36: Sapphire Crushed

"A limousine belonging to local businessman Gerald Bates exploded late last night on its way to Hackett Municipal Airport. Four blocks of Lowell Boulevard are blocked off this morning as police investigate the cause of the blast and search for survivors. It is not known at this time who was in the limousine at the time of the explosion; police refuse to confirm that it was the result of an attack on Bates by Valerie Strain, better known as the Black Widow. Strain is wanted in connection with over a dozen murders as well as a brutal attack on a restaurant owned by Bates just two nights ago that left five men dead and several people injured. We'll give you more on this breaking story throughout the morning as we get it. Ken?

"Thanks Barbie. An unidentified woman was found dead in the Strong Oaks warehouse district just before midnight last night. Police on the scene suspect the woman was caught in the crossfire of a violent skirmish between two rival gangs. No suspects in the slaying have been identified. When we come back, Skipper Pillonwed gives brides-to-be handy tips to prepare for that special day. Stay tuned."

"We're sorry! The person you have called is unavailable or has travelled outside the coverage area."

Noel slammed down the phone in exasperation. It was the fifth time he'd tried to call Angela since last night. Where was she? Why didn't she turn on her phone? Why didn't she call him?

Morning sun blazed into the robbery/homicide division office. Noel regarded the couch in the corner with a sigh. It was plenty comfortable -- he'd grabbed many a wink while burning the midnight oil on a hot case -- but sleep had only come in fits and bursts last night. He rubbed his eyes; trying to expunge the image of Gladys Barrett's lifeless body in a pool of blood.

"Man, for a guy with no cases you sure are workin' hard." It was Zito from vice. "You seen Rubio?" Noel shook his head.

Detective Aquino looked over the files spread out over his desk. Photos of the Barrett's house (what was left of it). Photos of the warehouse where Gladys was killed. Preliminary ballistics reports -- a mix of weapons that suggested paramilitary operations, but not a single match. Prints taken from all over the warehouse, from as many as nine different people, and the only ones that ID'd were the janitor and Gladys. And it was unlikely a match would be forthcoming -- at least, not in time to be of any use.

Aquino recalled his earlier conversation with the lab tech. "These guys must be from out of town. I'll run it against the national indexes, but we're still running the GB's stuff trying to get a lead on Sapphire. Talk about a needle in a haystack. Musta been a hundred fifty people in that restaurant. And not a single fingerprint in Sapphire's holding cell, just some footprints. Like she knew not to touch anything." Like she was cuffed most of the time, and I wiped down after she left, Noel thought. "I think Ramirez is just covering for not processing her properly when she first came in. Biohazard protocol, my ass. Anyway, it'll be another eighteen hours before the next case hits the queue. I'd squeeze you in, but Ramirez said nothing runs until GB's is finished."

Noel just sighed; it was pointless anyway. In eighteen hours, Gladys' abductors-turned-killers would either be gone with Angela's power, or they'd be killed by it.

Noel worried about Angela. With the Black Widow murders, Noel could help her. He knew she hadn't committed any of them; in the end, he'd see her exonerated. But if Angela killed the people who took her mom, she'd be on the run for the rest of her life. And unless he missed his guess, the explosion last night wasn't Black Widow going after Bates, it was Angela taking out Black Widow. The girl had obviously been pushed over the edge. The sudden brutality of the attack surprised Noel. The detective had little doubt that once Angela knew of Gladys' fate, the powerful vigilante would show no more restraint in exacting vengeance. Whether Noel considered such actions justified mattered not; if he didn't stop her, the justice system would treat her no differently than those who'd killed her mother.

Where could she have gone?

Noel's phone rang. "Detective Aquino. [pause] Yes. [pause] What kind of information? [pause] All right. I'll meet you. [pause] The convention center gardens. I'm on my way."

Eric Lockwell's tony new digs were a sharp contrast with the gritty mess he was in.

Some hero. The only person you killed was the person you were supposed to save. And now the situation is completely fucked.

They were on to him now. Picking them off one or two at a time would be difficult. And Ginger had no doubt plugged her leak -- her cell phone had been uncharacteristically silent since his raid on the warehouse.

But even a banzai full frontal assault was out, because he didn't know where they were holed up. Ginger had wisely kept the field agents' lodgings from her own data-hounds, as if she'd known all along they'd be compromised.

All Eric could do was wait until they showed up for the exchange with Angela. (Exchange wasn't really the word for it now that Gladys was dead.) The convention center during the biggest party of the year -- it was a shitty location. If he could find them there at all, it would be too late. Angela would hand over the sapphires and Ginger would be gone.

