Arc Angel (18 page)

Alright, Miranda, you need to get ready.

First things first: she had to get out of her apartment. The police could be here any minute to haul her in for questioning.

An idea popped into her head. The tenant across the hall from her had moved out last week, leaving the apartment vacant. Maybe she could break in there and lay low for awhile. It seemed reasonably safe, what with the security guards downstairs, and it was certainly convenient. Once she’d slipped safely across the hall, she could hunker down and get ready for tonight’s meeting.

If only she could figure out what that preparation might entail…

What if she thought of this situation like one of her regular security consults. What would she do if someone hired her to check security for them? The approach calmed her. She could do this.

First, she’d research. Figure out what was at that address and learn everything she could about the location and the surrounding area.

Next, she’d prepare a contingency plan, in case things went wrong. She always kept meticulous documentation for her jobs, in case she ever needed to prove her authorization or activities. Not that documentation was always enough to save her. Just look at the Tech Corp mess.

Miranda shook her head and refocused. She’d need to write down everything she knew about what had happened to her over the last few days and be sure it got to Bryce if she didn’t come back.

She might not come back.

She put her head between her knees to keep from passing out from the thought.

And her final preparation: more research. She needed to learn more about what she could do. She looked at the box on her bed. She’d already reread the origin story. Now she’d get a refresher on the rest of Arc Angel’s career. If she had to let her alter ego take over, she wanted to be as ready as possible.

***

“Did you find anything interesting?”

John nodded. “The light fixture in her front hallway was shattered, and her bedroom window seemed to be sealed. It isn’t definite proof, but I believe it can be read as a demonstration of her powers.”

Mr. Brown leaned back in his leather chair. “Interesting. The points you noted do indeed have potential.” He waved his hand as if to shoo a fly. “But no matter. Let’s focus on what’s truly important. You got her copy of the contract?”

John nodded.

“And you left the note?”

“Yes sir. Right on top of the box, as you instructed.”

“Excellent.” Mr. Brown smiled, amused when John’s eyes widened. Apparently he didn’t smile often.

“So you think she’ll show up tonight?”

“We’ve provided the necessary leverage, so yes, I think she will. Do we have the prototype yet?”

“There’s been a delay at the lab. We won’t have it until some time tomorrow.”

“That’s cutting it a bit closer than I’d like. I’d hoped to test it at our meeting tonight. Ah well, we will simply have to make do tonight. You have… acquired our special guest?”

John nodded.

“Good. That’s all for now.”

John took a few steps toward the door before pausing. He turned back to face Mr. Brown.

“Yes, John?”

John cleared his throat twice and then asked, “You think this woman has truly… become this comic book character?”

“I do, John. I think Miranda James has indeed become Arc Angel. And tonight, we’ll get our proof.”

“And then…”

“Then she will be the perfect solution to our little problem.”

***

Bryce glanced at his watch. 8:30. How had it gotten so late? He’d meant to check in with Miranda earlier, to see if she’d cooled down enough to talk. He also wanted to see if she would be willing to come back to his place to spend the night, though unfortunately not in the usual meaning of the phrase.

He clicked away from the research he’d been doing on anxiety disorders and flipped through the Miranda file on his computer until he found the report with her phone number. Without thinking, he grabbed his phone off the desk, turned it on and dialed. It rang twice before he remembered that Miranda didn’t do phones.

Duh, Bryce. Haven’t you learned anything from your reading tonight?

But to his astonishment, she picked up.

“Bryce? Are you okay?”

She didn’t seem mad anymore, which he considered progress. But she’d gone back to sounding panicked. He wondered for a minute what she was like when she was happy. He’d really like to see that.

“I’m fine. What’s going on?”

“Are you sure? Your house is secure? Maybe you should have Matthews come to the main house and stay with you. Did you get my text?”

All thoughts of apologizing vanished, pushed away by a growing concern.

“I turned off my phone at Dan’s office and only turned it back on a second ago. Miranda, what is going on?”

