CHAPTER TEN

Monica Rowley watched her husband sigh and lean back from the papers scattered across the kitchen counter, the breakfast nook where they took almost all of their meals.

"If I'd wanted a desk job I'd have become an accountant." She mouthed it with him, the familiar frustration a balm to her soul. Their counter made a poor office, but Matt worked from home as often as he could, which usually meant days and days of paperwork he hated after every mission – and it had only gotten worse since the dissolution of ICAP. A man of action, he needed to create or destroy, to fight, to protect.

Ted bellowed as Adam pulled his tail, both running in tight circles on the carpet by the fireplace. He let go, and Ted bellowed again, tail a joyous fury against the couch, loveseat, mantle, and floor. The TV blared a nonsense show that could only have been designed by people who hated parents and Monica in particular; Adam loved the music and colors and didn't seem to mind the utter lack of plot or coherence.

The house phone rang, and Matt banged his forehead into the table.

"Got it." Monica hurried to the charging station and plucked it up on the third ring. Adam fell silent, and Ted followed, content to scratch his back on the floor and let his boy rub his belly. She hit 'Send' and spoke. "Hello?"

"Hey, Button. Your husband home?" Only her dad called her 'Button', the origin of the nickname lost to time and memory.

"Sure is, Papa. What's up?"

"Dick dropped twelve face right in front of the barn. I was hoping for some help getting it moved to the shed." Twelve face cord of wood in the wrong place would be a terrible backache of a problem for an old man, and maybe two hour's work for her husband – somewhat longer if Papa helped out, which of course he would.

"I'm sure he'll help."

Matt's head jerked up, eyes wide, a smile on his face. His cheeks jiggled with his frantic nod.

"I'll be around all afternoon if he can stop by."

"Let us grab some lunch."

"You got it. Love you."

"You, too."

Matt stood as she hung up, grin bigger than a moment before. "Physical labor? Please tell me it's physical labor."

Adam took his hand off of Ted's head and the dog flopped over, squirming and biting at the air, a contented, whining groan erupting from his throat. Adam squealed and dropped to his knees, hands on Ted's belly, rubbing furiously. Matt squinted at the noise, his face scrunching around his left eye, and Monica laughed.

"Okay, you two outside. A few minutes of running around will be good for you."

She marched them to the back door as Matt called out, "I'll make lunch!" They piled onto the deck, galumphed down the stairs as she plopped into a deck chair and chased each other through the yard, squealing and barking in frenetic spirals until Ted bolted around the side of the house.

Adam ran after him, and Monica shot to her feet. "Adam, in sight!"

The bellows and squeals got farther away, so she shot down the stairs and across the grass, still damp from the morning dew. "Hey! Get back here!"

Her hand went to her mouth as Ted bolted into the road, Adam two steps behind. Aaron Walters ran for them, thirty feet away, suit coat flapping like a superhero's cape. Too far.

Tires squealed, the loaded, bright yellow construction truck locking its brakes ten feet from them. Aaron cringed, turning his head.

Adam fell on Ted, head down, and disappeared from view with a sickening thud.

A scream erupted from her throat, half her son's name, half a mindless wail, as the truck ground to a halt. She covered the ground before the trucker's boots hit the asphalt, and rounded the front of the vehicle.

One hand on the dented bumper, Adam still crouched over Ted, wings of ice enveloping them both in a shimmering field of silver and white. A deep rut dug into the pavement, chunks of asphalt skittering across the road. She blinked; the wings vanished.

Ted barked as the trucker came around the corner of the vehicle, tail a whirlwind of oblivious joy. Adam stood and held up his arms, a worried grin on his face, as Aaron stumbled up.

"Ma'am, we should get back to the house."

She picked Adam up and squeezed him, maybe too hard, never hard enough or long enough. He shushed her and stroked her hair, whispering through her sobs. "Ted's okay, Mom. Ted's okay."

Matt appeared behind her, wrapping them both in his massive arms, the scent of gun oil and aftershave mingling with burnt rubber and diesel exhaust. "Come on, let's go."

