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  Ethan shifted to my right, ready to shove open the door. I thumbed the safety off my Coltson. My heart pounded. My body thrummed with anticipation.

  Both doors swung inward on a pop of kinetic energy and slammed flat against the wall on either side. I stepped backward, stunned by the sudden action. Jack and Jill stood less than ten feet away, side by side, feet spread and hands out to their sides like passengers steadying themselves on a rocking boat. Only they weren’t unbalanced. They were ready to fight.

  “Didn’t your parents tell you it isn’t polite to crash other people’s parties uninvited?” Jack said in a familiar, petulant teenager tone.

  I bristled. Oh, I didn’t like this kid. “Didn’t your parents tell you it’s even less polite to break-and-enter other people’s property?” I asked, and raised my right hand. Over the sight of the pistol, I stared down our teenage thieves.

  As a trio, we moved a few steps forward, into the frame of the doorway.

  “Since when do Rangers carry guns?” Jill asked.

  “News flash, kiddo,” I said. “We aren’t the Rangers anymore. Now, why don’t you both put your superpowered hands behind your backs and come with us quietly?”

  “No.”

  “We’re busy,” Jack said with a snarl in his voice. He snapped his right hand in our direction.

  Energy crackled, and before we could react to defend ourselves, the double doors came slamming right back at us. Like an unexpected tackle from a defensive lineman, the blow sent all three of us tumbling backward in a messy, painful heap. Light exploded behind my eyes as my head cracked off the cement floor. Ethan’s elbow hit my gut. Alexia was somewhere under my left shoulder.

  “Okay,” Ethan said as he rolled off to the right. “Now I’m pissed.”

  “No more easy way, right?” I said.

  “No more easy way.”

  Fan-fucking-tastic. Time to take down some teenagers.

  Two

  The Ante

  Jack had figured out a way to lock the double doors, so we had to waste time letting Alexia tear apart the hinges, and then we knocked the doors down flat. They slammed into the floor with a deafening thud that vibrated up my feet.

  Inside the warehouse, three shrink-wrapped pallets were moving into the back of a tractor-trailer. And when I say they were moving, I mean on their own. No pallet jack, no forklift. The pallets hovered a few inches above the ground and slid into the truck. Had to be Jack, which slapped a big, fat telekinetic label on his forehead. Powerful, too, to be moving three pallets at once.

  Our targets were both out of sight, hiding somewhere inside the cavernous warehouse and its labyrinth of wrapped pallets, some stacked at least three high. Ethan motioned for us to split up. He gathered the wind and soared up into the rafters to get a bird’s-eye view. The air rippled, and then he careened into the far wall. He hit with a shout and dropped straight to the cement floor, out of sight. It took seconds.

  Fury bubbled up from deep inside me, rippling over my skin and through my bones. I wanted to run to Ethan and make sure he was okay, but more than that, I wanted to hurt someone on his behalf. “Tell me you’re okay, Wind Bag,” I said over the com as I charged into the maze of pallets.

  No response.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Wood creaked nearby as another pallet rose off its stack and hovered its way toward the tractor-trailer. I didn’t know where Alexia was, and I didn’t care. I crept down a row of pallets, listening carefully, channeling my anger into my senses, cataloguing everything—sights, sounds, smells. Something squeaked to my left, and I slipped through an opening between two stacks of pallets. Peeked around the corner.

  Jack stood with his back to me, hands out like some fool worshipping at an altar, probably directing his latest pallet of stolen food. I steadied my right hand with my left and sighted the center of his back. The short hairs on my neck prickled with an innate sense of being watched—a sense I’d honed since I was a child and molded to perfection during my days in Las Vegas. That prickling gave me just enough time to duck.

  The food above me exploded in a blast of heat, melted plastic, and burning cardboard. The odor of scorched popcorn hit me, along with hot kernels and other bits of superheated shrapnel. I scrambled away, my own skin rippling with memories of agony and helplessness.

