Restraint
Angela woke up to a hand on her shoulder. And the smell of stale donuts and spilled coffee.
She opened her eyes. She was laying down on a cot in the corner of a small room.
A jail cell.
The woman standing over her looked vaguely familiar.
"Wake up," she said. "We need to get you out of here."
Angela recognized her now. Detective Lewis. They'd never been introduced, but Angela had seen her around the police station when she used to visit Noel, er, Detective Aquino.
Lewis reached for Angela's hand. But... "My sa- my stuff."
"It's in the car. Come on, we need to hurry."
Vadim's cellphone rang. Actually it was somebody else's phone, Itsov's cousin. But Vadim could hardly afford to be incommunicado at a time like this.
"It's happening." The duty officer. Vadim didn't remember his name; he thought the man was Polish. What mattered was that he supplemented his income.
What mattered was that Sapphire was being released. Sooner than Vadim expected.
"Already? It's 3am. ...I'll get there as soon as I can. Stall them."
"How?"
"I don't know, just do it."
The door buzzed; Lewis motioned Angela through it. "Not that way," Lewis said, "that goes to the main lobby. To the right." Angela turned the corner -- and ran right into a wall of warm coffee with a police officer behind it.
Angela would have lost her battle with gravity, but Lewis was right behind her with reinforcements.
"Woah!" The officer managed to hold onto his mug, but there wasn't anything left in it.
"Watch it, Leon!" Lewis snapped.
"Sorry." He just stood there, staring dumbly at Angela's chest; her borrowed flannel was soaked through. "For once it's good that it's not hot," he smiled.
"Well, don't just stand there, Leon, go get her something to wear."
"Like what?"
"Don't you have a sweatshirt or something in your locker?"
"Yeah, but-"
"Get it!"
Rank trumped size and the beefy blonde uniform hustled by and through the buzzing door.
"How fortuitous," Lewis said with a chuckle. Angela didn't think it was lucky at all.
She was still a little groggy from whatever Miguel had given her; Lewis turned her around and helped her down the other hallway and to the swinging door at the end. "Here's the restroom, sweetie. Get cleaned up and I'll have something dry to you in a minute."
Vadim sat behind the wheel of Kostya's Mercedes -- the one that hadn't been shot up yet. The police department parking lot was across the street, behind a foreboding razor-wire-topped fence.
Phone. "Yes?"
The inside man. "I stalled her as long as I could. She's leaving now, side lot. Gray department sweatshirt, red gym shorts. She's with a woman: Detective Lewis."
There, through the chain-link fence, Vadim saw the girl and her escort walk across the lot and get into a little SUV. A moment later they pulled out.
Traffic was almost non-existent at three in the morning; they couldn't follow too closely. The unfamilliar phone flummoxed the thief-turned-chauffeur-turned-lieutenant, but he eventually got through to Itsov, who was waiting on the next block. "They're heading down Union, small white SUV. I'll follow; you head up Mission and be ready to switch."
Angela twisted around to look behind them. "That Mercedes didn't turn."
"I told you there wouldn't be anybody."
"I'd still feel better if I had my stuff."
"So you can put more of that shit up your nose? I don't think so."
"No." Well, at least that wasn't the only reason. "I need to change."
"We'll be there soon."
"Where?"
"Somewhere safe. Somewhere with a shower, thank God."
Angela *was* pretty ripe, but there were more important things than that right now.
"Where's Miguel?"
"He got a tip; he knows where they took your friend. He's going to get her now." Assuming Becky was still alive.
"Where?"
"It doesn't matter."
"Yes it does. He needs my help."
"Relax, girl. He's got it covered."
"These people are dangerous."
"He's not going alone; he's got backup. Believe it or not, he does this kind of thing for a living. Anyway, you're in no shape to do anything. He already saved your ass once tonight, that wasn't enough for you?"
Ouch. "You don't have to yell," she pouted.
But Angela detected more than anger... was that jealousy?
She looked at the young woman Lewis had left her with. Not much older than Angela. Sharp cheekbones, small eyes, thick straight black hair, maybe Native American, maybe Mexican or Guatemalan. There was just a trace of an accent.
She'd said her name was Rosie.
She didn't seem rosey.
"Look," Rosie snipped, "It's three o'clock in the morning. You'd be pissed if somebody told you to go down to the police station at three in the morning. You'd be pissed if you found out your... friend was mixed up with a crazy woman again. You'd be pissed if he dragged you into it, and your cousin."
Cousin? The girl in the bathroom...
"I'm sorry." Angela hung her head low. "I didn't mean to cause any trouble."
"Too late for that now. I just hope you're worth it."
"Are you his girlfriend?"
There was a moment of tense (bitter?) consideration. "You'd have to ask him."
Angela thought it was important to set Rosie straight. "Me and Rubio, we're not... I mean, he doesn't... There's nothing going on between us."
"Bullshit." Almost like she wasn't even mad. There was that jealousy vibe again.
"No, really, I don't even like him."