Through panicked tears she resolved the crowd, open-mouthed, staring, dropping to their knees one by one.

"Let's go." He pulled them, turning her, putting her back to the crowd. "Let's go, Ted."

Ted chuffed and heeled, a good dog. Aaron's footsteps crunched behind them, followed by lighter, faster ones.

"Sir," Aaron's baritone reverberated through her. "I'm going to have to ask you off the property."

* * *

Matt turned. "Aaron, I got this. Return to your post."

Jason slowed, eyes wide, the unbridled awe on his face fading to guarded hostility as Monica disappeared through the door and Matt blocked his view. Aaron retreated, leaving them alone in the driveway. Behind him a hymn broke out, A Sovereign Protector I Have set to that same damned melody as dozens of other hymns.

"Go home, Jason."

"I will in a minute, but—"

"Not across the street." Matt crossed his arms. "Home, home. Go back to your parish in Kentucky."

Jason shook his head. "Not my parish anymore, not my church. I'm here because I belong here. Because your son is a divine emissary."

"He isn't." Matt just managed to keep cold fury in check.

"You can't deny what you just saw. What we just saw."

"It happened. That doesn't mean it means what you think it means."

Jason smirked. "Say that ten times fast."

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

The former priest closed his eyes, breathed out, long and low. "No. I'm sorry. Look, man, your son is special. Very special."

"I know—"

"Let me finish, please."

Matt scowled but said nothing.

"Your son is special, and these people across the street, they're just the beginning. Tens of thousands of people send letters and e-mails every day. The video from DC has over two billion hits. This one will go even higher."

"This one?"

His eyes flicked away, then back. "Yeah. Someone's bound to have caught it on camera."

"So you're filming my property."

His grimace spoke for itself. "We're looking for miracles. For miracles like this."

Matt spread his arms, a threatening gesture borrowed from NFL players. "Am I a miracle? Am I divine? Am I an instrument of divine wrath?"

"Was Saint Martin?"

Matt sneered as Jason continued.

"You know who he was. I knew. That's how we managed to free him. Or would you rather forget that?" Jason put a hand on Matt’s shoulder, and he forced himself into a facade of relaxation. "Why is it so hard to believe in a God you have direct evidence of?"

Matt gritted his teeth. "The things in my head aren't divine. They're old and they're powerful, but there are other things, too. So many voices, sadistic and cruel, but millions of others, every Jade user on the planet somehow linked together inside me. Just because we don't understand it doesn't make it God."

"Your son has angel's wings."

"Yes, he does. But he's not an angel, and he's not an egregoroi. He's a little boy who likes Captain America and the Wiggles and peas with peanut butter."

"And stopping a truck with his bare hands."

Matt closed his eyes, silenced the murder lurking there, then opened them and met Jason's pleading gaze. "You believe what you believe, but leave my family alone. You're no longer welcome on this property, and will be considered a threat."

"Oh, come on! We were friends!"

"Were. I don't know what we are now, but I'm keeping you the hell away from my family. Further trespassing will be met with violence."

Jason sneered. "You can't punch your problems away."

Matt pushed him back a step, then another. "I shouldn't have to."

Once he'd removed Jason from the premises, and had instructed the guards to make him persona non grata, he went back to the house. Monica sat on the couch, cradling Adam, Ted curled up against them. Red streaks marred her beautiful face, and her hands trembled as she stroked their son's hair.

His augmented hearing picked up continued psalms – they'd graduated to 70s hippie church music – so he walked to the mantle and turned on the radio before sitting next to them. They sat while talk radio prattled about immigration, and instead of trying to read his wife's mind Matt scratched Ted's ears and stroked his fur until he fell asleep with a contented explosion of gas.

When she finally spoke it startled him. "You going to help Papa?"

He caressed her neck with his knuckles. "Is that okay?"

She shrugged. "It's got to happen. You know he'll do it himself if you don't show."

"Want to come with? You can bring Adam, chat with your mom. We'll let Ted terrorize the rotties." Ted's tail thumped at the mention of his name.

