I recognized that as a sign of nothing good. “What?” I asked, and he didn’t answer, just stared straight ahead. “Reed … what is it?”
He drew a long breath, then let it out, slowly. “They have a suspect, and … he’s known to us.”
“Oh, man,” I said, putting a hand to my face. My list of rogues was pretty short these days, and one popped immediately to mind, someone who could move—well, mountains, or the earth, and definitely shake up an aircraft carrier within its berth if he were of a mind to. But I didn’t say this. Instead, I said, “Who?”
“They’ve placed Eric Simmons at the scene,” Reed said tightly, getting to his feet. “When confronted by the military police, he fled. They’ve got a helicopter over him right now, and they’re following him back to wherever he’s going.” His jaw tightened, my brother suddenly serious, no more trace of the mom combo. “They’re waiting for us to make their move.”
3.
Simmons
Eric Simmons was getting away with it, and he could barely believe it. He’d crossed the bridge down into Norfolk with ease, before they’d even known what hit them, and now he was crossing the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, heading north into Maryland, where he’d disappear on the back rounds and vanish, heading north to Delaware. By tomorrow morning, he’d be safely tucked away in New York City. Maybe he’d catch a flight to Asia, wake up in Kuala Lumpur or spend some time surfing on Australia’s Gold Coast. It was summer there now, after all …
Simmons steered the SUV through traffic. It wasn’t his preferred car; he would have liked something smaller, maybe a little more eco-friendly than a gas guzzling SUV, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and the fact that it rode a lot higher than one of those cars made him feel like he was king of the road, looking down over the lesser drivers in their itty bitty cars like he was the mack daddy.
Oh, yeah. Simmons was making it.
The Chesapeake Bay Bridge dove down into the second tunnel ahead. He was about halfway through the four-mile length, just marking the minutes, planning to ditch this vehicle when he reached the other side, pull off and use a second getaway car that had been provided for him.
It was all going according to plan thus far, the tunnel darkness shrouding him, his beams and the lights on the dark wall letting him see just a little further ahead. It was kind of like this plan, really—all he needed to see was the next move, and the next. Sure, he’d had it all laid out, with help from his captors in Revelen, but he only focused on one thing at a time. Wrecking the carrier. Then running back to the car. Driving off. And now, getting to the change-out vehicle.
After that … getting the hell out of the hinterlands and back into civilization.
The light ahead was blinding, shining down as the tunnel rose back to rejoin the bridge. The tunnels served their purpose, though; Simmons figured there was a ship passing over his head even now, which was pretty cool. He was no fan of what those ships did to the environment, but he respected their power, their ability to move supplies from point A to point B around the earth. And the fact that a multi-ton cargo ship could be above his head, literally, right now?
It gave him chills. Cool, man.
Simmons ran a hand through his long hair, and up he went with the slope of the tunnel, rising out of the water to rejoin the bridge. Halfway home, he thought, feeling like he’d already kind of won this race. After all, he was going to be rid of this car pretty, soon, before they’d get a chance to catch him and—
Orange glowed just above him, and Simmons squinted. There was a glowing spot. Something was at the entrance to the tunnel, looking down at him …
Something … human?
There was a figure on fire hovering just a few feet above the bridge surface as he emerged into the daylight, noticeable against the blinding sunlight only because of the subtly different shade they were projecting. It was not a daylight color, it was the color of a bonfire, of flames, of—
Sienna Nealon?
That was one of her tricks, covering herself in fire and coming at you, flying. Simmons squinted at the figure who just hovered there, about ten feet off the bridge deck, looking down at the traffic passing harmlessly below. A semi truck honked its horn, and the figure drifted into the other lane, letting the semi pass, albeit slowly because the driver applied the brakes, probably worried something bad would happen.
But nothing bad happened as the truck passed …
Nothing bad happened until the figure looked right at Simmons.
And then lit him up with a ball of fire.
Simmons threw himself from the getaway car by reflex alone, tearing at the door handle and hurling himself from the vehicle. Searing heat passed along his back as he hit pavement and rolled, slamming into the curb and then up, back slamming against the bridge rail. Simmons cringed. That hurt.
He pushed his eyes open and looked up; the flaming figure was still hovering there, and Simmons’s getaway car was burning, traffic slowing to a stop behind him, the honking already beginning. Everyone was keeping their distance, and now there was an ever-widening pocket empty of all traffic in front of his car, no one daring to pass that flaming wreck and come closer to the fiery person who’d brought his escape to a halt.
“Dude. Well,” Simmons said, cringing, looking up at the flaming person—no, it was a man, he realized on further inspection. The height, the way the flames hugged the body—he was a dude all the way, and that at least ruled out Sienna Nealon, thank goodness. “I guess you got me.”
Simmons wasn’t ready to throw in the towel just yet, but he was limited in what he could do against a flyer. Earthquake powers didn’t tend to affect anyone who wasn’t on the ground, after all.
“Get up,” the flaming figure said, his voice heavy with some kind of Russian or Eastern European accent.
“You got it, boss,” Simmons said, putting his hands up as he stood, wobbly, using the bridge rail against his back to support himself. “Hands behind my head?” He’d figured out the score now—this was law enforcement, probably that new FBI meta squad.
“No,” the man said and drew closer. “Your powers … earthquake?”
“Yep,” Simmons said. He didn’t see any reason to say no. It wasn’t like it was a serious question he could lie his way through.
The man came down to the ground slowly, feet landing on the pavement and searing the asphalt as he did so, smoke rushing off them and filling the air with the stink of burning tar. “Put your hands down.”
Simmons just stared at him, then looked behind him, as though seeking advice from the nobody that was there. Well, there were people in the cars, the traffic that was piling up behind them, but … nobody was out of their vehicles. No cops, no civilians … everybody just sitting there.
“What?” Simmons asked, trying to make sure he’d heard the fire-man right. “You want me to put my hands … down?”