"I don't mean that. I know he's not fucking you. I used to think he was -- he's always fucking around -- or at least he wanted to, the way he was so obsessed with you, and then after the thing, he started working you as a CI... listen to me, talking like him. Fuck. I don't need this shit. It'd be so much easier if it *was* just that, if you were just a case he couldn't let go, or if he was just sleeping with you, shit, even if he was in love with you. No, with you it's much worse. Ever since you skipped on him, he's been... well, I hardly saw him and when I did, he was... well, actually it was pretty good, he wasn't quite as much of an asshole, but with him that's scary. Especially this last week, he was, I dunno... *spooked* or something. Then he called me tonight and asked me to help -- and he promised he'd never get me involved with his work, he fucking *promised*! -- but it was like I was talking to a different person. He talked like he *cared*, about you an' that other girl. And about me."
"He didn't before?" Care about Rosie.
"Fuck no! Two years I've known him, and he never cared about anyone but himself. I mean, yeah, he's in to me I guess, but even that's still about him. -- I don't know, maybe I'm just making it up. Maybe it's just the Glitter." They stopped at a red light; Rosie looked over at Angela. "Either way, I just want things back to normal. So you're staying with me at a safe house until morning, and then I'm gettin' you on a train to Oregon where there's this guy Miguel knows, and he's gonna help you out. And then everything's gonna go back to normal."
Angela looked down at what she was wearing. Stretchy black skirt, matching tank top, chunky flip-flops. The baseball cap they'd given her to hide her hair sat on the dash, its "Porn*" logo staring back at her. She wondered if these clothes were what Rosie's cousin normally wore, or something they thought Sapphire would wear.
Normal was hard to figure lately.
"What did Miguel tell you about me?"
"That you're a nice girl from the suburbs who went Batman." Angela gave Rosie a confused look; Rosie explained. "You became a vigilante because of what happened to your parents. Miguel figured Bates helped you cuz he felt guilty."
But... "I, um, started before my mom was killed. And Bates didn't have anything to do with that."
"Yeah, but your dad."
What about her dad? "He was a truck driver; he died in an accident."
Now Rosie looked confused. "Miguel said..." She trailed off, then backed up. "Wait, so why *did* you do it?"
"I don't know anymore. It's complicated." She wasn't going to try to set Rosie straight -- she was too tired, too strung-out, too confused about what Miguel had planned... and too embarassed.
And anyway, if Miguel was rescuing Becky and getting Angela out of the state, well... quitting, or at least taking some time to sort things out, sounded really good...
"What's in Oregon?"
"Guy, used to work with Miguel, retired there a while back I guess. Miguel says he owes him; sometimes I swear everybody owes Miguel. Except you -- he said to tell you you don't owe him anything." Rosie's head snapped around to stare at Angela again. "You sure you never fucked him? Nevermind, I don't wanna know." Back to driving. "Anyway, this guy Kimble lives up near Eugene, he's got a spare room, and he'll get you into a program, and once you're clean he'll help you get back on your feet. I guess he owes Miguel big. And I guess Miguel must really feel sorry for you, or something. You sure you never fucked him? Nevermind, I don't wanna know. Whatever it is, you better appreciate it. He doesn't do this for just anybody..."
But from the way she'd said it, Miguel had done it before. Maybe for Rosie.
Vadim checked the street sign again. It couldn't be, but it was.
The white SUV was heading back to the police station!
The big Mercedes roared as Vadim jammed the pedal to the floor, lurching left to overtake the target. Once past, Vadim yanked the wheel hard and stabbed the brakes, sending the car into a tizzy as its electronics tried to interpret the wild move as something a rational person might do and respond accordingly. The car shuddered to a stop on a diagonal, forcing the SUV against the curb.
Vadim leaped out of the car. The driver was a police detective, so he knew better than to draw his gun; instead, he acted the part of a furious motorist, waving his arms madly and shouting, "What the hell, man? What the hell?"
He didn't have to get too close to see that the girl in the passenger seat was not the same girl he'd tangled with earlier. Wearing the same clothes, but not the same girl -- obviously Miguel had pulled a switch, the clever bastard.
The detective had stepped out of the car, using the door as a shield, gun drawn. Vadim threw his hands up, backing away. "Sorry! My mistake... the car slipped..."
She yelled "Freeze!" but he knew she wasn't going to shoot him, not in the two seconds it took to get in the car. And he hoped not after that, because he'd already perforated one of Kostya's cars tonight...
As the Mercedes zoomed away, the Russian let loose a stream of cursewords he hadn't heard since his father was alive.
Miguel Rubio had tricked them.
Vadim grabbed the phone, steering with his knees as he punched in Cogan's number.
He had to stop Cogan before he went too far. They needed Rubio to tell them where he was hiding Sapphire...
Angela woke up from her bath to voices. The water was cold; she'd been out for a while.
Thin beige morning yawned through frosted glass.
Angela shivered into a towel and cracked the unfamiliar bathroom door.
A small spartan apartment. Rosie was standing in front of the dirty brown couch.
The woman who'd let Angela out of jail was motioning Rosie to take a seat when they noticed her.
"Angela, you remember Detective Lewis."
"Yes. Thank you."
"I was just doing Miguel a favor."
"Have you heard from him?" Rosie asked. "He was supposed to call me an hour ago."
"That's why I'm here. Something happened..."
Miguel pulled up to the curb. Backup was already here -- three patrols and a paddywagon. A half-dozen men were already strapping into assault gear.