"I don't think so. I think I want to stay home and just be with my boy."

"Sure?"

"Sure. I'll put some dinner on while you're gone."

"Okay."

* * *

Marcia Stein took a gulp of cabernet and ignored the well-dressed waiter's widened eyes. Cute in a too-young and too-pale sort of way, he averted his gaze by way of looking at Isuji Sakura. Her former mentor warmed her hands around a huge mug of green tea and ordered a bacon double cheeseburger in fluent French.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," he replied in English with an affectation of superiority, "but this is Le Bistro Laurence. We do not serve American cuisine."

"Then put fois gras on it and hold the ketchup."

"I'm afraid you don't understand." He opened his mouth to continue, assessed the look on Sakura's face, and swallowed. "I'll see what I can do. Side?"

"Mashed potatoes. Butter and sour cream."

He closed his eyes, sighed, and opened them again. "We have crème fraiche. I'll have to see about the potatoes."

She nodded, a sharp downward jerk of her head. "Arigato."

Marcia ordered from the menu – something from the fish menu she could barely pronounce and didn't understand, biting off a wicked grin until he left with their order. "Was that necessary?"

Sakura sipped her tea. "These Americans are so rude about everything all the time, I don't have the capacity for polite anymore. I ordered what I want. They'll make it or I won't pay."

"That's how you get spit in your food."

"Better than snails."

They drank in silence. Marcia formulated a dozen conversation starters, and every one struck her as lame and unimportant. In Marcia's experience Sakura didn't engage in small talk, and limited important talk to lessons and mission parameters. She hadn't asked why Marcia had invited her to lunch, and if it made her uncomfortable she made no sign of it.

Their food arrived – Sakura's a chopped beef on baguette with white cheese and bright yellow fois gras that almost but didn't quite resemble a cheeseburger; Marcia's a smattering of chopped white something in yellow-brown sauce that smelled of butter and saffron and tasted like three-thousand calorie heaven.

Sakura covered her mouth with her left hand while she chewed, as close as Marcia had ever seen her come to anything that might be called dainty. "Is he there?"

The question spoiled the effect, but Marcia didn't let it trip her up. She took another bite, chewed with gusto, and flashed a 'yes' as she reached for her glass. All ICAP agents had trained in American Sign Language as a part of their covert ops training, harder to learn but significantly more versatile than the hand signals used by most American and NATO military personnel. She scratched her head with her index finger and thumb, then brought her hand down, thumb and pinky extended just enough to convey the message: blond hair. The day before he'd had long brown hair in the grocery store, and the day before that a Dodgers cap had just covered a tangle of curls as he walked by the gym.

Sakura took another bite, and muttered with her hand over her mouth. "When you leave, go home. I'll tail him from there."

They finished their meal discussing post-Aug life, and Marcia suppressed a twinge of jealousy at Sakura's renewed powers. As much as Marcia missed them, she wouldn't trade for the whispers again. They skipped dessert and skipped the check. Sakura went to the bathroom; Marcia left the restaurant into the blinding light of midday.

He followed a moment later, pausing at the entrance as she cut right around the side of the building toward the gated parking lot in the back. Two stories sided with tan vinyl, across the alley a brick wall narrowed her escape route to a black iron fire escape beneath which squatted a bright green dumpster. Footsteps closed behind her, soft shoes crunching on loose gravel. Clutching her purse, she reached the small parking lot and turned.

Her follower stopped short, an awkward smile on his face. "Excuse me, miss. Do you have a light?"

Marcia didn't smoke, but she reached into her purse anyway. Her Sig Sauer p320 Compact felt cool in her grip, and the thirteen-round .357 packed an enormous punch for its size. She let the purse fall as a white panel van rolled to a stop on the curb, blocking the only exit from the parking lot.

Instead of backing off, her tail smiled. "Now, now, no need to get violent."

Nobody smiles at the business end of a .357, except maybe an Aug. And there weren't any Augs anymore, not really.

A shock ran up her hand and the pistol skittered across the parking lot. Strong fingers throttled her neck, lifting her from the ground with effortless ease. He'd moved so fast she hadn't registered the blurring form, and his hands clutched like iron.