Silence.

“Miranda?”

“They were here.”

“Who? Where? Your apartment?”

“Mm hmm.”

“Did they take anything? Make a mess? Threaten you?”

“They were quite tidy, actually. It took me awhile to realize someone had even been here. And they didn’t take anything, well, nothing important. They left something.”

Images of a severed horse’s head flashed through Bryce’s brain.

“What did they leave?”

“A note.”

Thank god.

“What kind of note? A threat?”

“Not… exactly.”

Bryce now knew it was the anxiety disorder that made talking to Miranda so challenging, but trying to talk to someone on the phone who barely talked in person was proving to be even more difficult. He took a deep breath and reminded himself to be patient.

“If it wasn’t a threat, then what was it?”

“He knows, Bryce. He knows everything. He knows about Arc Angel, about what I can do, about you… I thought maybe he’d already gotten to you.”

Which explained why she’d answered the phone. Her worry on his behalf made his chest ache, but in a good way for once.

“I’m fine, Miranda. After you got past the gate last night I had security tripled, and Matthews is on red alert to protect the homestead. I’ll be fine. But what do you mean about them knowing about Arc Angel? And who is ‘he’ anyway?”

“I’ll read it to you.”

Haltingly, she read the short note over the phone.

Silence again, but this time on both ends of the line.

Man, this was getting weirder and weirder. He’d thought only he and Miranda truly understood the connection between Miranda and Arc Angel. Apparently not. So what should their next move be?

Well, if someone else knew, maybe they should bring in reinforcements.

“Try not to touch the note too much, in case there are any prints for the police to find.”

“I’m not calling the police.”

No way in hell would he let her issues get in the way of her safety.

“Look, Miranda, I don’t know what your problem is with the cops, but you need to get over it. You have to call them in on this.”

“But the note specifically says not to call the police!”

“Have you ever heard of a threatening note that didn’t say that?” he snapped.

“Well, no. But Bryce, I can’t.”

“Miranda, you may have superpowers, but that doesn’t mean you need to play the hero. You’re not going, and you’re definitely not going alone.”

“I don’t want to. But I think I have to. The part about the guest… I worried it might be you, but even if it isn’t, someone is still in danger and… Don’t worry, I’ve taken some precautions. I moved some of my stuff into the vacant apartment across the hall from mine, just in case. I mean, I’m sure things will be fine, but if they’re not…”

“Miranda, dammit, you’re not going to some seedy building alone tonight! Call the police, and then they can catch this guy and—”

“I’m sorry Bryce, but I have to go. Goodbye.”

And she hung up.

Bryce sat immobile, the phone still held to his ear. How could a woman so scared of everything be so stupidly brave? She was going to get herself killed. He had to do something. He had to…

He threw his phone across the room, enjoying the crackle of breaking plastic. He couldn’t do anything.

But that didn’t mean he was just going to sit here.

“Matthews! I need you!”

Chapter 14

Miranda decided to dress in black. She didn’t think it would really give her much of an advantage at this meeting, but she needed every bit of help she could get. Plus, being inconspicuous was like wrapping a warm, cozy blanket around herself. And it felt like typical Miranda, a reminder that Miranda was the one attending the meeting, not Arc Angel. After the debacle in the car that morning, Miranda was in no hurry for her alter ego to return. She didn’t own any silver spandex anyway.

So she crept down the street in black jeans and a black sweatshirt, hugging the shadows of the crumbling buildings, only the white streak in her hair clearly visible. Streetlights were a luxury in this area of town, with only one out of every two or three intact and illuminated. The only other source of light came from the weak crescent moon, barely visible in the overcast sky. Miranda didn’t mind. She could see well enough not to run into anything, and she didn’t really want a better view of the rest of the decrepit neighborhood.