"This isn't the Sultan's house, is it?" one of them joked. He was referring to the way Moroshkin had suckered them all down to the docks to ambush a legitimate shipment of high-end cars belonging to the sultan of some middle-eastern country, while Moroshkin's own shipment of stolen cars was being loaded on a giant Russian cargo jet miles away.
"No," Miguel chuckled; he deserved a little ribbing. The important thing was that these guys were here. "Look, it might be nothing. Just the same -- when you got here, the door was already open and I was already inside, right?"
"Right." "Yeah." "It's your ass, we're just watchin' it."
Two went around the back, one covered the side; three followed Miguel up to the door. All the lights were out; a quick peek in the window revealed the front room was empty.
The door was unlocked.
Not a good sign.
"Police!" Miguel shouted.
There was no one to hear it.
A sweep of the house found it empty, and hardly lived in. Lots of photography equipment in the back, lighting set up in the master bedroom. Furniture, but no clothing; soap and toilet paper, but no toothbrushes or shampoo.
This wasn't a house. It was a set.
So if they did find trace of Erin here it wouldn't mean anything.
The other officers were packing up. "Sorry, Mike," Miguel apologized.
"Hey, they can't all be winners," the officer shrugged. "I hope you find the girl."
"Thanks."
"Call if you need us, otherwise we'll see ya at Mel's when shift's over."
"Yeah."
Miguel slumped back into his car. It'd been a long day, and he was afraid he'd reached the end of it. Artie Hooks' tip had seemed honest -- indeed, the man had seemed crushed -- but it went nowhere. Which meant that Hooks himself was probably nowhere by now. Along with the last good lead for finding Becky Robinson while it still mattered.
"What's the matter, Detective?"
Miguel jumped; instinct put hand to holster...
"Freeze!" the man behind him barked.
Miguel felt the seat bulge into his back; he relaxed. His eyes caught the movement of shadow in the rear-view mirror as his assailant leaned forward...
"Cogan."
"That's Crisco to you," Cogan sneered.
It was a stupid nickname, but it belonged to the man with the gun in Miguel's back, so Miguel wasn't going to say so.
Crisco grinned. "Guess you didn't find what you were looking for, eh?"
Neither did they. "You've got the wrong girl. Erin isn't Sapphire."
"Yeah, we know."
"So let Erin go. I can help you get Sapphire." It was all he had.
"You've already done that. We know where she is."
Shit. "Then you don't need Erin."
Crisco leaned back, but gave Miguel a jab through the seatback to remind him to keep still. "Well... the thing is, we already had a buyer for her before we thought she was Superbitch."
"A... buyer?"
"Rich twisted fucks who like to train spirited young women in the art of private entertainment. I gotta tell ya, I don't know if we ever had anything this fucked up where I come from."
Miguel just kept talking, whatever came to mind, hoping to get Crisco off-balance. "Where is that, exactly?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"At this point I'll believe anything."
"Would you believe we have a buyer for Sapphire? Makes up for the Chapayev deal."
Miguel's heart skipped a beat. But he knew the Russians feared Sapphire -- and he knew why. "You really think anyone can contain her?"
Crisco grunted. "The Buyer says he can. Shit, *you* contained her. Plus, I hear she's a Gliss-head. Enough of that shit'll take the fight outta anybody."
Miguel racked his brain. He had nothing to go on, except that little glint in Crisco's eyes...
"I can help you," Miguel said.
"How?"
"With Moroshkin."
Crisco knew what Miguel was driving at. "I can kill him whenever I want. But why would I want to? I like things the way they are. This is my second chance, like... like I finally got to heaven." Crisco leaned forward, his head next to Miguel's, using the rear-view to look the detective in the eye. "I like stealing, killing, and fucking. I don't wanna *run* shit, have to make fuckin' decisions all day, have everybody always after you and tryin' to take your shit away from you. I'm finally in a place where my talents are recognized and encouraged. So maybe every once in a while I gotta put up with a little shit, let the big dog bark, but pretty much everything he asks me to do is shit I like doin' anyway."
Crisco turned his head to look directly at Miguel now. "Like doin' you."
Miguel suppressed his fear, but his heart still hammered away in his chest.
"What's the point of killing me?" he reasoned as calmly as he could manage. "It just makes more trouble for you."
Crisco leaned back again, his relaxed posture underlining who had control here. "Like you don't have a long list of people who want you dead. Besides, it's not like anybody can contain *me*."
Then there was a deafening Crack!, and a flash of light, and Miguel felt a searing heat in his back. He started reaching for his gun, started leaning to the right to get position, but another Crack! slowed him. He felt a hand on his shoulder push him back upright.
Crisco's mouth was suddenly at Miguel's ear. "See, the point of killing you is Payback."
Miguel looked down; the bullets had gone through, leaving behind a growing blackish smear. He already felt dizzy.
"Fuck. This is my favorite shirt." He pressed his hand against the wound, inhaling sharply at the pain.
"Then you shouldn't have come here to get killed in it."
Miguel reached for his radio, but Crisco knocked it away. He reached for his pistol again; for some reason, Crisco let him draw it, even let him point it over his shoulder. Miguel pulled the trigger once, twice, three times -- but when he looked in the mirror, Crisco simply wasn't there.
