Because whenever the pressure really tended to get on…in clinch time…that was when I bucked up and went bold, in spite of all the clawing, nagging, nasty doubts that had just threatened to drag me down.
I shielded my eyes against the spotlight, cringing away. I couldn’t see much of anything, except some police lights flashing somewhere behind the blinding white in my face. “Ow,” I said, not bothering to hide my American accent. “Man, that’s bright. I’m glad you guys came along though, because—I gotta tell ya—” and I threw in a chuckle here “—I have never been so lost in my entire life. Silly American, I know, making all us tourists look stupid.” I started toward them, taking an easy pace, keeping my hands where they—if there were more than one of them—could see them.
“Just stop right there,” a male voice with a Scottish accent commanded.
“What?” I asked, still flinching away from the spotlight and hiding my face. “I’m lost, man. I need some help.”
“I’m asking you to stop,” he said, and his voice was rising. Probably some worry.
“I don’t understand,” I said, taking it nice and easy. “No comprendo, you know what I mean? You Scots, I don’t understand what you’re saying most of the time—”
I heard the motion rather than saw it, the sound of the guy drawing something from a holster.
Damn.
I sprang into action, committing both of us to our paths, because I needed to reach him before he drew, and he needed to shoot me before I could beat his skull in (which I totally would not do). He’d erred in letting me get relatively close to him without drawing his weapon—whatever it was. I had a suspicion.
There’s a concept in law enforcement that’s popularly referred to as the “twenty-one-foot rule.” It’s not actually called that, really, it’s called the Tueller Drill, but if you say that to most people, they’ll go, “Huh?” Hell, if you ask most people about the twenty-one-foot rule, their reaction would probably be just about the same. But it’s a simple idea, that a human being can cover the distance of twenty-one feet or less in about one and a half seconds—faster than a law enforcement agent can draw their gun, get a bead, and fire a shot.
I was well inside twenty-one feet of this guy, and I could move faster than a human being. I did so, catching him before he could bring up the stun gun he was lifting to bring to bear on target—
On me.
I swatted it out of his hand and made a split-second decision.
I was so tired of hiding, of being pushed back, chased, beaten.
Thrusting my hand against the officer’s cheek, I brushed right past his defenses—
And slapped my palm against his face, anchoring it there.
“Shhh,” I said, and my will bowled his over, even though I didn’t fully have my soul power to bear. He did indeed hush, and it came as a slight surprise.
The burning came a moment later.
It ran through my palm like someone had brushed it with a tickle, then it became a fuller feeling, a sensation of fire running across my skin. I got hot and flushed, and in five seconds I was in, rushing like I’d dove into the officer’s mind.
I took great care, not going anywhere that affected his core memories—who he was, his family, his loves and disappointments. It was a boon of my power that I could be a little picky and choosy about the memories I stole, if I didn’t take the whole entirety of a person.
Here, I was after a very specific thing, a little thread that was perhaps entwined with the rest of his life but didn’t define it. An easy string to pluck, to remove, a tangential detail to his life that he wouldn’t miss unless a certain subject came up—
That Sienna Nealon was a wanted criminal instead of a vaunted hero. Heroine. Whatever.
I took from him the memory of where he’d been when he heard I’d gone rogue, and a few discussions he’d had with the people in his life about me being dangerous. He was of the opinion that, of course, I was, but fortunately the news I was in Scotland and causing havoc was still so new that he wasn’t going to lose much in the way of memories. A briefing from his commander, a few chats with his wife, comments made idly about “that damned Sienna Nealon” being at it again.
Oh…and the moment when he’d first heard, just as the late news was coming on right before he and his wife were about to turn off the TV and get to their marital business for the evening, taking a brief respite from the sleeping kids. Of course, he ended up sitting back down and watching, a kid woke up, and the moment passed because his wife went to go deal with the crying tot and fell back asleep, leaving the poor guy to—
Well, he wouldn’t miss that memory. Next time, I whispered in his mind as I took the memory, when she’s ready, to hell with the news. It’s all bad anyway.
I pulled out of the officer’s mind and then yanked my hand away from his face. My total time in his head? Probably less than a third of a second. It felt longer, of course, as it always tended to, that dilation effect of reading through synapse and memory like I was living it in the moment. It’d been a near thing, too, getting distracted in this cop’s head, especially given how close I’d come to some pretty salacious material. I didn’t want to violate his privacy, and besides, thanks to that time I removed Scott’s memories, that age-old question of what men thought, of what it felt like for dudes during—y’know—had already long ago been answered for me. My skill game took a major level up after that, if you know what I mean.
Oh, God.
Anyyyyyway. I took a step back from the officer in question and he blinked a couple times, now shadowed by the headlights once again. “Constable,” I said, and he focused on me. “Can you help me?”
“Holy hell,” he said in a thick Scottish accent (really, was there any other kind? There were Edinburgh accents, which were no accent at all, and Scottish accents, which were close to incomprehensible. That seemed to be it). “Sienna Nealon?”
This was the moment of truth, and I’d soon discover whether I’d effectively removed the problem areas of his memory. I couldn’t really see his face since he was outlined by the blinding light, but I had high hopes that I was as good at playing around with memories as I thought I was. I’d certainly had a decent amount of practice.
“That’s me,” I said, waiting for the results of my memory-stealing exam. I was just standing in front of him, and stooped down to pick up his taser, handing it to him butt-first. “So…I’m in a little bit of a bind here, Constable. Trouble around every corner. Think you can give me a hand?”
He just stared, the dark shadow, and then turned, giving me a look at his profile. It was a little doughy, but he had the kind of face you wanted to trust—and not punch. Which made it so much easier on me a moment later when he said, “Absolutely, anything you need.”
“I’ve got to get the hell out of Dodge here,” I said. “Kinda ran into some trouble and I can’t fly out.”
“Ouch,” he said, nodding along. “Where are you headed?”
I held my index finger over my lips and smiled. “Can’t tell you. Classified, you know.”
“Oh, sure,” he said, nodding along furiously. “If you need a police escort—”
“No, no,” I said, “I wouldn’t dream of pulling you off duty. But I was wondering…do you have a train station in town?” I shivered a little.
“Absolutely. You need a ride?” He gestured back to the shoe car that he had been driving, the damned spotlight still on us. “Trains aren’t running this time of night, but—”
“That’d be great, thanks,” I said, and started toward the car even before he did. I took care to make sure I got in what was, to me, the driver door, but to the UK was the passenger door, for reasons probably only known to Wikipedia. He got in after me, and now that the spotlight was no longer blinding me, I could see he was smiling. Almost drooling in excitement, actually.