Trance (16 page)

F
resh air had never smelled so good as when we emerged from the rubble. The rotten odor of the old water clung to my wet jeans and had settled in my nostrils. I wanted at least two showers when we returned to the HQ. The scene presenting itself on the Inglewood street indicated that those showers would be a long time coming.

A throng of reporters, photographers, and other camera wielders, shouting rapid-fire questions that devolved into a muddle of sound, stood behind a police barricade that threatened to break if one more person pushed against it.

EMTs surrounded the injured workers and whisked them off to waiting ambulances. I led my team to one of the fire trucks, away from the screaming crowd. A uniformed officer handed over Onyx’s discarded jumpsuit, and we created a human barrier, allowing Marco to shift back into human form and slip into his clothes.

Captain Hooper approached, his previous apprehension replaced by astonishment. “You kids were amazing. I
remember back when your, ah, predecessors were doing the job. They’d be mighty proud of you.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Gage said. “We hadn’t exactly planned this to be our coming-out party.”

“Far from it, actually,” I said. We couldn’t avoid the press conference now. Our pictures would be on all of the news stations within the hour. Footage was probably playing live.

A policewoman walked over with a cellular in her hand and held it up to Hooper. “Urgent phone call for you, sir.”

Hooper took the phone. I ignored the conversation and studied the teeming crowd until he said “McNally.” My attention shifted back, but he was already hanging up.

“I didn’t realize you folks had a publicity agent,” Hooper said.

“A what?” I asked.

“Agent McNally is on her way over to present you folks to the press. She asked that you wait until she arrives before speaking to anyone.”

“Did she?”

“Trance,” Gage said, a single word that came out like a warning.

I turned away from Hooper, toward my team. They watched me, and I realized that they would obey whatever I commanded next. Today’s tragedy had somehow cemented my role as team leader and earned a large amount of undeserved respect. I was a child holding up a sheriff’s badge, and no one else seemed to see it was just a toy.

“What do you guys think?” I asked, mustering up some
bravado. “Ready to meet the press? No specifics, just a friendly chat until McNally arrives.”

“I’m game,” Tempest said.

Onyx shook his head. “I am not a public speaker,
Catalepsia
.”

Off what must have been a priceless look of confusion from me, Gage said, “It’s Spanish for ‘Trance.’ And for the record, neither am I.”

“Then, let Tempest and me do the talking,” I said.

The dissenters shared a glance, but delivered no further protests. I breezed past Hooper with Tempest on my right and the others behind. The shouted questions grew louder and more numerous when the press realized we were heading in their direction. I heard our code names—apparently someone had leaked those already.

I stopped an arm’s length from the barricade and planted my hands on my hips, trying to look authoritative in my dusty, smelly street clothes. I must have pulled it off. They started shushing each other, and the din lowered to a murmur. A burst of purple caught my interest, like a lavender camera flash. I searched the crowd, unable to distinguish the source. Instead, I found a face that stood out from the others: a nervous girl with thick waves of honey-blond hair and saucer-wide blue eyes. Something about her drew my undivided attention.

She realized I was staring, and those nervous eyes nearly popped out.

“You,” I said, pointing at the blonde.

Every head in hearing range turned toward my chosen
victim. Her entire body trembled. She clutched her digital recorder. “Uh, Dahlia Perkins, the
Valley Gazette
,” she said. “Wow, you guys.”

Tempest snickered. I jabbed my elbow into his ribs.

“You get the first question, Miss Perkins,” I said.

Terror telegraphed across her expressive face like a movie marquee. Several moments of near-silence and jealous glares from colleagues passed before Dahlia finally spoke up. “I grew up listening to my mom tell stories about the Ranger Corps,” she said, with an authority in her voice that was not present on her face. “Are you really back? Are you those Rangers so many looked up to?”

“No,” I said without hesitation, and could imagine the odd looks coming from my team. “The Rangers you remember, the heroes who fought in the War, died a long time ago. They were our parents and siblings, and they were our mentors. They were living legends that history will never forget.” Dramatic pause. “We’re a new generation of Rangers, and we’re here now to create our own legend.”

Okay, dramatic much?

They ate it up. The statement created a new flurry of questions from the gaggle of reporters. Dahlia shrank into the melee, finished with her moment in the spotlight. I made a slashing gesture across my throat, and the din quieted to a dull roar.

“Anything else, Miss Perkins?” I asked.

She flushed. “Are you the entire Corps, or are there others?”