The recoil had brought the gun vertical; Miguel simply dropped it on the front seat.
Crisco reappeared. Blinking didn't make the apparition any less real.
"Are you finished? Good. Because I really want to watch you die."
Miguel's breathing quickly became labored, each breath intensifying the pain. Crisco had used something big; it wouldn't take long.
This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Shots in the back while he sat in his car. It was stupid.
He wasn't finished. He hadn't saved Becky yet. Hadn't collared Moroshkin yet. Hadn't said those words to Rosie yet. Hadn't done anything good yet.
He gasped; he probably had a punctured lung. This was shitty. Disappearing act or not, Crisco was still just a punk; he didn't deserve to be the one.
But there was a bright spot.
They weren't going to get Angela.
This was Angela's fault, really. She'd sucked him into this. She was the worst thing that ever happened to him. Made him look like a fool. Somehow he'd both overestimated and underestimated her. His great talent, his ability to read people, and she'd completely tricked him.
He smiled. No, he'd tricked himself. It was all there, from the beginning. He just never wanted to believe it. He couldn't believe in a world that made him a supporting player to a shy suburban sweetheart. He really couldn't believe in a world where such girls somehow gained the power to fly and stop bullets and level buildings, or where criminals vanished into thin air. Not when all he had was guts and instinct. His ego wouldn't let him live in such a world.
But he was going to die in one.
At least tonight he'd finally realized where he'd been all this time.
At least he'd had his revelation. He'd seen the real Sapphire. The real Angela.
Jumping -- no, *flying* -- down off a rooftop, battering two thugs without laying a hand on them, hovering in mid-air, brushing off bullets. He'd seen her do things like this before and he'd dismissed them -- illusions, equipment, his own exhaustion -- sometimes concocting elaborate alternatives to the impossible but increasingly simple truth.
Then somehow she'd fallen. Somehow one of the Russians had found a weakness, or something went wrong. Maybe it was the drugs, interfering with... whatever it was, however it was that she did what she did.
She'd fallen so far.
And he'd been there to pick her up. To feel no harness, no belt, no suit, only soft, naked vulnerability. To look up and see no crane, no pulleys, no wires. To ask her where they'd gone, to wonder what trick she'd used.
To hear her say simply, "there isn't any."
Miguel relived the moment . . .
He looked down at her, confused, incredulous. He searched in those big, tragic, guileless eyes.
And he believed.
He imagined the tremendous burden she must have carried.
And as she clung to his shoulders, this fragile young woman, shivering and broken, he knew in a way that burden was now his.
He didn't know if he was strong enough to bear it, but he would try.
. . . Miguel had done the best he could. And he knew Angela would do the same.
Miguel smiled.
He'd been given a glimpse of what could be, and he'd done something to protect it. And because of that, he knew things would turn out all right, even without him.
Miguel's eyes had closed; pain opened them when Crisco jabbed him through the seat. "Hey, asshole, you're dying. Don't fucking smile."
Miguel turned serious. "Hey."
"What?"
"I wish I could be there to see the look on your face when you figure it out."
Crisco had said the same thing to Miguel the last time they'd met, talking about Angela, just before Crisco had vanished into thin air.
Crisco snorted. "That's cute. Using my line."
"Seriously," Miguel said, pausing to take another painful breath, continuing the turnabout. "You don't know who she is. You don't even know *what* she is."
Miguel noticed a micro-expression of concern on Crisco's face. "But you know, huh?"
"Yeah. She's a hero. And you are so *fucked*."
Lewis' voice began to sound strained despite its soft tone. "They didn't find anything. Miguel stayed behind after the other officers left. When he didn't call me on time, I had an officer go back there. Miguel was still there, in his car. Someone had been in the back seat; they shot him in the back. He'd bled out before the officer got there."
Bled out. That meant...
"Miguel is dead."
Angela felt herself fall back against the wall; wobbly legs lowered her to sit on the floor.
Rosie was already sitting. She stared off into space, silent and still.
Angela looked up at Lewis. The detective looked like she didn't know what to make of the news. Like it hit her harder than she thought it should. Like she wasn't sure what to do next.
But she was trying. "They're taking another look at the house, but there's probably nothing. We don't have enough to get a warrant for anywhere else the Russians might have taken the girl's bod- the girl." Lewis' voice sounded like it was at the other end of a long tunnel, but Angela wasn't so withdrawn that she hadn't noticed the slip: Lewis believed that Becky was already dead.
Lewis continued, flat and lifeless, The Job kicking in, dictating emotional deferral. "I'm going to go through Miguel's notes, starting at his apartment. Rosie, do you know if he keeps any hidden files?"
Rosie sounded even more distant. "I don't know. Probably. I don't think he would have told me."
"I'll go through everything I can find."
"Art Hooks Photography," Angela managed. "I think that's where they grabbed Becky, and where they tried to grab me."
"I'll check it out."
But Lewis didn't go anywhere. Nobody moved.
A sense of defeat made immediate action seem pointless.
