rippon, who sometimes went by the name Randolph Chastain in mortal circles, stepped forward.

“Friday,” he said, nodding in the woman’s direction, before turning to the leprechaun. “Lochlan.”

Both of them slightly bowed their heads.

“I’ve just come from a meeting with a high councilor,” Rippon said, and Lochlan thought he saw him shudder slightly. “The Council is very pleased with our work. Together, we have thwarted Silas Rakev and stolen two valuable commodities from him. I trust you have the weapon, Friday.”

Lochlan leaned forward as Friday handed over a silver gun, looking at it with interest. “So that thing can really destroy anything?” Lochlan asked.

Rippon gave him a reproachful look as he took the weapon, slipping it into an interior coat pocket. “It was no threat to the Council, I assure you,” he said.

“Oh yeah? Is that why ya went to such trouble to steal it, then?”

“It pays to be thorough,” Rippon replied. He turned and gave his full attention to Lochlan. “And I trust our charge is in good hands?”

“I help ya take down Rakev and ya leave her with me. That was the deal,” Lochlan said, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“So it was,” Rippon said. “Don’t look at me that way. We will keep our end of the bargain. Indeed, the councilor wanted me to pay you both a bonus. You will have more than enough money to care for the child. But know this, leprechaun: she is yours on loan. You owe us a debt, and it’s the girl who will pay it.”

Lochlan started to object, and Rippon raised a hand to interrupt him.

“We do not intend to kill her,” Rippon said. “She’s valuable. We won’t employ her services until after she’s matured.”

“Exactly what is this little girl?” Friday asked.

Rippon smiled wanly. “It’s no concern of yours,” he said.

“Why does that worry me?”

“Come now,” he said, his tone soothing. “We are all on the same side, are we not? I did mention the bonus, didn’t I? I have valuable information coming your way, Friday.”

“A bonus is only fair; we saved the Council’s ass,” Lochlan said.

Rippon frowned.

“What about me? I don’t need money,” Friday said. “Seems like everyone got what they wanted but me, Rippon. You said if I did this, Falk would remember who he really is. But he’s still acting like he’s Soren Chase. That wasn’t the deal.”

Rippon made a face as if he was in pain, but Lochlan knew it was feigned. “That is unfortunate,” the portly man said. “But I think you’re ignoring all the progress we’ve made. We found the Reeker, did you know that? We had a devil of a time finding someone who knew its language, but when we finally did, it spilled quite a tale. According to it, nobody but Falk could have destroyed Rakev the way he did. At the very end, Falk was back. And I’m told you were the key to that happening. Tell me, did you know that taking Ms. Ignatius’s identity would have such a salubrious effect?”

Friday shook her head angrily.

“No,” she said. “I didn’t even know she would be in the theater. I tricked one of Rakev’s guards into attacking some of his colleagues while I moved backstage to flank Rakev. When I arrived, I found Sara being attacked by a stoneskin. My first instinct was to protect her because I still had bits of Ken Sharpe rattling around my brain. The best way to do that was take her place. I knocked out the real Sara and continued to dispatch Rakev’s men. When I’d finished, I saw Rakev and Soren fighting on stage. I kept waiting for the right moment to jump in, but . . . I could see him becoming Magnus, remembering he was Falk.

“He was so like Magnus in those moments,” Friday continued, and she looked into the trees as if she were seeing somewhere far away. “The way he moved, how he fought. I thought he would win on his own. But Rakev was too strong. I played dead, waiting for a moment to strike, hoping the two of us could take him together. As it happened, however, that proved unnecessary. Rakev took me for the real Sara and ‘killed’ me. I don’t know what happened next. I’ve never had my neck broken before; it took a while to recover. But I assume the hate unlocked something inside him. When I awoke, Rakev was gone.”

“Destroyed,” Rippon said. “Falk obliterated him. The Reeker saw it all.”

“Rakev may be dead, but Magnus is back to acting like Soren,” Friday said. “I should never have made a deal with you.”

“Don’t worry, my dear. We’ll get him back,” Rippon said.

Friday gave him a long, searching look. “Why do
you
want him so badly?” she asked. “What do you think he’s going to do for you?”

Lochlan, too, wanted to know the answer to that question. The Council could have destroyed Soren already, but it had let him live. He couldn’t fathom why.

Rippon spread his hands.

“Because a war is coming,” he said. “And when the time comes, we want Falk to do the impossible. We want him to unite the doppelgängers again. And together, we will put humanity back where it belongs—firmly under our control.”