  I couldn’t see Jill, but I knew she’d done that. The heat blast must have been what knocked Ethan for a loop and what she’d used to melt so many locks and hinges. The powers reminded me of Mayhem, a Bane we’d fought and beaten that final day in Central Park fifteen long years ago. She’d sent concentrated heat blasts in much the same way. And that day, Ethan was the one who’d taken her down.

  Please, God, Ethan, you have to be okay.

  Someone shrieked far away—a female voice too high-pitched to be Alexia’s. Maybe she’d gotten the drop on Jill. I scooted around my row of pallets until I found another break in the line. It was too thin for my entire body. I concentrated on the muscles and bones in my neck, allowing them to stretch out, burning some of that excess adrenaline as I fit my head down the row and left the rest of my body behind. Peeked around the corner.

  Jill was facedown on the cement floor, Alexia braced on top of her, holding her down. They were struggling, and Jack was nowhere to be seen. I retracted my head, then climbed. I couldn’t get through, so I just went over. The boxes held me, and I scrambled to the top.

  “What hit me?” Ethan said over the com.

  Relief almost tripped me as I stood up and got my bearings. Two more pallets floated their way into the tractor-trailer. Alexia seemed to be doing okay with Jill, so I hopped to the next pallet, eyes peeled for Jack. Something dark zinged in my direction, and I dropped to my knees in time to avoid a child-sized box from slamming into me. It crashed into a taller pallet, smashing and spilling pasta all over the place.

  Death by pasta. That’s original.

  Not for the first time in my life, I wished for an active power. Teresa’s orbs could blast through everything standing between me and my prey. Ethan’s hot air could knock down pallets and trap the creep. Marco could shift into a panther and prowl the shadows in utter silence. Even Gage’s hypersenses would be more useful in finding this kid.

  Someone yelled again—this time I was pretty sure it was Alexia. And then my pallet tower began shaking, as though the building had been hit by an earthquake. I fell to my knees and held on to the plastic wrap beneath me. Metal rolled. It took a second to figure out the noise—the back of the trailer was closing. The pallets were still shaking and the movement churned my stomach. I stretched my left arm out to get a solid grip on the next pallet, then used the anchoring hold to jump across the narrow space between them.

  I moved like this, a monkey swinging through the jungle, until I got back to the front of the warehouse, nearer to the trailer. Jack and Jill were running together toward an exit door. I jumped down from the shaking pallets, amazed he could keep that up while running like a coward, then aimed my gun again.

  “Stop!” My voice bounced through the warehouse. “I will shoot you!”

  They both skidded to a halt with five feet between them and the door. They turned slowly, in opposite directions. I had no cover, nowhere to hide if they struck. Jill seemed to be the most dangerous, so I aimed at the center of her chest and squeezed the trigger. Something solid slammed into my back, and I pitched forward just as the gun went off. The red tip of the dart struck Jill’s arm—the only thing I saw before I hit the ground face-first.

  The world spun sharply. Breathing was difficult, because whatever hit me was still holding me down like a sack of sand between my shoulder blades.

  Metal squealed. An engine rumbled to life.

  They’re getting away.

  I couldn’t get the weight off. Outside, the more horrific screeching noise was followed by a loud, metallic bang. I got my hands beneath me and gave a hard shove that finally dislodged the thing holding me down—three commercial sacks of flour. One sp
lit open and spat white powder into the air. I rolled onto my knees.

  The trailer hadn’t moved more than a few inches from the dock. The rumble of the truck’s engine was moving away. I stared, confused by how that was possible. The exit door next to the truck swung open and Alexia limped inside. Her bottom lip was split and oozing blood, but she seemed . . . pleased.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Think so.” My back was sore and my head hurt, but nothing was broken or permanently maimed. “What happened?”

  “I broke the mechanisms attaching the trailer to the truck, and I managed to tear a hole in the gas tank before they clocked me. I anticipated both stopping them, but the telekinetic simply moved the entire truck with his power.”

  “Damn.”

  “Can we follow them?” Ethan asked from somewhere to our left. He came around the corner of a pallet, cradling his left hand to his chest. He looked paler than usual—which was saying something, because he’s half Irish and doesn’t tan—and was leaning against the pallet for support.

  “It’s doubtful,” Alexia said. “The boy is powerful.”