Kostya Moroshkin sat at the head of the table, brow furrowed and lips pursed but silent. Vadim had expected him to be thumping the table, barking recriminations and demanding better results; but the Russian Mafiya boss was quiet and contemplative.
He probably figured he was fucked.
He asked the obligatory blame question, but his heart wasn't in it. "How could you let him lead you around like that?"
Vadim sighed. There hadn't been time for better intel, they couldn't risk exposure... There was no point in clinging to excuses. "Detective Rubio stayed a step ahead of us."
Cogan snickered. "And yet now he's dead."
Vadim felt his upper lip twitch; he did *not* like the cocky car-booster-turned-hitman. "And yet now we need him to give us answers."
"Not necessarily," Cogan shot back, though clearly Vadim's comment had stung.
"Vadim is right," Kostya mediated. "Rubio was our connection to the girl. We released him prematurely."
Vadim was no stranger to the uglier side of the business, but he still found the euphemism 'released' to be a bit cavalier.
"We'll get something," Vadim said, hopeful. "He obviously had help. We'll find out who he's worked with and check them out, find out who his girlfriend is..."
"There's no time," Kostya sighed. "Doug will be here tonight."
"He cannot expect miracles," Vadim said, defensive of the problem if not his part in it. "Sapphire is no ordinary girl. Surely he knows this, or he would not have offered such a bounty."
"It is not just Doug. There is also the other matter."
Vadim didn't know the details, but he knew money was owed, payments were late, and threats were becoming less veiled. Even a man like Moroshkin had obligations.
Cogan shrugged. "So, make her come to us." Vadim thought the same way, but was happy he didn't have to make the suggestion himself.
Kostya raised an eyebrow. "How?"
"Provoke her."
"But if what Vadim says is true..."
"What?" Cogan bristled. "So you don't believe me, but you believe *him*."
"Cogan, shut up," Kostya snapped. "Vadim?"
Vadim pressed his hand to his chest. He had taken to wearing Bates' ancient coin on a string around his neck; he had come to think of it as a good luck charm, or at least a symbol of his recent improved stature and fortune.
The coin's warmth gave him confidence. Whatever had happened to the Sapphire girl to fell her, it was not a fluke. It would happen again.
And then they would have her.
"She is amazing, but she is not without weakness. I believe when the time comes we can contain her. And it will be better if we can choose the place." Vadim expected Kostya to question that, but the Mafiya leader simply nodded in acceptance; Kostya clearly trusted Vadim's word on the matter.
"Besides," Vadim added, "between the other girl and Rubio, I think we may have already provoked her."
Cogan smiled cruelly. "Well, it can't hurt to make sure."
A cellphone warbled; Lewis pulled it out of her jacket pocket and flipped it open, checking the display.
Her face paled.
"Oh, shit."
Rosie looked up. "What is it?"
"We need to get her out of here."
"Why?" Angela asked.
Lewis hesitated, but then crossed the room and held the phone down where Angela could see it.
It was a picture message. The title was "taped 2 rubios apt door". Lewis pressed a button with her thumb to display the picture.
It was a pink phone memo, the kind receptionists used to take messages.
It was addressed to SAPPHIRE:
WHILE YOU WERE OUT
[X] OtherS PAID
Angela pushed the phone away. Her whole body burned with the flush of rushing blood.
This was too much.
They were taunting her.
Blaming her.
Doubts and fears and emotions swelled and surged and swirled...
Becky, trying to be like Sapphire.
The Russians' wrath claiming Becky in her place.
Miguel, killed for daring to help her.
Neal's coma, Cherry's flight.
Running, hiding, from everyone, from herself.
Poisoning herself. Weak. Useless.
Wasted.
Something so powerful brought so low. Sapphires squandered. Why?
Why did she let this happen?
Because she was afraid.
Afraid of bringing harm to those she cared about. Afraid she couldn't have a normal life, couldn't ever let her guard down, couldn't ever have anyone close to her.
Afraid of her dark dangerous desires, of her power's double-edged sword.
Afraid that if she struggled so much against her own frailties and the machinations of ordinary men, she couldn't hope to do anything against greater threats.
Afraid that her power was not exclusive or absolute. Afraid of Crisco, and Dino, and Cole. Afraid that The Hunter and Black Widow were the beginning, not the end.
Afraid of the sapphires. Afraid of weakness. Afraid of losing.
Afraid of herself.
But fear had made itself real. Running from her fear sent her straight into fear's embrace. The very things she'd tried to avoid had come to pass.
Maybe the sapphires were destiny. Or maybe it was just chance that they'd found her.
Either way, they were more important than this.
Angela Barrett was better than this.
Fear had made her hide. But there was no use hiding.
Whether she lived in the glow of the sapphires or the dark shadow of fear, someone would come after the sapphires -- after her.
There was nothing subtle about the sapphires' power, from the open defiance of gravity, to the impossible protection, to the awesome bluntness of their attack, down to their visual boldness, right down to the way they made her present herself when she harnessed them. To be subtle or secretive was disingenuous, at odds with their purpose. Sapphire was a beacon. If in direct boldness she drew out evil, so much the better for its forceful dismissal.
Angela pushed herself to her feet.
"You better get going," Lewis said. "I'll have a patrol unit watch the train station just in case."
