In the Wind: Out of the Box, Book 2 (2 page)

She’s not. This has been hitting her hard, but she’s buttoned up enough she’ll never admit it. Even watching her boyfriend leave quietly in the night hasn’t undone my sis.

But she’s watching me now like I’m gonna bolt. Not with suspicion, exactly; just that little hint of fear.

Meanwhile, I’m swimming in a river of curiosity, no lie. Which makes it harder to say this. “You think you can spare me for a few days?” I ask.

It’s barely visible, this little flinch she does. “Sure.” Like it’s no big deal. But it is. She’s not being passive aggressive or anything, so this won’t bite me in the ass later, but I can tell she’s feeling the losses.

“I want to check it out,” I say, honestly, “maybe get to the bottom of this. Could be there’s some survivors from Alpha, kept their heads down during the war.”
During the extermination of our people,
I don’t say. She still feels the guilt on that one, too, even though there’s nothing she could have done differently.

“Sure,” she says. “I wouldn’t have brought it to you if I thought it was nothing.” She laughs nervously. “Or if I couldn’t make do without you for a few days here.” But there’s a seriousness behind her eyes when the laugh fades. It says,
Don’t leave
. Or at least,
Don’t be gone long
.

I wipe my sweaty forehead on my sleeve again, a fresh round of droplets coursing their way down. Damn, that fifteen minutes was terrible. “You sure you can make do without me?” I ask, giving her one last chance to dodge loneliness. She’s not so good at dealing. Repression, thy name is Sienna.

“It may surprise you to know this,” she says with some bravado, “but I survived for quite a few years before you showed up at my door, bro.” She calls me bro all the time. Like it’s ironic. She’s kind of a hipster, I think, making obscure references and wearing kind of dowdy clothes. I would never tell her this, though, because I want to live. She gets serious again. “This isn’t much to go on, though. Like … little bitty pieces, scattered to the four winds. Sure you want to try and pick them up?”

I gently blow a gust of air out of my index finger as I point it at her like a gun, and it whips her hair for just a second, stirring it—and a smile. “I have some small experience with that,” I say. And I give her a smile of my own on my way to go pack, surprisingly eager to go somewhere for the first time in months.

To my complete and utter lack of surprise, there are no direct flights between Rome, Italy, and Minneapolis, Minnesota. This leaves me sitting in a Mexican cantina in the Detroit airport for about three hours on a layover. Not a big deal, really; the margaritas are fricking fantastic, the best I can recall having in recent memory, and the food is spot on, too. I hate flying, especially on long trips. Back when I had an employer with deep pockets, we did things like flying first class everywhere. Even when the agency was still secret and generated its own money—ahem—off the books (insider trading,
cough cough
) we could occasionally charter a jet. Which came in handy for things like prisoner transport.

Ever since we metas—people with powers—got outed on national television by the president, the agency has had a much tighter rein around it. We can’t do squat nowadays in terms of spending money. We’re dependent on the incredibly screwed-up budgetary process, which is a real let down after being able to basically do whatever the hell we wanted without oversight. It’s not like we were grossly irresponsible or anything, but when you’re as big as me—over six feet, with the long legs to match—bitching about sitting in coach comes as naturally as the urge to find a restroom when you’ve got a full bladder.

Oh, how I miss the days of money.

The pay cut hurt, too. I’m getting paid like a brand-new government worker, not a single ounce of seniority. If my room and board weren’t covered, I’m pretty sure I’d be making minimum wage.

Anyway, I’m sitting in this cantina, buying my own drinks on my government credit card, when—surprise, surprise—my sister’s interview with Gail Roth, that witch from the National News Channel comes up on a soundbite while they’re interviewing a congressman about the ‘meta problem.’ That’s what they call it when they’re being sensitive. It was not a good interview. Sienna, as hard as she tried—and there’s some doubt in my mind that she tried very hard, honestly—came off kind of … snide. Snarky. Sarcastic.

So, basically, like herself.

Anyway, that did not go over well in the media, where it was felt that she was perhaps being a little obnoxious to Gail Roth, a well-established, well-liked mama badger and proxy for every reporter out there. The news panel shows turned pretty ugly for the next few days, and the Department of Homeland Security made some bullshit excuse and canceled every other appearance they’d had Sienna scheduled for. It looked bad, but sending her out to do more interviews probably would have been worse. A lot worse.