Ashmore Street sat only a few blocks from Jackson Avenue but had slid several steps down in quality. Her apartment building may be dingy and battered, but the buildings on this block looked like they’d been through a war. Graffiti covered almost every flat surface, and iron bars, some twisted and bent, hung in front of most of the windows. Trash blew around the neighborhood, and broken bottles, empty cans and smashed boxes littered the sidewalk.

438 Ashmore looked as bad as the rest. The former Mr. Speedy’s Dry Cleaning appeared to have been out of business for years. All the windows were boarded up, and the iron bars in front of the door were rusted and bent, the metal screeching against the pavement every time the wind caught them.

Miranda stopped 50 feet from the building and tried to remember her plan, if it could really be called that.

She’d found blueprints for the former dry cleaning service online, which told her there were only two entrances: the front door, which looked like it would give her gangrene if she got within a few yards of it, and the service entrance in the back, where she presumed the delivery van used to get loaded up with freshly martinized clothes.

Arc Angel would have marched right up to the front door and dramatically thrown it open to confront the villains.

Miranda didn’t think that approach would get her anywhere but dead.

So what should she do? She wasn’t about to just walk in the front door, even if she could manage to get it open. She’d be a sitting duck. Okay, technically a standing one. But heading around the back seemed like a bad idea too. She needed to find a Plan C.

Her hands trembled, and her knees were the consistency of jello. She needed to come up with Plan C soon, before she passed out on the street. Her mind kept drifting to the note, with its reference to the “guest.” Miranda sent up a quick prayer that, whoever these people had in there, waiting for her, he was still safe.

She headed toward the building, but stayed off to the side, sliding down parallel to the wall of the building, looking for other options. Halfway down the length of the building, she found it. A broken window, without bars.

One advantage to having garbage strewn everywhere: it only took her a few seconds to find a broken crate that should be able to support her weight so she could get up high enough. She dragged it under the window and gingerly stepped on it. Wobbly, but it would do.

Careful to avoid the shards of glass remaining in the bent panes, she leaned against the window as she tried to determine where the lock would be on the other side. She almost pitched forward head first as it swung open at her touch. The crate teetered as she tried to regain her balance, but she caught herself before she fell.

Okay, open window. Great Plan C. Though it may have been just a little too easy? She hoisted herself up to the window frame and clambered through, one leg at a time until she hung on the other side. She let go and dropped to the ground with a soft thud.

It had been dark outside, but the inside of the building presented a whole new level of black. The window she’d crawled through let in a peek of moonlight, but not enough to illuminate more than a foot in front of her. She stayed pressed against the wall.

While her eyes adjusted, the rest of her senses went on full alert. Her ears caught it first. A sound. Off to her left. The power twitched and jumped inside her, but she pushed it down.

This is Miranda’s meeting, not Arc Angel’s.

She needed to try to stand on her own two feet for once. Though, technically, it was always her feet, just not always her mind.

She heard the noise again: a rustle and a muffled whimper. Could it be rats? Ew, gross. No, even worse, it had sounded human. Oh god, did they have Bryce after all? Her stomach lurched at the thought. No, they couldn’t. She’d talked to him only minutes ago; they wouldn’t have had time to grab him and make it all the way across town in that short amount of time. It couldn’t be him.

Another whimper whispered through the room, and the hair on Miranda’s arms rose, this time due to plain old fear, not the onset of electricity. Though she still couldn’t see more than a foot in front of her, Miranda began to inch her way toward the sound, her arms out in front of her like a sleepwalker, trying to make sure she didn’t run into anything.

If she remembered the floor plan correctly, she’d entered the back of the store, where they did the actual dry cleaning. That should mean the machines were off on the right, the loading dock sat directly in front of her, and the track that brought the clean clothes to the front area should be just overhead, running the length of the left wall.

More rustling, followed by an ominous thump and then silence. Miranda froze. The loud pounding of her heart became the only noise in the room. What should she do? Someone—not Bryce, not Bryce, not Bryce—was obviously in danger here. The damn note had said that they wanted to meet her, and she’d shown up, so why did they need to hurt someone? Fear warred with anger.