Angela went to the couch, where the clothes she'd worn lay in a neat pile. Rosie's cousin had swapped clothes with her in the police station bathroom. Angela would have to make do. The black stretchy skirt and black form-fitting tank top might dampen the sapphires' energy. She grabbed the side seam of the skirt and pulled hard, ripping it open nearly to the waist before slipping it on. Angela didn't bother to turn around as the towel fell. Picking up the tank top, Angela dug her teeth into the side, beginning a sideways tear that cropped the garment in half; pulling it on, it barely covered her breasts. The girl nodded with grim satisfaction: it would do.
On the floor next to the couch sat a paper grocery sack; inside, her shoes and wings and tiara. Angela grabbed the wing-sleeves first, the wristbands' sapphires glittering even in the gray light eking through old curtains.
The other two raised eyebrows. "What are you doing?"
"Two people are dead because of me -- because of this -- because of *them*." She was shaking as she stepped into her heels; the tiara slipped over her wet locks.
Angela pulled the purple-capped vial out of a slit in her wristband, tapping out two little hills, sucking one up each nostril. She held her head back a moment, breathing deep in the nose and out the mouth. The gems glowed brightly, spitting blinding flashes as they adjusted and settled.
The gossamer girl slowly rose into the air, floating weightless, limbs and pelvis going neutral, like a swimmer, the gems lifting her nearly to the ceiling and then slowly lowering her to the ground like an invisible ballet partner. When she opened her eyes, the exhausted and beleaguered girl was gone, and a warrior woman stood in her place.
"I'm *done* hiding."
Lewis and Rosie watched in awe as Sapphire strode toward the apartment door.
"It's a trap," Lewis said. "They're trying to draw you out."
Sapphire opened the door, her form bathed in morning light.
"They'll wish they hadn't."
Sapphire slipped into the old building through the roof. She remembered meeting Miguel here once. Their first time. The dilapidated structure wasn't far from Dino's club; she was surprised they hadn't met here again. But after that first time, Miguel had always found her, usually at home. Maybe he'd figured this place wasn't safe. Maybe he'd seen how uncomfortable she was. Maybe he'd just picked it at random. But he'd seemed awfully comfortable here.
Sapphire thought hard; that first meeting seemed ages ago. Which room? She should have come in from the side door like she had that first time. No, wait, the burned wall, the main staircase... it was this door.
When she entered, she knew it was the right room from the smell. Fire damage, alcoholic's spew, and urine.
Neutral ground, Miguel had said. And yet...
She remembered having to stand, because there was nothing in the room she wanted to touch. A cockeyed couch fallen from the floor above, a pair of soot-covered desks, the metal frame of an office chair.
But Miguel hadn't been standing. He'd been sitting, like he was holding court. Over there, on that file cabinet.
Sapphire floated across the room, above the debris, landing in front of the cabinet. Two drawers, sturdy metal, and the only thing in the room that wasn't bent or burned. It was locked, but it was cheap; Sapphire gave it a roundhouse kick -- Bang! -- knocking it over, and the lock popped. It took some grunting to get it upright again.
The bottom drawer just had bricks in it. But the top drawer: jackpot.
Manila folders, most worn soft from use, full of clippings, receipts, labels, scraps of paper, photos, all with scribbles in Miguel's hard masculine hand. None of them had labels; he must have known their order by heart, known the files by feel. But some of the items in each file had names scrawled on them, either alone or in context, some she recognized and some she didn't: Bates. Ramirez. Sinclair. Miles. Berger. Cogan. Dixon. Moroshkin. Barrett.
The Moroshkin file wasn't as thick as she expected. It looked like mostly personal stuff; maybe the Russian Mafiya's business interests were in another file... Still, she whipped out her tiny notepad and pen and copied down two addresses: apparently a man like Moroshkin didn't live in just one house.
Cogan's file was thin; a list of cars and dates, some motel listings, coasters from a few dirty-sounding bars, and a scribble about magicians.
Dino's file had stuff about his house, his cars, a little about Club Ten...
There had to be more. Another file. She started with the thickest ones.
This had just a bunch of businesses. A photocopied map with inkpen dots on it. Maybe... no. GB's: this was Bates stuff.
The next one seemed more organized. Some of the items didn't fit -- full sheets of paper, laser-printed, official-looking. Case notes, transcripts. Federal Bureau of Investigation. She remembered Miguel mentioning he'd been through their files. Names appeared that tickled her memory somehow: Shostakovich, Sergei Popov. Sergei: also the name of the Russian Ambassador's secretary.
She flipped through it with more urgency. More names, most of which she couldn't pronounce. Spreadsheets. Manifests. Boring. She'd have to sift through this for an hour to come up with a decent number of addresses...
Then, the mother lode. Another map, more dots, with brief notes next to each in Miguel's writing. "Hangout." "Laundry." "Girls." "G-Mfg." "Escort." "Receiving." "Off-track." "Bank." "Safe." "Chop." Some scribbled, re-arrowed, crossed off, some unreadable, some cryptic, but Better than a Who's Who of the Russian Mafiya: a What's Where.
Sapphire shook her head. She could imagine Miguel's frustration -- and his ambition. He'd been the one to put Bates away. He'd been casting for Big Fish here, too. But catching someone like Moroshkin with incriminating evidence couldn't be easy.