But oh, how they loved to trot out clips from the interview for entertainment value. They always seem to cut them just right, too, to make Sienna look even more petulant.

Thankfully, the bar’s TV is on mute. I carefully avert my eyes from the scrolling black box of text running across the bottom of the screen with its frequent misspellings. I have a margarita in front of me, the remains of a quesadilla staring up from my plate, and I decide I ain’t got time for this shit. I’m about two seconds from speaking up to get the bartender to change it when loud, obnoxious voices—probably cable news anchors—reach my ears.

“I’d like to show her my power,” one guy down the bar says to his buddy next to him. They’re both wearing suits, their ties loosened, a full beer mug in front of each of them. Sitting their fat, middle-aged asses on the blue bar stools, a barely sober mess in the middle of the cantina. The cantina is an explosion of color. These two assclowns are a black hole in the middle of the place, all serious business. Except for what they’re saying. It’s serious bullshit.

The second guy chuckles, waiting to hear the joke. “You’re not one of them, are you? You ain’t got a power, do ya?”

“My power,” the first guy says, and he’s just barely slurring, any good judgment he has washed away in the river of beer he’s taken down, “is to rock her bed all—night—long.” He emphasizes each syllable of the last three words with perverted glee, and his companion is beset by a wicked case of the giggles.

A gust of wind—sudden, violent, and strangely out of nowhere—blasts the stools from beneath both of their asses and they topple to the floor. There’s a clatter as other furniture is disturbed by this mysterious atmospheric phenomenon, this strange wind that blows from down the bar, originating … well, gosh, just about from my seat. How about that. Weird, huh?

Their landings are spectacular. Both are doused with beer, unprepared for the sudden meeting of their asses and the cold tile floor. I take a drink of my lovely margarita to hide my pride in making the introduction. There are protestations of surprise, bewildered confusion from both the drunks as well as the bartender and the wait staff. During the commotion I finish my margarita and order another one. I nibble on the quesadilla, even though it’s gone cold, and find it surprisingly satisfying.

I stay a while longer, through a few more margaritas, but stop short of getting completely tanked. When the moment arrives, I shuffle past the drunkards, now sipping a complimentary beer, mumbling to each other about that oh-so-strange experience they had. They’re buffoons at best, assholes at worst, and I feel no remorse for what I did. It feels good, in fact, albeit petty. Don’t mess with my family.

I almost make it to the door, and then I send them another little gift of wind. They hit the floor sputtering, their fancy suits drenched from top to bottom in their fresh beers. I try to keep from laughing as I stagger toward my gate, hoping I’ll be able to sleep on the plane.

Rome is quite a town. If you’ve never been, you should go. I will caution you about a few things, though:

1. You will see many feats of driving excellence in Rome. Many will involve the moped, which seems to be the preferred national mode of transportation. Moped drivers are exempt from the laws of all logic and reason, and drive like those Ministry of Magic cars in Harry Potter, finding gaps in traffic and slipping through even the most improbably small holes like they’re greased. Okay, it’s mostly because they’re as crazy as cab drivers, but still. Which brings me to point two:
   
2. The cabbies in Rome are nuts. This is in addition to piling multiple people in a cab at the airport. It’s like a commuter van, except you all have to pay a cab rate, and they drop you off in sequence. Hope you’re first, not last, because it’s a real shit-fest when you’re stuck going an hour out of your way to drop off some German tourist who can make lame puns in English. Cabbies in Rome make New York cab drivers look like rank amateurs in the crazy-as-hell department.
   
3. The city is organized, but in kind of a nutty way. Not quite as narrow of alley and passage as, say, London, but it’s still a mess of building and rebuilding that goes back to ancient times and probably before.
   

Also, odds are good that you’re going to have a hell of a time finding a decent-sized bed. Just fair warning.

I spend an hour in the cab, no shit, before I get dropped off at my hotel, which is paid for by my sister’s agency and my Uncle Sam. The hotel has the words “Five Stars” in the name, but is not anywhere close to a five-star hotel otherwise, the lying bastards. I get my little narrow bed, with another lonely one just beside it, a plank of wood nailed to the wall that’s maybe supposed to be a desk, and I have to be happy about it, because let’s face it—I wouldn’t be here on my own. Rome is also a pretty expensive city, and at twenty-five, I’m probably a little old to stay in a youth hostel. Possibly also a little too clean-shaven.