Unless he could get to Angela first. Like that was gonna happen.

Dammit! He should have killed them at the warehouse. Taggert out front -- the old Eric would have put a bullet in the man's brain, not told him to be still. The men inside, probably Burnett and Cooper -- another thirty seconds inside and he could have killed them both. Another minute to flush out the one on the roof, and Ginger would now be working with two men instead of six. He should have considered the hostage expendable. Ironic that if he'd done that she might still be alive. If he hadn't shot the sniper's hand, Gladys Barrett would be in a hospital recovering from a flesh wound instead of in a morgue. In trying to save her he'd managed to get her killed.

It was an accident, he told himself. A freak accident. They grabbed her, not you. They shot her, not you. You tried to help her. The old Eric would have killed her just to take away Ginger's leverage. You at least tried to do the right thing.

The old Eric wouldn't have created this mess in the first place. The old Eric would have simply taken the sapphires from Angela according to plan and been long gone.

The old Eric wouldn't have fallen for a sweet girl from the suburbs.

Of course, if he *had* tried to take the sapphires from Angela, she probably would have killed him.

If she held him as responsible for this mess as he held himself, she might kill him yet.

He'd ruined Angela's life, blown up her house, and killed her mom. The more he tried to fix things the worse they got.

Women! Why'd they have to make men so stupid?

*Penman has entered the room.
PenMan: Got your message. You have info for Sapphire?

Eric had absorbed everything he could from the Sapphire Exposed website. But most of what he'd read from the site's main contributor and webmaster, PenMan, had an enthusiasm that went beyond boosterism. This kid -- he'd assumed it was a kid -- obviously had a crush on Sapphire. It was certainly something Eric could understand. But the way PenMan characterized his relationship with her suggested it was more than idol worship, more than a crush. If his stories were true, this young man knew her. And she knew him. At the very least, his glowing posts and highly-romanticized drawings suggested he was either not recognizing or not reporting the whole truth. He probably knew more than he let on, and with PenMan's call for information about Black Widow "to help Sapphire put an end to this scourge on our city once and for all" -- man, who really wrote shmaltzy melodramatic cliche crap like that? -- Eric had an easy way to draw him into a chat.

Scott8412: Maybe...u have a way to get it to her?
PenMan: I'll worry about that. Do you want to help her or not?
Scott8412: Yes.

Eric felt shitty about Gladys. Was this really the way for Angela to find out about her mother's death, through some starry-eyed pimple-faced geek on a chat board?

PenMan: Well?

Eric looked down at the latest issue of World News Weekly on the motel desk. He'd been in this town watching Angela for weeks, and in the end he was learning about her from a trashy tabloid and a fan website.

EXCLUSIVE!
VAMPIRE HUNTS AVENGING ANGEL AND BLACK WIDOW!
Far-East "Angel Hunter" tracks Super Duo; Leaves Dozens of Bodies In His Wake!
Serial Rapist May Hold Key To Man-Haters Power!

It was ridiculous. But then the whole thing was ridiculous. Magical sapphires that could give a young woman an impenetrable forcefield and powerful telekenesis? Once you accepted that, common sense got checked at the door; anything else no matter how absurd was ushered into the party.

Eric's phone buzzed on the nightstand.

NEW SMS MESSAGE:

DEAN@216.239.57.99:
GINGER GOING AFTER SAPPHIRE COP NOEL AQUINO AND SO
N RICKY. COP LURED TO CONVENTION GARDEN. GINGER AL
READY KILL

So, Andrew Dean had turned. The man wasn't as dumb as he looked.

Eric waited breathlessly for a second message, but none came. Fucking hundred-words-per-minute geeks can't abbreviate for shit. Probably wasn't thinking about the 110-character limit on some SMS networks. It didn't matter; Eric already knew that Gladys was dead. Wouldn't Dean have known that? Maybe not, if Ginger was keeping him in the dark. Maybe he wasn't even with her anymore.

Or maybe this was a setup. Maybe Dean was still on Ginger's team. Maybe they were counting on Eric's new good-samaritan tendencies to lure him out into the open.

Well, just because he had a conscience didn't mean he was suddenly an idiot. It wasn't like he'd go stand out in the open and be a target. If it was a trap, it still told him where some of Ginger's men were going to be, and that meant he could kill them.

But if it wasn't a trap, if Ginger was going to kill Noel Aquino, what was her interest in his son?

The lad must mean something to Angela...

