“I don’t know anything. Call the FBI. Hurry.”
“Shit. I’m on it. Stay in touch.”
After I hang up, I try to reach my partner but he doesn’t answer. Heart in my throat, I ring Slate and leave a message. Shit. I open Twitter and almost faint.
Oh my God. There’s a live feed of my husband holding Stacy while the police clear the street.
I turn up the volume. “… It appears a young girl has been wired with a bomb near Fourteenth and Sixth. Move your asses out of there.”
Chapter 8
Suds
“Stacy, stop!” Leaving Vlad in my wake, I race to his daughter’s side.
She must’ve ditched the X-man costume and instead, wears a thick army vest with wires showing.
I fucking freeze as dead eyes from my past cloud my vision. A hummer tire spins in the dust as I shoot at the insurgents surrounding me.
A second later I’m back in the present holding a wide-eyed girl while the police shout through amplifiers. “Everyone, clear the area!”
Oh fuck, oh fuck.
“Suds? Report in.” Slate’s voice sounds in my headset.
Ladies and Gents, brace yourself, we’re in for a rough landing.“The kid has a bomb strapped to her chest. Jesus God Almighty, we need to get these people out of here.”
Twenty minutes later I’m embracing a hyperactive child who hasn’t sat still since I met her. “Don’t be scared.”
“I’m not. I’m Magique. Nothing can hurt me.” She shoots me a toothless grin and my heart about breaks because if she moves, neither of us will see another Christmas. I don’t feel so bad about dying but Sam will be devastated.
Too bad, I always wanted some rug rats of my own. With Sam’s propensity for getting into trouble, I wanted to wait. Now, I wish we hadn’t.
Hundreds of young people crowd about and the police try to get them to fall back. Something clicks inside me and I force all the negative shit into the bowels of my subconscious.
“Don’t, Magic.”
“Mag-eek. Say it right.” Her voice is brave but her lower lip wavers.
“Right. Do you have the super power to freeze like a statue?”
“Why?”
“Bad guys might see us.”
“Why?”
“I, ah… because they want to destroy Halloween forever.”
“Why?”
“They hate candy.” I try to keep her brain occupied but I can’t imagine this little jumping bean staying still much longer.
Thank God, a white truck with NYC lettering drives up. A man wearing thick glasses and sporting the latest fashion in Michelin Tire Man jumps out.
“We’ll take it from here.” He grabs Vlad’s upper arm and struggles to get him behind the vehicle.
“Papa.” Under me, Stacy squirms, about to bolt, but I hold her tight as the technician returns.