Stars exploded in her mind as he bounced her head off the car. And again.

Darkness fell.

* * *

Sakura exploded out the back door, leaping down the steps with a chef's knife in each hand. Gravel crunched under her boots as the man dragging Marcia looked up, let her go, and cracked his neck.

The world slowed as her augmented reflexes kicked in, the ambient city noise Doppler shifting into lower octaves. A bird took flight from the fence, wings beating in slow motion as it fell then rose, a war between the pull of Earth and the freedom of the sky above.

The knife left her hand at almost the speed of sound. Her assailant jerked to the side and it grazed his neck, red blood welling at a fraction of the speed of his dodge. Faster than Rowley, he almost moved in real time to the neurons screaming in her head. The whispers joined them, mocking her confidence and proclaiming her death at this stranger's hand.

He met her charge, and the impact sent them both flying. She flipped and landed on her feet, shoes skidding across gravel-strewn asphalt. He smashed into the car door, shattering the window and crumpling sheet metal, and leapt off toward her before the glass had time to fall.

Rolling her left shoulder back, she let his punch glance off and drove the knife toward his kidney. The heel of his left hand deflected the blade so she dropped and punched up in a knife-hand strike to his groin.

Limping back, his condescending smirk had twisted into a snarl. "They said you were fast."

She flicked her eyes down and back up, as close as this thing would get to a bow of respect. With nothing to prove, she had nothing to say, so instead switched the knife to her right hand and flipped him the bird with her left.

He attacked, the predictable, undisciplined response to a taunt – much faster than a man, still slower than half the bonks she'd fought. She spun out of the way, drawing the knife across his right bicep on his way by. The blade dragged against the cloth but didn't cut. She ducked a roundhouse kick and punched the knife into the side of his knee, blocking out his scream as she pushed off the ground into the cut, shearing through the cartilage and meat even as she rolled and came to her feet.

Dull thumps carried across the lot, and two more men emerged from the alley, both armed with bloated black weapons something between a beetle and an assault rifle. Rounds thumped against metal as she hit the ground behind the closest car, too high-pitched – too light – to be regular bullets. Microdarts scattered across the ground on the other side of the vehicle.

Anger seethed as she recalled the prick in her neck, the hazy darkness as Shane Keene apologized, her last concrete memory before a months-long haze of blood and pain. The whispers crawled into the hot nugget of hate and flexed, and hot rage ravaged her psyche.

A breath.

Two.

A veneer of calm settled over her, professionalism and duty and loyalty to Marcia. The whispers raged beneath it, a nagging urge she refused to indulge. A brief glance around the front fender gave her three targets, two armed at the alley entrance, one kneeling, the other standing, using the wall for cover, faces obscured by black nylons. The third writhed on the ground clutching his knee, blood gushing through his fingers and soaking his jeans.

Between them Marcia lay on her side, white froth on her lips, eyes half-open with only the whites visible. Her pistol lay between her and the bleeding man.

Sakura tensed, then dashed to the next car, more to test the shooters' reaction time than to take better cover. Darts pinged off of metal, with only their travel time through the air saving her from getting stuck. Yanking a chrome hubcap from the front wheel, she hefted the flimsy plastic and rejected its use as a projectile.

It caught the sun, so she leapt up, turning the shining disk to blast sunlight into their eyes. As they recoiled she bashed open the car window and jerked on the handle. Hissing as her palm dragged across shattered glass, she dropped from sight as more darts peppered her position. Worming into the open door, she popped the car into neutral and pushed with her legs, turning the wheel to bank it out of the parking spot.

Her boots dug in as she heaved, rolling the left front tire over the bleeding man. His cries of pain became a wet, inarticulate gurgle, and the car jerked lower as his ribcage imploded under the pressure.

As fast as an Aug, but not nearly so tough.

Another push and the car rolled past Marcia, rubber millimeters from her head. Sakura reached underneath the car and pulled up Marcia's pistol, grimacing at the unfamiliar grip in her blood-slicked fingers, then pulled back and rolled right to keep the vehicle between her and her assailants.