But Angela was practically a recluse. (Well, if you didn't count her adventures as Sapphire.) She hadn't seen anyone in weeks. There was that boy she'd been out on a date with when Eric had first set up surveillance, but that had fizzled soon after. Eric remembered the 4:30 A.M. visit where the kid had dropped off the "breakup bag." Driving that big grey Mercury.

A cop's car.

Of course. How could he have been so stupid?

Noel's son Ricky had been Angela's boyfriend. She'd probably broken up with him to protect him. So instead, he worshipped her from afar.

From the Internet.

And Eric was talking to him right now.

PenMan. Ricky. Noel Aquino's son.

And Eric wasn't the only one who'd figured it out. Indeed, Ginger was one step ahead of him. Agents were certainly on their way right now.

Scott8412: ricky I no its u - ur in danger
PenMan: How do you know Ricky's in danger?
Scott8412: g needs hostage, got glads but she died
PenMan: G? Glads?

Eric wished he'd taken typing more seriously.

Scott8412: ginger, wants sappries. gladys, angelas mom
PenMan: Angela's mom DIED?! 
PenMan: How? 
PenMan: What about Angela?
Scott8412: go2 safe place no freinds or relativces
Scott8412: go NOW
PenMan: Wait, what about Angela? Who's Ginger? Do you mean Val, Black Widow?
Scott8412: NOW NOW NOW
PenMan: Why'd she take Angela's mom?
Scott8412: NOW NOW NOW
PenMan: Shut up a sec
PenMan: I'm already in a safe place.
PenMan: Answer my ?s
Scott8412: no time dads target ther coming 2 killlhim
PenMan: Dad's a cop, he can take care of himself. What about Angela?

Eric was incredulous. I just told him someone wants to kill his dad, and he's worried about a bulletproof superheroine. Jesus, a crush makes you stupid...

Scott8412: ang fine has saphires w/her

Ricky breathed a sigh of relief. If Angela was with Sapphire she would be okay.

Scott8412: wheres noel
Scott8412: can u reach him
PenMan: I've got his cell. Who's Ginger? Is Ginger the Hunter?

Ricky was confused. Ginger's a weird name for a guy, but he is Asian... who else could Ginger be? Val's alias? Another partner?

Scott8412: call him tell him hes in danger
Scott8412: tell him diner caller told u
PenMan: No signal. Who's Ginger?

Ricky was starting to get a weird feeling. How did he know this guy was trying to help?

Scott8412: u no where he is
PenMan: How do I know you're not the one trying to kill him?

Eric's hands froze while his mind spun. He didn't have a good answer.

Scott8412: why would i tell u to warn him
PenMan: You already know his cellphone. 
PenMan: You're trying to find him by tracking it but he turned it off.
PenMan: Now you're trying to get me to tell you where he is.

Shit, Ricky was imaginative. But Eric couldn't argue with him.

Scott8412: ok cant argue w/u
Scott8412: get offline stay safe
PenMan: Wait! Tell me what's going on!
Scott8412: ill help ur dad
PenMan: Who's Ginger? What's she want with Sapphire?
*Scott8412 has left the room.

The convention center gardens. It was the spot he would have chosen. Five high-rise buildings ringed a park built atop the convention center's parking garage. The trees were few and far between, and little more than saplings; there was no good cover. Long, meandering walkways criscrossed the park, with only three entry points, one at the north end, one at the south, and an elevator/stairway to the garage on the west side.

Eric knew how it would go. There would be three of them -- sniper, spotter, and gopher. The spotter would alert the team of the mark's arrival. The gopher would time his walk to cross the mark's path just as he passed in front of the stairway -- and that's when the sniper would strike. If he was good, the gopher only had to catch the body before it fell and guide it down the stairway to a waiting van. If he wasn't, the gopher would stop and hold the mark's attention, perhaps asking him for the time, freezing the mark until the fatal shot could be delivered.

Knowing the drill should have made it easy to disrupt. But Eric Lockwell was himself a wanted man. And he wanted to do more than disrupt it. He was here to save a cop's life, sure -- the press attention on the sapphire situation was hot enough already, it didn't need "cop killer" added to the mix -- but the primary objective was to reduce Ginger's number as much as possible. He probably wasn't going to get another shot before the exchange tonight.

But the urban environment wouldn't make it easy. True, there were few civilians on the field of play in a business district on a Saturday morning, but this still needed to be a clean operation. And the chance of getting the sniper was nil -- even if Eric could trace the trajectory to the building, there was no way he could get to it from the park before the sniper got away. The spotter could be anywhere -- in the garage, at either end of the park, or even in another one of the office towers. Eric would be lucky to even see him. That left the gopher, who would be dangerously close to the target.