  “I shot one of them,” I said. I wished I’d been able to shoot both of them. I struggled to my feet, my sore back protesting every shift of muscle, then stumbled over to Ethan. “You okay, pal?”

  “Think so,” he said. “Fortunately, I hit the wall wrist-first, instead of headfirst.”

  I looked at the wrist he was cradling. His fingers were already swollen, the skin red and tight. “Shit.”

  “It’s fine.” The pain bracketing his eyes told a different story. “Let’s call this in so we can get out of here.”

  “I’ll do it,” Alexia said.

  I surveyed the damage done to the warehouse—broken doors, broken trailer, broken boxes of food. “The cops are going to have a fit.”

  “Well, look on the bright side, Stretch,” Ethan said.

  “What’s that?”

  “They didn’t steal the food. And we all got good looks at their faces. They won’t stay anonymous for long.”

  Small comfort, but at this point, I’d take it.

  * * *

  We didn’t make it back to our new HQ until close to five-thirty a.m., and all three of us were having trouble staying awake during the puddle-jump over to the island.

  Yes, the island.

  After Los Angeles was declared an uninhabitable disaster zone, we had to evacuate. Since we’d just sunk a huge amount of money into buying and renovating a Beverly Hills mansion into our new headquarters, we were at a bit of a loss as to where to go. Los Angeles had been the home of the Ranger Corps for over a hundred years, and now that the Rangers were officially disbanded, we needed a fresh start. A few days of discussion (and arguing) led to an un-unanimous decision to move our operations to the East Coast—not only for that fresh start we needed, but also to show solidarity with the Metas still imprisoned on Manhattan.

  You can guess how I felt about that solidarity thing.

  I don’t know who pulled strings or cashed in favors, but as a way of saying thank you for our help in the Quake Relief effort (and possibly as a way to gain our support in the upcoming election) the president gave us Governors Island.

  Yep, that’s right.

  Half the island was burned to the ground during the War, and the other half had sat abandoned ever since. The intact buildings had more than enough space for the original five ex-Rangers (including me) and any other Metas who’d joined us. Currently, thirty-six people lived there. We had two puddle-jumpers (think small four-person helicopters that could go short distances fast and were easy enough for most of us to fly) to get us from the island to a private parking lot near the Ellis Island observation tower lot, where we keep our Sports and work vans.

  I didn’t like living so close to either the imprisoned Banes or the federal agents who lorded over them, but as usual I bowed to the majority. Without my friends, I had nothing. No matter how much I disagreed, I wouldn’t do anything to lose the only family that had ever mattered. So we packed up everything and everyone and moved into what was once a military barracks called Liggett Hall. And as usual, we had a crap-ton of work to do cleaning and rebuilding what time and battle had torn down.

  The puddle-jumpers were easy to fly and most of us had lessons within a week. I landed the puddle-jumper in a square of grass right in front of HQ’s main entrance. Something about this building made me think of a college campus—the brickwork, the arches, maybe its length and sense of quiet, nestled here among trees just starting to lose their summer green. It was still predawn dark, but exterior floodlights had come on to welcome us home.

  Two figures waited on the archway steps while I locked the puddle-jumper down. Once the blades stopped moving and we began climbing out the doorless sides, they came toward us.

  Teresa “Trance” West strode across the lawn, her purple-streaked hair flying around her lavender face in that mad, furious way it did when her hair went in and out of a bun several times in one day. It hinted at her stress level and the fact that she hadn’t slept in a while, which was becoming a worse and worse habit for our leader. Her face betrayed exhaustion and concern, and I hated that tonight’s little escapade had put those things there.

  She was shadowed by Aaron Scott, a hybrid-Changeling who could mimic the exact shapes and faces of other people, as well as crash through walls if he got a good enough running start. He ignored the rest of us and went straight for Ethan. The pair hugged, and despite what had to be excruciating pain in his very swollen left hand, Ethan seemed to relax a bit in his boyfriend’s arms.

  I envied him the comfort that a single touch could offer.