Sapphire thought of Dino Sinclair and his recordings. That would be one way to bring Moroshkin down. But she'd have to find them, or make Dino give them up, and she didn't know if it would be enough. And she didn't like the idea of going to Dino with hat in hand. She wasn't sure she could trust him, and she wasn't sure she could force his hand.
But she was sure she could trust him to deliver a message.
The rock flew through the top pane of the great arch window behind Dino Sinclair's desk and came to rest in last night's ice bucket.
Dino leaped to his feet, spinning around, squinting into the morning sun; there was nothing on the street below for him to see. "What the fuck?"
He retrieved the rock, holding it up, turning around, reconsidering the broken window...
...when something much larger came crashing through.
Dino couldn't help but cringe as the wall of glass disintegrated and turned an office into a patio.
His eyes weren't closed for more than an instant; when he opened them, something sat on top of his desk.
Not something. Some*one*.
Rising. Standing.
Speaking.
"You're going to pay for what you've done." Hands came to hips. "You're *all* going to pay."
Her feminine form was a haloed shadow, the bright morning sun streaming in from behind. The light caught and impossibly brightened the large blue crystals on her hands and feet. Dino had to shield his eyes.
The Avenging Angel was here. And she was angry.
"I didn't do anything," Dino said.
"People are dead because of your associates."
"I didn't know. I had nothing to do with that."
She hopped down in front of the desk. "That's not good enough. You know who you work with. You know what you do for a living."
Sapphire thought she saw a flash of recognition cross Dino's face.
"What are you gonna do?" He'd seemed to find a well of confidence, using it to step toward the headstrong heroine. "Are you gonna kill them? Kill me?"
It was an aggressive move, a challenge to her authority and control, and it had come from a man she'd seen suck the life from another, a man whose very touch had once made her feel weak. The startled girl leaped back, but her fear lasted only an instant; she would put this man in his place. Sapphire pulled up in a slow rearward arc, clearing the desk and landing behind it, one foot forward, the other foot back. Bending her knees, she put her hands against the drawer faces on either side of the desk. And pushed.
The big oak desk moved slowly at first, but picked up speed as Sapphire put more force into it. Its momentum caught Dino by surprise: he braced against it, hands clamping the top edge, but a mere man, even one as strong as Dino, was no match for the Sapphire force. The desk clipped him like a speeding car, folding him face-first onto the desktop. Sapphire let up at the last moment, but the desk still smashed Dino hard against the bookshelf bar, pinning him. Hanging snifters jarred loose from their shelves rained down, bouncing and breaking off Dino's back.
She'd hurt him worse than she'd thought; he grunted and gasped as he straightened up slowly. He put his hands against the edge of the desk and with great effort shoved it a few inches away, then sagged back against the bar. Sapphire could see in the cracked mirror behind him that his shirt was sliced open in two places and he was bleeding.
"Don't move," she said, still commanding but a little regretful. His shoulders slumped as he let out a deep breath. The man had more fight in him, but they both knew she could take it from him.
"Let me help you. You can't do this alone."
Just then, the office door burst open; Dino and Sapphire both snapped heads around in reaction. Bruno knelt against the door, gun already drawn, already aimed.
"Bruno, *no*!" Dino shouted. But the shot was already fired.
Sapphire heard the bullet whiz by. A warning shot. She turned to face Dino's friend and bodyguard.
Bruno squinted into the sudden daylight. "*You* don't move," he said, sighting her for a kill shot.
Sapphire thrust her hand at him; his gun fired, its projectile hitting her chest as her force-blast hit his.
Bruno tumbled back into the hallway like crumpled paper in a gust of wind; Sapphire stood unaffected.
"I don't need your help," Sapphire spat. "I just need you to deliver a message."
The superheroine rose up, floating to the center of the room, gems glowing brightly, her expression one of boiling disdain. Fists raised, Sapphire began punching at the air to Dino's right, each punch invisibly streaking across the room and hammering through the wall. Wood splintered, sheetrock powdered, pipes burst. She swiveled to his left, noting with satisfaction the way Dino threw his hands in front of him in helpless defense. Another series of distant punches chunked jagged holes in the other half of the wall as well, each impact booming and shaking the room like an earthquake.
Sapphire waited until Dino dared to look again. She pointed an accusatory finger; even this gesture made him flinch.
Her voice deepened with ominous intent. "Turn yourselves in. Because as long as you're out, it's gonna cost ya."
Sapphire rang the doorbell. The great oak door was so tall and so wide it seemed to lean toward her; nothing about Moroshkin's house was not subtle. There would be nothing subtle about her visit, either.
A woman with an apron and sensible shoes pulled open the door; her expression began as confusion -- Sapphire didn't imagine Kostya's doorbell got a lot of use -- but quickly blanched to fear. Sapphire put her hand against the door to prevent the maid from closing it.
"Mr. Moroshkin is not here," she said, fearful.
"I'm not looking for him. Who else is here besides you?"
The maid could only stammer. "I... just..."
"*Who*?" Sapphire shouted.
"J-just the cook. An-and his, um, date." She meant prostitute.
