Because it's a Friday, I hop in my car and drive the half-hour to the training center, where Arden has been waiting for me. She has her thick, black hair braided tight like a rope, and her stance tells me that even being early today, is late. I grab my gym bag and hurry over, hoping the hustle will lighten her mood. Her mouth is set in a fine line, and the first thing she says is, "I see you've strayed from your recommended diet, son."
I duck my head, thinking about every scoop of ice cream I've eaten in the last week, and now I am going to regret it. "Can you blame me?" I ask sheepishly.
She cracks a smile,"Of course not. You're a kid. I expect you to have an ice cream here or there. But I wish you wouldn't have scrapped your daily regimen," she scolds.
At this, I'm confused, I've done all the workouts, just at school in the gym. Sure, they try to put weight limits on me as I work, but that's because they don't know my average. "I haven't, ma'am."
"Hmm, that's not what Charlene told me. She said she never sees you work out at the house." That damn Charlene... I wish she would stay out of my business.
I shake my head. "That doesn't mean I stopped, ma'am. I have continued the regimen. I do it daily in the school's weights room. I go to school early on days I don't have the class, so I can fit the workout in before class."
At this, Arden's smile returns, and she looks at me like I just passed a test, "Good kid, I doubted you would quit cold turkey. Thanks for proving me right." She then turns on her heel, and the workout is about to begin.
We start as usual with 30 minutes on the treadmill; the pace isn't breakneck, but the incline shreds my calves, regardless. We continue with deadlifting, calisthenics, and finish with boxing. I'm tired and desperately want to rest, but Arden pushes me to keep up. Hook, cross, jab, jab, uppercut. Hook, cross, jab, jab, uppercut. Finally, she gives me a water break, and I check my phone. "Hey, Arden, looks like there's a report of more gunfire. This time just outside of Jacksonville."
"Any casualties?" she asks, bored.
I shake my head. "It came from a noise complaint, but it was along a hiking trail."
She now looks concerned. "That doesn't sound good." A look crosses her face, then she promptly changes the topic, "So, how's high school treating you?"
I groan, it's not bad, and this question isn't unexpected, but I would rather focus on my job than my cover. "I made a friend."
"Oh? What's their name?" Arden's curiosity is peeked and I have a feeling I know how she's going to react. I don't like this one bit.
I retie my shoe to distract myself from the look on her face as I say, "Maria." I hear a muffled giggle in response, but she's kind enough not to press and embarrass me.
The workout continues, but I can't get the report off my mind. So, I ask for the chance to check once more. She begrudgingly pauses our workout, letting me check my phone. Whether it is new information or not, I am itching to investigate something. "Arden, is there any chance I have completed all your planned workouts and can earn some time off to go and goof off or something?"
"I really don't like the sound of that, kid." Arden seems more concerned than upset, but she doesn't seem entirely opposed. It's short-lived, though, and she narrows her eyes. "Is this "goofing off" going to interfere with official police business?"
"Why would I be training if not so that I could be of use in an active investigation?" There's a new report of a vehicle spotted heading out of the park where the shooting was heard, not suspicious, but there were no other vehicles on site. The car is now heading down I-95. I know that they may not take immediate action, and it's likely some bozo was using the woods for target practice, but that's not allowed there because the trail is recreational. Besides with this feeling in my gut, I can't ignore that this may be related to my investigation. The only problem is, I have to get to Jacksonville to check, and that is a bit harder to explain to Derek and Charlene.
I haven't been listening to a word that came out of Arden's mouth since seeing the report, and she must have realized by now. "If you're going to zone out on me, freeze the time, so that I'm not wasting my breath. I know you want to go, but you're not supposed to go on investigations alone."
"I'm aware of that. But do you really think they would come with me if I "just ask permission"? I have a feeling I need to be there. And before you tease, I know it's not related to my ability, but I sense it all the same. I'll just go to observe. I won't take any intrusive action, nor will I interfere with police affairs. I just want to scope and take note. Couldn't I do that?" I'm hoping, if I talk around it, she'll let me leave, and I can take care of it.