Well, Eric wasn't about to go home empty-handed.

Remember, they want you dead even more than this cop. And they don't have to bother removing *your* body from the scene.

Two hundred yards of exposed walkway. Eric didn't like his odds out there -- he was good, but he wasn't bulletproof. He'd have to make his play from the sidelines.

So there were two ways this could go.
Eric could get lucky -- Noel could enter the park from the south, where Eric could intercept him at the steps and get him to safety before the team could react.
Or Eric could get very lucky, and drop the gopher before he reached his mark with one shot.

Noel's precinct was some ten minutes away. He should be arriving any minute. Eric once again thanked his instincts, which had him check into the convention center hotel last night, even though it burned most of his remaining cash. (He prayed that Ginger was at this point too busy preparing for the exchange to look too hard for him.) Had he been anywhere else, he never would have been able to get here in time.

A click-snick sound marked the chambering of the first round.

Noel checked his cell phone. Darnit, the battery was dead. He should have checked it before he got out of the car. He'd left it on all night, hoping Angela would call. And dreading what he'd have to tell her if she did.

He hoped she wasn't trying to call him now.

There he was. Emerging from the elevator, police detective Noel Aquino looked up and down the length of the park. The only person sitting on the lawn halfway down the south walkway got up and walked away. Coincidence. So where was the gopher?

A man popped up from the north entrance stairs. Faded jeans. Loose-fitting cream-colored sportcoat that was either a year ahead or fifteen years behind the fashion curve. His pace was easy and measured. He appeared to look at nothing in particular. Longish blond hair -- too well-coiffed to be called a mullet -- bounced with each step.

Burnett.

Jesus, Aquino, don't just stand there.

Eric kneeled and drew his weapon. As if on cue, Aquino stepped forward and turned away, still searching for his mystery caller -- right into the line of fire. Eric slid to the far right of the path.

A hundred yards to the cop; a hundred sixty to the agent. At this distance, even Eric Lockwell was as likely to hit Aquino as Burnett. Or hit nothing at all.

Eric felt time slipping away. Any second now, Burnett would notice him.

Fuck.

Eric leapt up the stairs, sprinting down the path, his sixth sense dictating stutter-steps, jukes, feints, and dodges as whiffs of concrete dust decorated the air around him. Fuck, the sniper was quick!

"Get down!" Eric screamed, his gun out ahead of him, trigger finger twitching with lightning speed.

Noel Aquino spun around and ducked, his hand already reaching in his jacket for his weapon. After a moment's hesitation, the detective realized he was in the middle of a firefight and dove toward the elevator.

First magazine empty, it slid out of the handgun and clattered to the ground, a spent tool abandoned by its user. Practiced hands whipped out a replacement, slamming it home and chambering up the hot barrel in a single balletic movement.

Burnett had taken cover behind a concrete bench. His weapon trained meticulously, firing judiciously. Shoot. Wait. Wait. Shoot.

It seemed to take forever to cross the park, the distance emphasized in no small part by the number of shots raining down around the lone counter-assassin. Eric's lungs burned; the weapon reports echoing across the canyon of glass and concrete rang in his ears.

Eric had closed most of the distance to his target; the elevator and stairwell were only fifteen yards to the left, Burnett's bench twenty yards up the path. Eric practically felt the heat of every bullet as it whizzed by. Burnett knew he had the advantage, and he was taking it. Eric had to hit him quickly; at this range Burnett wouldn't miss again.

The sniper's next shot smacked the concrete path just inches from Eric's left foot. The defender-assassin quickly rolled to his right, coming up in a low crouch. He had a half-second, at best; any longer, and the sniper would make his chest hamburger. Eric's eyes narrowed, homing in on the bench where Burnett crouched.

Shot One.

Between the seat and the back, scarcely a two-inch gap, slamming into soft flesh underneath two layers of fashion history.

Eric saw Burnett's gun barrel dip slightly.

Shot Two.

The tip of the collarbone shattered with the impact, paralyzing Burnett's shoulder in pain.

Time's up.

Eric rolled to his left, feeling concrete dust splatter his cheek. He came up in a run. Only ten yards to the stairwell.

"Freeze!" someone yelled. Detective Aquino.

Shit.

Juke to the left, to the other side of the elevator.

The sniper's last shot at Eric rattled the pavement behind him.

Eric took a moment to catch his breath; hands busied themselves snicking a fresh magazine into his Glock 20. "Aquino! [gasp] They're trying to [gasp] kill you! [gasp] Get downstairs NOW!" He heard the sniper take another shot. He was firing from the northeast; Aquino was a sitting duck.