“A few of our members are tending to tasks elsewhere,
and our numbers continue to increase as more Rangers find their way to our headquarters here in Los Angeles.” Okay, so that was an outright lie. No sense in admitting we were six strong and not likely to get stronger in the immediate future. “New and reactivated Metas are, of course, encouraged to seek us out.”

“And what of the arrested Banes? Are they active as well?” Dahlia said the name as if uttering a black curse.

“From what we know, yes, many are active.” A hushed murmur spread across the crowd. “However, the government built a sturdy and powerful prison on Manhattan Island, and we are confident it will continue to hold.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“That’s why we’re here,” Tempest said. He stepped forward, shoulder to shoulder with me. A gentle breeze surrounded us both and ruffled my hair, a well-timed special effect I’d applaud him for later.

“So you’re active now because they got their powers back first?” a new voice shouted. The man stood a few yards from Dahlia, hair hidden under a hat and eyes obscured by sunglasses. With our full attention, he finished his query with, “Or is it vice versa?”

I narrowed my eyes in his general direction, but felt no compunction to answer his question. He’d spoken out of turn. “And you are?”

“Alan Bates, Channel Four,” he said.

To Dahlia I said, “Miss Perkins, you can thank Mr. Bates for ending this interview. Good luck with your story.”

A melody of angry shouts and pointed questions followed
me as I walked away from the press. Gage kept pace by my side, fighting away laughter.

“You played them pretty well, I think,” Tempest said. “I have a feeling Alan Bates will become the least-liked person at Channel Four after this.”

“His question was out of line,” I said. “I’m just glad I didn’t have to answer it and sound like an idiot, since we don’t have a clue.”

“We should call the copter back in,” Onyx said.

“Tired of the spotlight already?” Tempest asked.

“I am not in this for the attention, Ethan.”

“And I am?”

“Are you?”

“Cameras, boys,” I hissed. “Smile now, argue later.”

They canned it. Only Tempest pasted on a pleasant grin. Something was eating Onyx, but this wasn’t the time or place to sort it out.

I snatched my Vox. “Bird One, this is Trance.”

our pilot said.

“Where can you pick us up?”

“We’ll be there in a—”

The ground trembled. A distant explosion belched smoke and fire into the southern sky—too far to see the source or feel the concussion, but close enough to know it wasn’t a small detonation.

“We should check that out,” Gage said. “See if we can—”

Three identical pulses tore from our Voxes, a sound so plaintive it gave me chills. I recognized it from my childhood,
on the rare occasion my parents were home and not on call, a tone sent out to every active Ranger Vox that meant one thing: security breach at HQ.

“Onyx, you can get back faster than we can,” I said.

Without reply, he stripped, transformed back into raven form, then took to the sky. Tempest snatched up his discarded jumpsuit. Our transportation waited half a block away; we ran. The copter seemed to take hours to arrive at HQ, where a devastating sight greeted us.

Thick smoke spiraled up from the remains of the Medical Center’s top story. The entire floor was reduced to rubble, fire, and black haze, forcing our helicopter to hover nearby. I gaped, the destruction freezing my mind and instincts. I couldn’t bark orders or decide on a course of action. We’d been attacked in the one place we’d assumed was safe.

A warm hand squeezed my wrist; Gage’s eyes met mine. The expectation on his face shattered my hesitation. “We need to get down there,” I said.

Tempest lowered us to the ground using his wind tunnel method, complete with the nauseating sensation of a six-story free fall. Two nurses burst through the front doors and raced past us, babbling about a sudden explosion and fire alarms.

Onyx was nowhere to be seen. We charged inside, and it occurred to me that while I’d exited the Medical Center several times, this was the first time I was walking in on my own two feet. The odd knowledge carried me toward the emergency stairs, fear and worry squelching beneath my anger. Someone had attacked our home; they would pay.

The first three floors of the building housed labs and research facilities. It might seem strange to not have the Emergency Unit on the first floor like a regular hospital, but Ranger teams often came and went via copter, so the closer to the roof the better, which put the EU on the fourth floor, where I’d spent my time. Five was offices and long-term care rooms; sixth floor, more offices and labs. Dr. Seward’s office was on the fifth floor, and so was Frost’s room.

Gage grabbed my hand, and I pulled him along. He didn’t need support, just guidance as he listened while racing blindly up the stairs.

“I hear voices,” he said, a little out of breath. “Seward is still up there, and someone else, a woman I don’t …”

At the fifth floor landing we stopped, blocked from proceeding any higher by a pile of debris. I pushed against the door. It was stuck. And very, very cold.

“The hell?” I said.

“It’s Janel.” Gage’s voice had an unexpected hitch. “Specter has Frost under his control.”