Elites

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

The smell of saltwater assaults my nostrils as I sprint across the bridge. My heart pounds inside my chest, so hard that I barely notice the flotilla of boats docked in the marina below. The bridge is well-lit, even this late at night when there aren’t many tourists, so the chances they won’t see me are horribly low. But I have no choice.

“Itu dia!” someone shouts, followed by the pounding of footsteps. Many footsteps.

The coin clutched tight in my fist, I finish crossing the bridge and cut to my left down a path that runs between the marina and a huge grandstand. One glance over my shoulder confirms the men chasing me have gained ground. Behind them, lit up like Christmas, is the most enormous Ferris wheel I’ve ever seen.

A pang of regret knifes through me.

Jonathan, old son, you’re in deep shite now.

My lungs heave as I turn inland and come to a one-way street. Even at this hour, traffic is heavy and many of the nearby shops are open. My best hope is to blend in with the crowd.

I race across the street, narrowly avoiding a speeding taxi. In front of me, a huge structure of glass and steel beckons. A shopping mall, with a movie theater complex. Which means darkened rooms with lots of exits.

The teenage boy manning the box office is so engrossed in his cell phone, he doesn’t notice me slipping past him and into the lobby. Thinking fast, I jump the velvet rope and run down a corridor of theaters before anyone can object.

I don’t see or hear my pursuers anymore. That’s good. Maybe I’ve shaken them off.

I pick a door at random and enter, slowing my pace as I stroll down the aisle. The movie looks to be well underway. Only half of the hundred or so seats are occupied. Out of breath, I flop into one near the front.

On the screen, an Asian man and woman are engaged in some sappy love scene. I don’t understand a word they’re saying, and as the subtitles are also not in English, it’s easy to ignore.

My eyes go to the door. My stomach twists in dread as a squat man in tight black clothes appears. In the brightness of the high-def screen, it takes him only seconds to spot me.

Shite.

By the time I’ve scrambled back to the aisle, the man is upon me. He swings his leg in a roundhouse kick, but I lean back before his foot collides with my skull. In a fluid motion, he follows this with a punch aimed at my stomach.

Knowing I have to end this quickly before his fellow henchmen arrive, I pivot, grab his outstretched wrist and yank it upward, then drive my foot into his midsection. The breath leaves his lungs, but he doesn’t fall. With a snarl, he launches himself at me, no doubt hoping to wrestle me to the ground. Expelling a quick breath, I step backward while thrusting a fist toward his nose. It impacts with a sickening crunch, disorienting him. I follow with a jab to his throat. An elbow strike to his eye finally puts him down.

Dozens of faces stare at me in shock. Rather than explain my actions to the late-night theater crowd, I turn on my heels and bolt for the emergency exit.

The door leads me into a high-walled alley behind the theater. According to the signage—some of which, thankfully, is in English—going left will lead me back to the mall, whereas turning right will take me to the parking garage. That’s my way out.

I make it to the garage undetected. I scan the rows of cars for one that I can break into and hotwire to make my escape.

That’s when I see the man. I recognize him immediately from the photos I was shown before I left home.

The Korean.

Calm as you please, he steps out into the middle of the driving lane, his piercing black eyes boring into mine. With his short height and modest build, he doesn’t look like much physically, but I know better. This is one of the most dangerous men in the world.

“Mr. Muir.” He says it softly, but the menace in his voice is unmistakable.

I look around frantically for another avenue of escape, but two more black-clad thugs step from the shadows, cutting off any possible retreat.

Bollocks.

Both men draw guns from their belts and aim them at me. Before they can get a shot off, I dive into the narrow space between two cars. Crouching low, I pull my own gun from the holster at my side. With my back against the wheel well of a silver sedan, I slide the clip out.

Two bullets.

Three bad guys.

Not looking good.

With a grunt, I shove the clip back in. I open my fist, revealing the coin that’s been clutched there for the last fifteen minutes. I stare at the bird stamped on its surface for several moments, then cram the thing into my mouth. I swallow it on the third attempt, suppressing a gag and shuddering in discomfort as it works its way down my esophagus.

I lift myself up, turning when I see movement out of the corner of my eye. One of the thugs leaps into view, gun raised. I’m quicker. My shot catches him square in the chest, and he drops onto the concrete.

Then my entire body goes limp.

What the f**k?

I slump against the door of the sedan, all strength gone from my limbs. I can barely move, barely think. My mind, already exhausted from the day’s events, begins to cloud over. I try to will the life back into my legs, but it’s no use. They give way, and I slide back to the ground.

I lift my head to see The Korean approaching at a leisurely pace. He’s holding his palms out to me, fingers splayed, his brow creased in concentration.

With the last of my strength, I face The Korean, now standing next to the other gunman, who towers over him. “You…won’t…” My lungs seem to have forgotten how to draw in air, so I can barely get the words out.

“Please, continue, Mr. Muir,” the man says with infuriating calm. As I watch, he lowers his hands, and the vice-grip on my chest eases. “We won’t what?”

I shoot him my most defiant glare. “You won’t…win.”

His only response is a cold smile. He nods at the huge gunman, who raises his weapon.

The loud report of a bullet meets my ears a split-second after a searing heat punches through my chest. Something wet soaks my shirt.

Darkness steals my sight, and the heat is replaced with numbing cold.

Then…nothing.

