I click the headset again, and say, “Anyway, you gotta come back to the van, we got a call from HQ to head downtown. There’s, uh, more snow down there. Flurries. It’s so important.”
Her sigh comes in the intercom with some static crackles. “Hang on just a sec, I want to check this out.”
That’s Lacey’s microphone coming back into range, and the camera man picks up into a motion-sickness-inducing jog.
“And you saw him? Like actually got a good look for yourself?”
The camera’s view readjusts, settling on her holding the microphone tucked under her arm and talking to some older guy rubbing his hands on a greasy apron. He’s somewhat familiar, I think I’ve bought a breakfast sandwich from his food truck before.
Lacey’s eyes widen with excitement when she sees the cameraman approach, waving for him to start rolling.
I glance at my watch. We’ve got a schedule to keep, and she’s making this harder than it needs to be.
“I think we’ve got enough eyewitness segments,” I say in an undertone, watching her through the shaky movements of the camera being adjusted on the guy’s shoulder. “Hey, this isn’t on the schedule.”
She doesn’t pay attention.
Lacey grabs the guy’s arm and starts rearranging the way they’re standing. She’s setting up the shot to get exactly the kind of backdrop she wants for interviewing this guy, including one of the recently damaged buildings from last week’s mutant smackdown—a car that has been flipped and stuck in a shop window at a terrible angle, the caution tape roping it off, and a tow truck trying to drag the car out of the mess.
“He witnessed a skirmish between one of Dr. Maestro’s mutants and Clayton—I mean, Steel Heel,” Lacey is saying to me aside, a hand against her earpiece, her eyes all bright and excited.
“It wasn’t Steel Heel,” the guy tells her; a needle of dread pricks my heart when I finally start listening. “It was a new super I ain’t never saw before.”
Every hair on my body is standing on end. Now I remember where I’ve seen him.
He shifts back on one foot to turn and point at the car sticking out of the building, but I catch sight of the street sign he was blocking the view of and immediately twist the keys in the ignition. The engine groans as it turns over.
Change of plans, then.
Lacey just frowns and continues questioning. “A new super saved you? What did he look like?”
“A car was flying at me, and he scooped me up and dropped me off at the bus stop,” the man continues, gesturing his arms wide. “He was like, real lanky, blue from head to toe, and he had a whole ass tail! And he had these like bat wings and—”
“Lacey, we really need to get a move on,” I urge, before clicking the intercom off.
I barely listen or pay attention as the tires squeal against the salted pavement, merging into traffic a little too precariously. The driver behind us flips us off and lays on the horn, but I’m already weaving into another lane and around the corner. Whatever, they can call the number on the back of the van about my driving.
“Get ready,” I call over my shoulder, and my coworker grunts in response, standing up.
I slam on the brakes as soon as I see Lacey standing on the curb, pulling the van up beside them. She frowns heavily, dropping the microphone to waist height.
Up close and in person, she’s a little shorter than I thought she would be. I can’t think about that right now, the window is closing on us.
I watch through the side mirrors as she stomps up to the van and bangs a fist on the side, looking incredibly irritated.
There’s a glimpse on the news van’s preview screen as the cameraman wheels around to look at Lacey, and my coworker throws the van door open, standing to his full height and ripping a length of duct tape off the roll.
The news van’s actual driver is tied up with his mouth taped, laying on the floor behind him. I watch Lacey’s expression shift from annoyed to agog in a matter of seconds, the blood draining from her face.
Between one second and the next, there is barely room to breathe or react. I turn my attention to the road in front of me, but I hear her gasp before the news van door rolls and slams shut.
“GO,” my coworker snarls over Lacey’s muffled protests, and I peel out, the cameraman from Channel 6 News shouting after us.
We stop a quarter mile down the road at a red light, and I watch the rearview mirror for her camera man, a husky Latino guy with a wispy mustache. He’s running down the sidewalk after us, apparently unable to ditch the equipment.
Briefly, I feel bad for the effort he’s making, but then the traffic light turns green and I can speed down a main thoroughfare. Then we turn down another service road to where another van, this one unmarked, is waiting for us.
We only drove a short distance, but it’s enough for my coworker to tape Lacey’s wrists and ankles together. He’s just finished tying a blindfold over her eyes when I throw the van in park and get out.