"Get everyone out of the house," Sapphire ordered. "Now."
The maid looked past Sapphire, seeing the two burly men passed out in the driveway. Sapphire smiled; they hadn't even gotten a shot off before she bounced one off the other.
The maid looked back, her fear growing. Sapphire felt something drip down her chin. She wiped her nose with the back of one hand; she was bleeding again.
"Oh my God," the maid breathed. "You are her; the one they whisper about. You have come to kill us all."
"I'm not going to kill anyone," Sapphire said, rising up off the ground. "I'm just here to redecorate."
"And now with more on today's top story, Eyewitness News' own expert on Organized Crime Ivan Friedman with what may be the method behind the madness. Ivan?"
"Thank you, Ken. What do a popular nightclub, a neighborhood savings and loan, an auto repair shop, and a Valley Heights home all have in common? Each has been a target of police and FBI surveillance in connection with a criminal organization allegedly led by this man, Konstantin Moroshkin. A former officer in the Soviet Army, Moroshkin came to this country over a decade ago, building a successful business with the popular downtown nightclub, Club Sterling. Numerous investigations attempted to connect him to other less-glamorous businesses and crimes ranging from insurance fraud to murder, but thus far Moroshkin has successfully maintained his innocence, claiming guilt by association and police harassment.
"Today's attacks by the mysterious vigilante Sapphire appear to be harassment of a different sort. In a sudden escalation of the war on crime, the so-called Avenging Angel has taken a wrecking ball to the alleged assets of the Russian Mafiya. Though there have been no serious injuries, and the damage to the first target was mostly cosmetic, the other three buildings hit today were almost completely destroyed. Early estimates put the damage as high as thirty-one million -- and at least one insurance adjuster was heard to say that they may be ruled as Acts of God.
"Police will not officially speculate on what triggered the attacks, but they began just hours after the death of highly decorated police detective Miguel Rubio. Rubio, found shot last night in his car outside an alleged Russian Mafiya safehouse, was one of the detectives assigned to apprehend Sapphire in connection with several attacks against suspected criminals over the past few months. Police will not say whether the vigilante is a suspect in Rubio's death, but unofficially a source within the department has suggested that today's attacks are a retaliation for the murder.
"The whereabouts of Konstantin Moroshkin himself are unknown. Leading police and the public alike to wonder, Where will Sapphire strike next? Back to you, Ken."
Kostya had a look of desperate anger. "Acts of God? Do you know what that means?"
"It means they don't want to foot the bill," Cogan smirked.
Vadim kept his head. "Friedman probably made that up," he soothed.
"You are probably right," Kostya agreed. "But even so, provoking Sapphire was a mistake."
"It is just another opportunity. How many times have I heard you boast that destroying a front is as profitable as running it? Be happy that Friedman is not claiming this to be just another insurance scam."
"He'll do that later. What do we do in the meantime? You said she would come after me, not... this." Kostya waved one of Sapphire's notes in his hand. "'It's gonna cost ya' -- that bitch mocks my name!"
"Calm down, Kostya -- you have used that same meaning yourself, when it suited you."
"I don't like being made a fool of by a... by a *little* *girl*!"
"Chill out, boss," Cogan chimed in, eliciting a look of hot death, but for once not withering under it. "So she's a little dumber than we thought."
"You mean, smarter," Kostya said. "She knows what we want. And she knows she can hurt us."
Cogan shrugged. "Dumber, smarter, whatever. She thinks this girl Erin or Becky or whatever, Sapphire thinks she's dead. Remember what Dino said? So, we make sure she knows the girl's alive -- and about to be sold."
"How?"
"Get Dino to do it."
Kostya looked like he was about to protest, but then a smile came over him. "Of course." Then his brow furrowed again. "What if she doesn't come?"
"She'll come," Cogan said, sounding at once admiring and disgusted. "After all, she's a heroine."
The feminine fury pushed through the double doors like they weren't there -- and except for a carpet of broken glass and a pair of twisted frames, they weren't. Sapphire's heels crunched over the glass, dismissively waving a hand at each pair of display cases she passed. The jeweler-cum-money-launderer cringed out of sight in the corner, hearing the avenging angel's approach: Crunch Crunch *Smash* Crunch Crunch *Smash*.
Finally, silence. Had she stopped? Would she spare him?
The jeweler, snuggled up next to the back of the end display case, slowly rose, afraid but compelled. Looking through the only intact glass left, he saw the gaping maw that had been the front of his store, the two askew rows of broken cases, the glittering field of shatterproof glass rendered as faceted and useless as the store's inventory.
He rose higher, over the top edge of the case, and saw two of the biggest, brightest, bluest sapphires he'd ever seen. Attached to shoes, on feet, at the end of long legs, stemming from flaring hips, below a slender waist, and a pair of breasts, and an angry glare so intense it hurt him to see it.
He was dead for sure. The rumors had been flying -- -- maybe true, maybe not, but not worth sticking around. Except that he'd been given a task. By the man to whom he owed his life. A man he'd fought beside in Afghanistan. And a man he feared more than death itself.
So he raised his hand -- slow, supplicating -- holding the small silver object with the glowing face, and uttering what he thought could be his final words:
"It's for you."