Whitaker had been transferred off Central MTac just prior to Central MTac being shredded by that telepath. Previously a little mousy, a little nervous, in the eight months since his almost near-death experience, Whitaker had gone at the job with a vengeance and without hesitation. BAMF twice in that amount of time. Knowing that you dodged a bullet by avoiding a telepath is a life-changing experience. Especially when it's just luck that kept you from standing in the spot where others died.
Soledad landed at the QIC, squatted, asked;
"What's the deal?"
"Two-eleven in progress. Turns out one of the civvies in the bank is a freak. Tore the shit out of the perps."
"Got an ID on the freak?"
"Won't do you much good. It's a shape-shifter."
Eddi, a noise of disgust, then: "Fucking shape-shifters."
Alcala: "One freak better than another?" "Some are worse than the rest."
"Mouths shut, ears open." Soledad was all business.
The business at hand: getting intel, staying alive. To the OIC: "What do you know?"
"The guy's name was Sidney Roth. Ran him with DMV. Age listed was sixty-eight, widower. No priors. Was a quiet guy."
"The bad ones usually are. It's inside?"
The OIC gave Soledad. a nod to the affirmative. "The civvies are accounted for. Perps are dead. Black-and-whites responding to the silent alarm had the perimeter locked down before anyone got out."
"Description of the freak."
"Told you, it's a-"
"Just give me height and weight."
"Five-eleven, around one-seventy. That's from the civilians." The OSC's meaning: Civvies don't generally make for great witnesses. "So it could go a little either way."
Across the street: Commotion. Loud voices.
Uniformed cops, on edge, overanxious, turned, took aim with their sidearms. Would've sent bullets into the lookie-lous if they'd had just, a touch more jitter to them.
The lookie-lous: Their ranks had swelled by a handful of protesters. Voices raised, placards waving. Homemade signs. The sum total of their message: Fuck the Police. Let Freaks Be.
Alcala, re: the protesters: "You believe that shit? We're manning the line, and they're acting like we're the damn problem?"
"Forget 'em." Soledad was plain with her order.
Whitaker was snide with his suggestion: "How about we take a couple of them along, see if they're still freak lovers when some mutie's trying to rip their-"
"How about we concentrate on the job?" Soledad didn't have the time, didn't have the patience for her element venting. "It's the Westside. What do you expect but the liberals are going to turn out? Lucky Susan Sarandon's not here."
"I like Susan Sarandon."
Soledad looked to Eddi.
Eddi's smirk: Yeah. Really.
Still, Soledad was pretty sure Eddi was just messing with her. Much as Soledad respected the girl, there was no getting on with Eddi.
To the OIC: "Got a floor plan?"
"Bank manager drew one up." Hipping open his duty log, showing a poor sketch to Soledad: "Not much to it. About twenty-five hundred square feet total. Desk, chairs on the north side just past the door. Tellers' windows, manager's office back here…»
"Vault open?"
"Vault was open."
Soledad, facetious with herself: That'd be fun. Trying to corner a freak that could shift its shape just about any way it pleased within the restricted confines of the vault. It'd be like taking a swan dive into a steel coffin. She hoped, Soledad hoped it wouldn't come to that. She hoped they could nail the thing in the relative open. About all she didn't hope for was that the freak was already gone.
Other cops, the uniformed cops who'd be staying on the outside hidden behind their cruisers, guns pointed at the bank; probably they were hoping the thing had split. Hoping that they could make it through the day without having to deal with a mutie. But that's why they were, would never be anything but beat cops. Uniforms. Good men all. But when it came time to really step up they'd rather step behind their cars. By the time Soledad, her element… by the time any cop goes MTac they'd long since given up wishful notions of avoidance and turned their fancy to the hope that one day freaks would be relegated to a portion of a museum right next to T. Rex and they as MTacs would get the chance to play a significant part in the extinction event.
From her belt Soledad slipped a yellow-marked bullet clip. Slid it into the back of her modified O'Dwyer. Her gun. The gun. The OIC watched her actions with the same mythic reverence for Prometheus grabbing fire.
Soledad to her element: "Listen up!" Her voice punched straight from the gut. The tone: This is it. The meaning: Pay attention and live. Maybe. "The space is tight. Be aware, and don't get yourself between the target and a gun. We go two-by. I'll give the Civil, but this one's already got a body count. You got the shot, take the shot."
No inducement for questions. Far as Soledad cared, at this stage of things there had better not be any.
One thing more: "The safe word is 'cardigan.' Got it? Cardigan."
The safe word was the first word that popped into Soledad's head. The randomness didn't diminish its importance. Not when the freak you were going after could real easy mimic, among other things, an MTac; reshape itself as the cop who was supposed to have your back. It was good to have a way, a word, to separate the real from the imposter. This calclass="underline" cardigan.
Soledad called for a mike check, heard her element count off in her earpiece.
Then they were moving, moving for the bank. As always, this situation, this call, different than the last call. Different freak with different abilities. And even freaks with similar abilities came wrapped in different psyches. Like snowflakes, no two alike. Like real deadly snowflakes. But every call, in some ways, was the same. MTacs vs. some kind of thing. The MTacs with their guns, the thing with heat vision. The MTacs with one-ounce slugs, the thing bulletproof. Four MTacs, the thing stronger than a hundred men.
The MTacs. A thing that could, with as little as a thought, steal their lives.
And for any MTac, no matter how many calls they'd been on, how many freaks they'd previously chalked… no matter how many times they're BAMF. Every now and again a little self-prepping is required.
Soledad, to herself, but loud in her head: I'm not dying today.
The sound track, the sound that came with action for the MTacs creeping into the bank, was the sound of each other's breath-short, sharp- coming through their earpieces.
The sight: Chairs overturned. Deposit slips spilled on the cream tile floor along with phones, brochures to inform customers in four-color gloss about direct deposit and certificates of deposit and free checking that actually hit you harder with jacked-up service fees.
Some cash.
Some cash just lying among bloody, shredded bodies. Body parts. What was left of the two sweaty guys. The place was empty of people.
Probably, it still held a freak
So now it was about looking. Looking for movement where there shouldn't be any. A sign of life where there should only be inanimation. The freak could've melded with the wall. Easy. Obvious. How about that shitty hotel-quality painting hung on one side of the space? Could a shape-shifter duplicate something that bad?
The spray of deposit slips on the floor?
Clever.
One of the dead sweaty guys: Was that really a freak in hiding?
Very clever.
A kiosk? A chair? The ashtray stand…?
This; this is why, like Eddi'd said, shape-shifters were worse than other freaks. They're tricky. They play dirty.
Yeah but so could Soledad…