  We’d given Teresa a report on the way home from Pennsylvania, so our scattered injuries weren’t a surprise. She still gave each of us a critical look before saying, “You’re all expected to report to the infirmary before you get some rest.”

  “No argument from me,” Ethan said. His head rested on Aaron’s shoulder, while Aaron held him up with an arm around his waist. The pair had become more comfortable with PDA around their close friends, but they still avoided it in public. Or rather, Ethan seemed to—old habits and fears died hard.

  I just shrugged. Dr. Kinsey couldn’t do anything except give me an aspirin and tell me to relax, and I wasn’t really hurt anyway. Just a little bruised. I’d go, though, because Teresa was wearing her argue-at-your-own-peril face. It was a scary face.

  “What about the photo we sent?” Alexia asked.

  While he was coming to his senses after being slammed into a brick wall, Ethan had managed to take a cell phone photo of Jack and Jill. He’d sent it to Marco for uploading into our database, and if we were lucky we’d be able to get a face match on our thieves. It was the only photo anyone had managed to take so far.

  “It’s in the system,” Teresa replied. “Marco will call me as soon as there’s information. Now get to the infirmary.”

  She spun on her heel and walked back into HQ. As she went, I realized what had seemed so off about that brief encounter—no Gage. The pair were always together, supporting each other, especially during active operations. They’d stepped into an unofficial dual leadership role since getting together in January. Unofficial in the sense that while Teresa was our unequivocal team leader, we deferred to Gage in her absence out of habit. Mostly he seemed okay with that, but lately I wasn’t entirely sure.

  Last month, Gage had been badly hurt during our encounter with the clones of dead Rangers, and he’d been trapped in a sling while his broken collarbone repaired itself. It meant staying behind a lot and not supporting Teresa in the field like he was used to doing. Gage and I weren’t as close as we could be, but something about him had changed since that fight. It could have to do with his injury as much as with the fact that one of the clones had been his older brother Jasper, who’d died when Gage was twelve.

  Seeing Jasper again—fighting him—had to have been weird as hell.

  All of the
clones had been weird as hell, including the clone of William’s father, who’d once gone by the code name Sledgehammer. The resemblance between father and son was incredible. We’d battled five clones that day. Four were still out there somewhere.

  Aaron and Ethan set off for the infirmary, with Alexia and me trailing a few steps behind. Despite Aaron’s dramatic introduction into our lives, as well as Ethan’s initial reticence to come out as gay, they really were a cute couple. And they seemed happy, which was something I hadn’t seen from Ethan in a long, long time. Most of the demons that had haunted him since our repowering in January were gone.

  Maybe one day I’d be lucky enough to smile like that, free of anger and fear and self-loathing.

  Maybe.

  Probably not.

  The infirmary was close to the entrance on purpose. We were an injury-prone group, which surprised no one considering our profession of choice, and getting people medical attention as fast as possible seemed prudent. Dr. Abram Kinsey was already awake and waiting for us, as was his assistant Jessica Lam. Jessica came to us a few weeks ago, seeking a place to stay, as well as help controlling her Meta powers. She was a nursing student, two years into her studies, when she discovered she had the ability to touch someone’s bare skin and hear their thoughts. Her Meta power made nursing difficult to pursue, so she quit. Now she was getting all kinds of hands-on experience, as well as studying with Dr. Kinsey in her free time.

  Jessica handled Alexia and my minor wounds, while Dr. Kinsey crowded Ethan over to a cot so he could examine his swollen hand. Aaron hovered the entire time, even though he had zero reason to distrust Kinsey’s medical care. Kinsey was Aaron’s father in a six-degrees-of-genetic-manipulation kind of way.

  As expected, I was dosed with aspirin and discharged. We’d converted the old barrack dormitories into private rooms—although we still had to share central bathroom facilities. I’d painted my own room a comforting shade of pale yellow with navy blue trim around the two windows and doorframe. Other than that, it had a bed and a closet, and that was all I wanted. My few personal belongings were stored in the closet, and it was the first time in my life I’d had a bedroom without a mirror in it. My hair was short enough that it behaved after three quick strokes with a brush; I didn’t need to see any other part of my body.