Her stare is deadpan. "I don't believe for two seconds that you won't try to get into police affairs. But, if that's all you're there to do, Charlene and Derek could join you, no problem."
"Arden, this is time sensitive! I'm closer than they are by even being here right now. If I wait for them to get here, we could be too late to get any kind of info, or make an impact." These words must pull out a memory from Arden; she silently nods, then bows her head.
"I know I can't stop you, so do what you will." The defeat in her words is unmistakable, and I don't miss the implication that I would use my powers in this way. I had never considered freezing time for this; it seems so immature. Her wariness twists my stomach. "Just- they should be aware of what you're doing. They can't do their jobs either, if something goes wrong and they don't even know." I think of a mission back in Minnesota, and it makes me hesitate — Arden has a point.
Holding my hand up like taking an oath, I tell her, "I'll send them a message as an apology, and I promise, I won't get involved with the police." She seems satisfied enough, but now I feel awkward leaving, because no matter how many promises I made to return safely and not interfere, it doesn't feel earned. She doesn't actually trust me, and that hurts more than the thought of her just ordering me not to go.
She shakes her head at me. "Don't go telling me you've changed your mind, go. Check it out, and for both our sakes, I hope it's nothing." She starts putting away equipment, and that's that. I grab my bag and head to my car. I type out a quick explanative apology, before putting the car in reverse and onto the I-95.
The drive is so uneventful, I feel bad for being insistent I leave once more. However, listening to my police radio gives me the insight I need. It isn't until I am in the city that, over the dispatch, there's a report from a citizen who spotted an individual who vaguely matches a police sketch of Zandor. I can hear Derek's usual answer in my head, "People are really easy to spook anymore. Someone who matches one detail suddenly is Zandor without a doubt. It’s kind of stupid.”
Dispatch continues that there is a second individual with the suspect. Before I can think twice, I call over, "Is there a description of the hostage?" Then I feel like slamming my head into the wheel, because this is the kind of stuff I'm not supposed to be doing. I have access to a police radio for reconnaissance only. Answering — let alone asking for classified information — is prohibited by protocol.
I don't think, however, I will learn this lesson soon, because I am rewarded with a, "Yes, the witness provided that the hostage is a young female with an appearance ranging between the ages 15 and 19. She's described as having short brown hair. It is unclear whether the individual was under duress." I mentally thank dispatch and literally bite down on my tongue to keep from making the same mistake twice. It gives me the opportunity to learn the last guaranteed whereabouts of the suspect.
I pull over briefly and look in my trunk at my gear to check that it hadn’t been messed with during the move. I type the code into the keypad on the case that was stashed in the spare tire compartment, and admire my bullet-proof vest, pistol, pair of dark shades, and dolphin's cap. I've been waiting for a moment to put this to use. I secure the vest under my t-shirt, I pull on a light jacket to cover the more visible protrusions. I then focus on the gun, only loading it with a single bullet, and triple-checking that the safety is on before holstering it in a hidden location on my lower back.
It's funny I wear this, given that I could freeze time and step out of the way of a stray bullet. But Arden has made a very cruel point by demonstrating that if I don't see a threat, I don't have time to stop time or side-step it. I shudder thinking about the pain of the bruises, as the rubber bullet day comes to mind. A paintball game may have gotten the same point across, but the force isn't keen on using games for training. They prefer a certain level of cruelty, which I suppose is meant to mentally prepare you for combat. When ready, I park my car and stalk the street the two were seen on.
I have no idea where they are right now, if they are even here. I feel stupid walking up and down block after block, hoping for some action to appear. I think about the last few weeks at the school, and the only thing that seems to come to mind is a girl who's in a bunch of my classes. I've never hung out with her, like I had with Maria, but it feels strange not to get to know her — even if just for investigative purposes. I think back to her brown hair; it seems to sit uncomfortably. I don't know why I feel that way; maybe it's how she styles it, or a product she uses that gives it an uncanny shine. I'm still thinking about her hair as a woman passes me — she looks oddly familiar.