As it scraped against another car and came to rest she dropped prone. One pair of legs skirted to her left, flanking, while the other held position at the corner of the building, just one calf visible. She raised the weapon, closed one eye, breathed out, and squeezed the trigger. It had more pull than she'd have preferred.

The pistol bucked with a bang, too loud, but she pulled the trigger again as her opponent fell to one knee. A red puff erupted from his wrist as his hand hit the ground, and he fell sideways.

She rolled right and raised the pistol as footsteps closed, pulling the trigger as the shadow appeared around the car. Bloody gobbets erupted from the last assailant's head even as he pulled the trigger. She grunted and pulled her shirt away from her chest, tearing free the trio of darts embedded there.

Her eyelids fluttered and she fell to her hands and knees. The world pulsed in time with her heart, a relentless beating that shook the pillars of reality. With each beat the whispers grew bolder, shrieking in sadistic elation.

It hurt to hold on. An endless agony of body and spirit, the world held nothing for her but duty, duty to a country that had used and sold her, to an organization that hated and feared her, to a man who respected her to the extent to which she remained useful. The pain of birth meant nothing to the pain of losing a child, and losing her daughter meant nothing next to the despair behind every waking breath.

A red film clouded her vision, bloody glass cracked with jade, and as it rent her vision something shifted in the space beyond.

"Mother."

Sakura sneered, ignoring the soft voice in her ear.

"Mother, you can't let her win."

The figure spread its wings, gossamer threads of emerald green shot through with the darkness between galaxies. It – she – held out her arms, a cruel smile on her face.

Sakura knew that cruelty. It had broken her body more times than she could count. She'd fought her entire life against it, sometimes embracing the darkness to destroy it, if only for a time. The demon in her mind sought to wrest control, and promised peace in return, and in that moment Sakura knew the terrible choice so many bonks had made.

Peace is an illusion except in death, and duty is a sword.

Screaming, she raised her eyes to the blue sky. Bile rose in her throat, and hot vomit spewed across the pavement. Chest heaving, she fell to the side. Each breath pulled burning needles in her throat and chest, and she struggled not to choke on the bile. Her muscles rippled and shifted over grinding bones, settling to mere humanity. The world resolved from jade to unending blue of the sky above, to cars in disarray, to kitchen staff gaping at the corpses in their parking lot. Marcia lay on the ground, a great purple bruise across her face, eyes closed.

Sirens wailed in the distance. Sakura rolled to her hands and knees, pocketed one of the darts, scooped Marcia into her arms and bolted for the street.

* * *

Four days later, Janet walked into Matt's office and dropped a plastic bag on his desk. The dart inside had been tagged with bright yellow plastic, signed by the forensic tech who'd analyzed it. He looked from it to her.

"What's the story?"

She chomped her gum a few times before responding. "It'll be a while. The lab weenies took a sample from the injector, nicked off a piece of the titanium to see if we can source it. Sakura's got a meeting later today with the Joint Chiefs – didn't give them much of a choice."

"What about Marcia?"

"Stein's gone dark. Sakura knows where, but won't even tell me."

He fought a forming scowl, schooled his face to professional neutrality. "What the hell were they thinking?"

"Supposed to be a recon gig. They weren't expecting combat."

He rolled his eyes. "If they knew she was being followed, they should have told me. I doubled the guard at home, but what if something happened?"

Janet sat on the edge of his desk, close enough to smell her perfume or shampoo – apple, which clashed with her peppermint gum. "Why would Marcia trust you? Just because Sakura does? The OPD is government, and so are you. So am I, and we both know Sakura trusts me about as far as I can throw her."

"There's too much going down here for us not to be on the same page. We have to trust each other – no secrets."

She chuckled. "That's asking a lot."

"It is." He held her gaze. "But it's as much as it has to be. We have to trust each other."

"Sure, bud." She tossed a manila folder on his desk. "Meantime, I got a call from President Williams. He has a job for us."