“Jake?”
Though her speech was distorted by the dreadlocked Endtimer’s grip on her face, the relief in Hannah’s tone was hard to miss.
“Sorry I’m late,” Jake replied. “Traffic was a bitch.”
By the time he’d arrived at the park, Hannah and Zoe had already been surrounded. The roar of the West Side Highway overhead had drowned out the Endtimers’ words, but their body language—predatory, cocksure—made apparent their intent.
Feigning disinterest, Jake had sauntered toward them, hoping to get close enough to intervene without exacerbating the situation. Then two of the Endtimers grabbed Hannah, and Jake abandoned any pretense of stealth, freeing his Glock from the right pocket of his jacket and breaking into a sprint.
The bald, cleanshaven Endtimer—who’d hung back a little from his buddies, as if conflicted about terrorizing strangers, though not enough to put a stop to it—pivoted toward the sound of Jake’s footfalls, and right into Jake’s pistol. Jake had meant to hit the scrawny bastard in the back of the head, stunning him, but the combination of his swing and the Endtimer’s rotation magnified the force of impact considerably. A crunch of bone and Cue Ball went down hard—nose gushing blood, eyes showing only whites.
Jake grabbed him by the collar and lifted him to his knees. He swayed like a boxer who’d been TKO’d, but, with a little assistance from Jake, managed to remain upright. Jake pressed the barrel of his gun to the dope’s head and told his nutfuck buddies to leave Hannah be.
Dreadlocks, who appeared unfazed by the sudden turn of events, raised his head to look at Jake and smiled. Looming over Hannah and Zoe, his haunting rictus exposing yellow teeth, he put Jake in mind of a scarecrow fashioned out of human bones. “Daddy dearest, I presume?”
“Presume anything you like,” Jake replied, “so long as you do what I say.”
Dreadlocks released Hannah and straightened. The one with the chinstrap beard followed his lead, letting go of Hannah’s shoulders and slowly turning to face Jake, palms raised as if this were a stickup.
“Put your hands down,” Dreadlocks told him. “You look like an idiot.”
“Says the white kid with dreadlocks,” Jake said as Chinstrap complied.
Dreadlocks’ expression darkened. “If I were you, old man, I’d watch my mouth. You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”
First Amy, now this dick, Jake thought. What’s with everybody calling me old man?
He was confident that, as a cop, he had their measure, but he wasn’t about to give them the satisfaction. “Lemme guess. Shitty metal band? Out-of-work baristas? Art school dropouts who bonded over your matching Che Guevara posters?”
“We’re Soldiers of Gaia. All three of us have pledged our lives to curing our planet of the plague of humankind, and we would gladly sacrifice ourselves for the cause if need be.”
“That true?” Jake asked Cue Ball.
His head lolled as he tried to look at Jake, eyes swimming in their sockets. A frightened wail rose up from the back of his throat.
“I dunno,” Jake said to Dreadlocks. “Your boy here doesn’t seem too keen on the idea.”
“For shit’s sake, Billy,” Chinstrap pleaded, “just let it go.”
Dreadlocks said nothing, but it looked to Jake as if he recognized a shift in power had occurred. Jake decided to take advantage before it shifted back.
“C’mon, Hannah. We’re leaving.”
Dreadlocks scowled.
Cue Ball tensed.
Chinstrap held his breath.
But no one prevented Hannah from complying.
Except, that is, for Zoe.
Mad with fever and exhaustion, she’d watched the standoff unfold with mounting terror. Now, she came unglued: limbs thrashing, eyes screwed shut, face reddening behind her mask as she let loose a piercing shriek.
“Seems your little one would rather stay with us,” said Dreadlocks.
“Shut the fuck up,” Jake told him.
Hannah, exasperated: “Zoe, honey, everything’s okay!”
“No, it’s not! I want my daddy!”
“Sweetheart,” Jake said, “I’m right here!” Without lowering his gun, he released Cue Ball’s collar and tugged his mask down to expose his face.
Zoe quieted, her brow unfurrowing.
“Big mistake, asshole,” said Dreadlocks. “Now we know what you look like. We ever see your face again, you’re a dead man.”
Jake laughed, cold and sharp as an ice pick. “Please. You dipshits are the least of my worries. If you wanna come for me, you’re gonna hafta get in line.”
Hannah traversed the path to Jake, giving Cue Ball a wide berth. Jake took Zoe from her with his free hand. Then—Hannah beside him, Zoe in his arms—he backed slowly down the pier, his Glock still trained on the Endtimers.
Cue Ball slumped from his knees into a seated position, blood dripping from his ruined face, a hand against the concrete for support.
Chinstrap glared—jaw flexing, nostrils flaring.
Dreadlocks paced, his pale face pink with fury, his bony hands balled into fists.
Still, as angry as he was, he didn’t follow.