I remove my fingers from the coin. They’re shaking so bad I worry they might fly off my hands. I push away from the table, leaning back in the metal chair. I can feel the others watching me, but don’t turn to face them.

Jesus H.

What have I stepped into this time?

I remain fixated on the coin. It’s such an innocent-looking thing. No one would think by looking at it that it held the psychic energy generated by a dying man’s last minutes of life.

Natalie clasps my shoulders, and she gives me a gentle shake. “Bax? Can you hear me? Breathe, kid, breathe.”

Was I holding my breath? Crap, I was.

I take in three large gulps of air, followed by the remaining water in the bottle. I count off twenty seconds before I’m coherent enough to speak again. “Holy s**t,” I say through clenched teeth. “Holyshit holyshit holyshit.”

Was that real?

One second, Jonathan’s fine. The next, all his motor control just vanished like it had been sucked out through a straw.

The Korean guy. He waved his hands at Jonathan. Could…could that have had something to do with his sudden loss of control?

I can’t reveal this to my colleagues. They may believe me, or they may not. I’m not sure which scenario would have a worse ending.

I slump back in my chair, finally tearing my gaze away from the coin. “That was f*****g intense.”

“You saw the dead guy?” Kehoe asks, shuffling toward me.

I shake my head, which helps lift the remaining fog from my brain. “I was the dead guy.” One more exhale, and I face Natalie. “How long was I out?”

She checks her watch. “Just under nine minutes, at a guess. You sure you’re okay?”

Little by little, I feel my racing heartbeat slow, and my breathing return to normal. “I’m okay. Did you just say nine minutes?”

“Around there, yeah.”

“Huh. That destroys my previous record for a single, uninterrupted flash by like three minutes.” I manage a weak smile. “Sweet.”

“Ahem.” Captain Callahan’s burly frame appears in front of me, his expression a mixture of paternal concern and weary grumpiness. “Would you care to give us your report, Mr. Baxter?”

I nod. “Should I write it down?”

Natalie digs a notebook and pen from her jacket pocket. “I’ll do that. Fire when ready.”

“The man’s name is…was Jonathan Muir. Pretty sure he was English.”

“How do you know that?”

“From his accent. Plus, he said ‘shite’ and ‘bollocks.’”

She scribbles in the notebook. “What else?”

I face Captain Callahan. “He wasn’t killed in this country. That much I’m sure of.”

The big man’s jaw drops open. “What? Where was he killed, then?”

“Somewhere in Asia, I’m guessing. Most of the people he saw while he was running for his life were Asian. So were the guys who killed him.” I rub my chest, the same spot where the bullet penetrated poor Jonathan’s. “I felt him take his last breath.”

“Hold on.” Eddie squeezes between Kehoe and the captain and gawks at me. “You’re saying someone murdered this man in Asia, and instead of disposing of his corpse in one of a million different ways, his killers flew his body halfway around the world, then dumped him in an abandoned warehouse in Arizona? In what universe does that make sense?”

“I don’t know. You’re the cops, you figure it out,” I say with way more snark than these people deserve, given that I volunteered for this crazy duty. “But this man wasn’t your average Joe. I watched him use some fancy moves on a bad guy. He killed another one with his gun.”

Natalie scratches off a few more notes. “Anything else you can give us?”

“Yeah, plenty.” I point at the coin. “But I’ll need a few more laps around the track in order to be crystal clear on the details.”

“Are you up to it?” Kehoe asks.

I scan everyone’s face. Despite the underlying dread about the can of worms I may have just opened, I feel a swell of pride at what I’ve accomplished. Not only did I endure the longest flash I’ve ever experienced without blacking out, but I did it in such a way that I was able to keep the emotional tsunami from overwhelming me.

Not to mention, I now have these four people—three of whom have decades of collective experience as police officers—completely enthralled.

I scooch forward on the chair, placing my hands several inches on either side of the coin. “Get me another water,” I say with far more confidence than before. “You guys owe me a steak dinner for this.”

It’s with a profound sense of relief that I stand from the interrogation room’s horribly uncomfortable chair and make my way out the door.

I relived Mr. Muir’s final stand three more times, giving Natalie every detail I could remember after each pass. This included descriptions of the landmarks Jonathan encountered—the bridge, the grandstand, the mall, and that ginormous Ferris wheel—as well as the prevalence of Asian people, culture, and language. I have no doubt my fellow investigators will soon deduce where Jonathan met his end. Where they go from there? Not my problem.

Except for the tiny matter of what the hell I just witnessed, which is so far outside my realm of psychic expertise that my head spins just thinking about it. I’m gonna need help getting my mind around it before my paranoid fantasies start having paranoid fantasies.

According to Gina, ninety-nine percent of all psychic abilities are passive, affecting the psychic and no one else. Psychometry certainly falls into that category, as does aurapathy, Gina and Trina’s ability.

I do some quick math in my head. In the United States, there are approximately 330 million people. Gina told me roughly one in every fifty thousand is a Special, which means there are between six and seven thousand psychics currently residing in this country, give or take. So, if Gina’s numbers are accurate, there could be around seventy psychics in the greater Phoenix area whose powers affect more than just themselves. Apply that percentage to the number of people on the planet, and…

Oh my.

Jonathan called The Korean “one of the most dangerous men in the world.” If he’s one of the one percent…

The world just got a whole lot scarier.