However, the moment is so brief that I only barely register that she has short, brown hair. I turn back in the direction she went, and she's already gone. I doubt this woman has anything to do with the report; there are countless women out there with short brow hair, but I don't have much else to work off of, so I start walking with the hope I can retrace her. After searching for five more minutes, the effort feels futile. I pull up the police reports to scan as I take a break against a building.
There's still nothing new, and I feel like I have wasted gas on a whim. The likelihood of Zandor being way out here is low, but not improbable. That low chance is my one saving grace, that maybe I'm not useless in this effort, and that I can do the job I was brought here to do. His elusivity draws a certain hatred out of me; I want him locked up more than I ever have a previous target. He started out as a petty criminal — that's why he was assigned to me. He was supposed to be my easy success, but he's proven more difficult to pinpoint than previous hits.
And if it doesn't make it any more frustrating, he has an accomplice. One who is also competent enough to be difficult to hit. There's so little known about this other that we can't even confirm if they are male or female. How has nobody in the entire police force caught whoever it is yet? Pink hair is hard to miss. It's almost more aggravating that no one seems to want to talk about the accomplice, even in the newspapers. As if their role is insignificant. To me, it feels more important to look at this new player; they could be our key to finally identifying and capturing Zandor. I resolve that I will not give up just yet tonight, and, if I can, I will find out more about this new adversary.
I'm refreshing the page again, just in case I missed an update, when suddenly there is the reverberating blow of a gunshot. In record time, I turn in the direction of the sound and run towards the danger it forbodes. For a moment, I want to stop and check the police reports for an exact location, if already reported, but then I hear a new gunshot. This time it is closer, maybe 10 blocks away, it's south of me, and I have to make the choice to freeze time, and potentially freak out the few strangers around me, or continue running towards a gunshot like a lunatic while abiding pedestrian laws. So as not to further upset my agency, I follow protocol. If I were to arrive at a scene before officials do, I could get in trouble, and if I try to help at a scene in any way, I will get in trouble.
The only clear thing to do is to survey, whatever it is that happened, from the top of a building. Then I feel like slapping myself for not thinking of this before, as I was stalking the streets for the suspect. I've crossed the street successfully without running haphazardly into traffic, and as I turn my head casually to glance down an alley by chance, I am met with a sad sight.
I reach subconsciously back for my pistol, knowing that the danger could still be close, but it's unclear if this was self-inflicted, because I can't see his hands. I step into the alley hesitantly to get a better look. The victim seems to be destitute, and his empty hands at his sides confirm my worst suspicion. I feel sick staring into the bleeding void on his forehead; like some grotesque art display, the single light in the alley is somehow staged just above his corpse. On the brick building supporting him is a splatter of his blood; I want to look elsewhere to gather more mental evidence on the murderer, but something in the splatter catches my eye. It is the crude strokes of the blood, only newly dried on the wall.
The 'Z' left behind by the murderer feels familiar. I think for a moment, then it hits me that Zandor seems to think of this as a game. He marked this wall to claim the victim, or the murderer left the 'Z', so we would add this to the list of charges behind his name. It reminds me of a book I read with my father, about Mr. Holmes, who somehow always notices just the right details to solve a case. Zandor is playing the role of my own Moriarty, and while I enjoy a good game, this one has a start so sinister, I wonder who is the cat and who is the mouse. I'd never been afraid of Zandor, but then again, he's also never painted a wall with blood.
It dawns on me that the police haven't arrived yet, and I curse myself for once again breaking protocol, this time sort of by accident. I'm about to leave or hide, but the second gunshot stops me. I begin to scan the scene again, hoping to channel my inner Sherlock Holmes and find the second target. The elder man was only shot once, so where did the second one go? Who else is dead at Zandor's hands? This thought is dramatic, and proven to be just such when I spot the camera hanging from its previous perch in disarray.
Satisfied in knowing I found the two targets, I head toward the alley's mouth, ready to freeze time and take off before the police arrive. A gasp stops me. I turn around once more, and while I know what I should do, I already know that I won't do it. It would be more suspicious if I left now, so I straighten up and face this girl whose name I still can't place. Protocol be damned, she needs help.
ns216.73.217.39da2
and then Add to home screen.