Theaella

8

His hands turned ghostly white by latex gloves.

One held a pistol, the barrel stretched wickedly long by a suppressor.

Much More Force, Very Specifically Directed

Matthew hustled Vincent out of Grant’s office and into the lobby, careful not to slip on the scattered files.

Already he was running scenarios. Grant’s killers had hacked the new security feed to monitor the office. When the bullet camera had mysteriously swiveled, they’d sent a man to investigate.

A man with a suppressed pistol.

Matthew and Vincent neared the front door, and Vincent balked, jerking back.

“Wait a sec,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Shouldn’t we hide? Or run the other way?” His jaw was clenched, veins standing out in his neck. “Do you even have a gun?”

“We don’t want him dead,” Matthew said.

“I don’t want anyone dead,” Vincent whispered. “Especially me.”

Matthew grabbed his collar and shoved him through the door, staying at his back.

Up the length of the hall, the masked man stood beneath the swiveled bullet camera, staring directly up. Under the hem of black wool, his Adam’s apple floated between the flexed pillars of his neck muscles.

The almond-shaped eye cutouts snapped down at Matthew and Vincent, standing in full view before the door.

The man’s shoulder tensed, the pistol starting to rise.

Matthew propelled Vincent up the intersecting corridor toward the elevator doors.

A muffled pop sounded behind them, and a puff of plaster dust lifted from the wall.

Matthew shoved Vincent toward the elevator. “Push the DOWN button. Go.”

Vincent ran.

Matthew swung open the wall-mount cabinet, freed the fire extinguisher, and unleashed a cloud of carbon dioxide behind him. Particulates filled the hall, visibility instantly reaching blizzard conditions. The man would be cautious turning the corner; now he’d be doubly so.

Matthew backed up, swinging the nozzle, storm-making. He could hear Vincent jabbing at the DOWN button over and over. At last the elevator doors opened.

Dumping the extinguisher, Matthew turned and swept Vincent into the waiting car, shoving him into the protected front corner. He spun into the opposite pocket, jamming his thumb into the OPEN DOORS button.

“What the holy f**k?” Vincent said, sliding to the floor. “Let’s go!”

But Matthew kept the button depressed. His body was clear of the line of fire. Only a sliver of his face was exposed as he peered through the swirling particulates, waiting for a human form to take shape.

Another two pops. A pair of rounds embedded in the back of the elevator.

Vincent’s knees were tucked under his chin, his arms covering his head. He stared up at Matthew. “What the hell are you doing?”

The next shot blew out the light casing above them.

At last Matthew sensed a change in the textured air, a billow of white preceding the man’s approach.

Matthew released the OPEN DOORS button.

Flattened to the wall.

The bumpers started to shut.

The man’s gun hand shot forward between the closing doors, the long barrel bucking once, twice.

Matthew caught the arm at the wrist, jerking it forward, locking the elbow. The elevator doors bump-bump-bumped against the limb but did not retract.

Through the cage of his arms, Vincent’s eyes looked huge.

Matthew said, “You might want to look away.”

Vincent complied.

Hyperextending the arm, Matthew dealt a sharp hand-heel blow to the forearm on the thumb side near the crook of the elbow.

The radial head gave a wet pop as it dislocated.

The man screamed.

The pistol dropped to the floor, bounced once on the threshold, rattled through the gap, and vanished.

Matthew let go, the limb slithering back into the thickening whiteness.

He tapped the button for the lobby.

It was unlikely that Vincent’s pursuers would have sent more than one man to deal with a security-camera irregularity and more unlikely still that they’d want to have a shoot-out in a public lobby. But if they did, Matthew was game.

The elevator doors eased shut, a gentle whir announcing their descent. The air was clear, but a chemical taint lingered, the smell of an aggressively treated Jacuzzi.

The speakers piped in a flute rendition of Christopher Cross, perennially stuck between the moon and New York City.

Matthew’s ARES remained holstered, invisible beneath his shirt.

The injury he’d inflicted was a precise one. And rare.

Nursemaid’s elbow is generally seen in children because their bones are more cartilaginous than those of adults, which means that the radial head pops in and out more easily. It requires much more force, very specifically directed, to dislocate the bone in adults.

Matthew had very specifically directed much more force.

Their would-be assassin would have trouble turning his wrist in either direction. His forearm would be locked in a midrange position. Grasping would be difficult.

It’s hard to be an assassin if you can’t grasp.

So he’d require medical attention.

Rare injuries are easier to track.

Which can prove useful when you’re dealing with a professional killer wearing a balaclava and latex gloves.

Vincent gulped a few breaths. Then stood up. He shuddered off a chill and shifted his weight, pulling up the lank hair falling across his eyes. His gaze darted over to Matthew, and then he shuddered again less violently and cracked a wry almost-smile.

“Okay,” he said. “So that just happened.”

A Thousand Brittle Pieces

Riding across town to his apartment, Vincent stuck his arm out the passenger window and let his hand skim across the passing air.

The Nowhere Man—who’d given only a first name of Matthew—drove the Chevy Malibu at a steady pace, the needle pointed at the speed limit. He kept his gaze ahead, but his eyes stayed on constant rotation around the rear-and sideview mirrors. The guy seemed pensive, chewing on his thoughts seamlessly, like a fish swims in a pond, or a train follows a rail track.