I bounce around my room long enough to unpack the basics, and then I’m out the door again. There’s a café near the Piazza Navona that I’m bound for, and I hop a taxi. Once again, I see many feats of driving excellence. I get the feeling it’s like a battle to the cabbies, like they’re fighting a lonely war against every other car on the road. I don’t know Italian well enough to tell if this lady is swearing under her breath or not, but my euros would be on yes.

She lets me out in front of a door after driving me in a long-ass circle around a block. I can’t read the name of the place, and it wouldn’t make much sense to me even if I could. On my earlier trips it always seemed like everyone in Rome spoke English, and I doubt everyone has forgotten the language in the last few months.

I breeze into the café, past a cooler full of panini sandwiches prepared for tourists wandering the cobbled streets with sore feet and rumbling stomachs. My stomach rumbles, too, but I’m busy. I nod at the guy behind the counter, and he nods back, even though he has no idea who I am. I get the feeling that happens a lot in this particular café. I make my way past all the battered tables and chairs, ignoring the smells that tempt me to stop and get a sandwich of my own—one that’s bursting with mushrooms catches my eye—and enter a portal in the back. Bathrooms wait to my left, and their smell is projected into the hallway in which I stand. To my right is a white door, flecks of paint falling off. It looks like it hasn’t felt the touch of a fresh brush since the days when Mussolini was giving speeches.

I push at the door, let it crack open. It squeals, makes a little noise to let me know it doesn’t appreciate me touching it, but swings open even so. My eyes start to adjust to the dim.

Before I can see, though, I feel something sharp against my belly, and I hold my breath. There’s not so much as a threat, a warning, nothing—before I feel it poke me, hard, telling me everything I need to know about the intentions of the person standing just inside the door.

This isn’t the first time I’ve had a knife on me, but it’s certainly more novel nowadays than what I’m used to, which is guns. Guns are scary. I can’t dodge a bullet, can’t blast it out of the way. I hold my hands up in the air, reaching for the sky like it’s something I can touch. Well, maybe I sort of could touch it, being an Aeolus.

Words of Italian are breathed in the dark, and I feel the pinch of frustration. I don’t speak Italian. I know, ugly American, working in Rome, doesn’t speak the language. This is the sort of thing the French want to murder their tourists for. But in my defense, a) I wasn’t in Rome THAT MUCH, and b) almost all the Italians I’ve met speak enough English to make conversation possible. They’re amazing in that regard. Friendly, warm, wonderful people.

Except for this bastard holding a knife to my gut. If he were a pro, he’d hold it to my neck.

Another burst of rapid-fire Italian fills my ears, florid and completely incomprehensible. I ponder being a dick and muttering,
“No comprendo,”
but it feels too stereotypical. “I don’t understand,” I say instead.

There is a pause in the dark, and I hear the click of a lamp. “Reed Treston,” says a deep Italian voice, with all the rolling syllables that come with it. It’s an old voice, filled with years and wisdom, and hints at hundreds of thousands of cigarettes smoked.

“Giuseppe,” I say in reply, nodding my head. He notices for the first time that while my hands are in the air, my palms are pointed directly at him, ready to send him into a wall with a gust of wind at the first hint of applied pressure on the knife’s edge.

Giuseppe hastily throws the knife upon a nearby desk with a clatter. He’s lit a desk lamp, one of those kind that bend so you can study papers up close with blinding light. I watch his face for reaction, but he doesn’t give much. Tossing the knife was a good start.

Giuseppe is probably in his sixties, with dark, olive skin and a shock of white hair that crowns him. He looks like a mafioso, like something out of
The Godfather
, but his humble surroundings reveal that he’s no Michael Corleone. We’re standing in a storage room that he’s made into his office, and the cot in the corner tells me a lot about how he’s living, too.

If this were a movie, this would be the point where he claps me on the back, embracing me like a lost son or a favorite nephew, demonstrating our long, deep history. You know what I’m talking about? Where the cool main character shows he’s beloved by everybody, everywhere, because he has friends in places you can’t imagine?