The sniper shots stopped. Aquino was either clear, or dead.

Eric peeled around the corner of the elevator, beelining for the stairwell. He stuttered a half-step; the concrete cracked in front of him. He dove for the handrail, pulling himself down to safety.

"Drop it." Eric Lockwell felt cold steel pressed against his temple. His shooting hand went slack; the Glock clattered to the step.

"You're under arrest for murder," Noel Aquino began.
"It'll take the shooter about ten seconds to relocate to the other side of the roof up there," Eric said breathlessly, pointing with his left hand up the stairwell to the office tower looming beyond. "And then we're both dead. If you're going to arrest me, I'd prefer it if we adjourned to the basement first."

Aquino picked up the man's weapon. "All right, let's go." Noel backed down the steps like a panther, snapping his head to check over his shoulder for just an instant while keeping the weapon trained on his mysterious attacker...

When he snapped back, the black-clad assassin was standing to one side, his hand grasped firmly around the barrel of the policeman's 9mm. In another instant, he'd twisted the gun right out of Noel's hand. In another instant, Noel's own Nine was pointed at him. Lord, this man was fast.

"My piece, please."
Noel remained frozen; he felt the dangling Glock snagged from his loose grip. "Down the stairs," the assassin ordered. Noel hesitated. "NOW!"

Noel's eyes took a moment to adjust to the meager sodium lighting of the subterranean garage. The dark shape in front of him changed shape in a way that indicated a weapon was no longer trained. "I'm here to protect you. Those men were trying to kill you because of your involvement with Angela Barrett."

When Noel's eyes had returned to normal, he saw the butt of his weapon extended toward him. The man held his Glock 20 in his other hand down at his side.

Noel slowly took back his piece.

The defender-assassin's voice took on a calmer tone. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah." Noel took a deep breath.
"Come on. I don't know whether they've been told to pursue or fall back. We can't stay here."

Noel followed his suspicious savior across the parking garage to the corner stairwell, which took them to Brown Street. "My place is across the street," the man pointed, then proceeded to head up the sidewalk, away from where he'd just pointed.
"Where are you going?"
"The sniper's got a clear shot of the street there. We'll cross a block down and go around to the back of the hotel."
"Are you sure they don't know where you're staying?"
"It doesn't matter. They're no match for me in an enclosed space."
The certainty with which it was said was chilling.

They entered the hotel from the service entrance.

"Come on up. You look like you could use a drink. There's Heineken in the minibar. Only $9 a can."

It took him a moment, but Noel recognized the voice. "You're the man who called the diner. Whose side are you on? Why are you here?"
"A little birdy told me you were a target."
"If I'm a target, that means... My son!"
"He says he's in a safe place."
"You talked to him?"
"Online chat. Here." The man tapped at his handheld for a moment, then handed it to Noel.

PenMan: HI DAD :-) GLAD UROK

Noel was at once relieved and perturbed. "I told him not to go online."
"If he wasn't online, you wouldn't know he was okay."
"Look, I know you just saved my life, but who are you?"
"Eric Lockwell. My old boss put out a hit on you. And killed Gladys Barrett."
"Who's your boss?"
"A real bitch."
Noel waited to hear more, but Eric wasn't talking. Noel prompted him. "This is the part where you say, 'I'd tell you, but then I'd have to kill you,' right?"
"Something like that. The details don't matter. What matters is that Angela has what they want, and I can't let her give it to them."

"You mean her power. Hers and Black Widow's."
"Yeah, that." So he knew Angela's secret. "You help her, don't you?"
"What do you mean?"
Eric smiled. "Every superhero needs a contact in law enforcement."
"It's not like that."
"That's why you helped her break out of jail."
"I didn't... oh, never mind." Noel gave up protesting.

"You better go check on your son. He's still a target."
"I don't understand."
"Sure you do. Angela and Ricky, they're in love."
"I wouldn't call it love."
"But they would. And that's good enough for the people I work for. Used to work for," Eric hastily corrected. "So keep an eye on your boy. If you'll excuse me, I've got to go scout the convention center before they set up, get my sight lines figured."

"Wait a minute. Two people are dead." At least. "Someone has to answer for that. Someone has to explain all of this."
"Agency spin control will figure that out after the fact. They always do. Don't ask too many questions or you might end up dead." Eric turned to go.

"Waitaminute! Let me help. I can get SWAT."
"If I thought you'd do that, you'd be dead already."
"Eric, please. With your help we can take these people down."
"These aren't the kind of people you take down. You have to take them out."
"If it comes to that."
"It's *already* come to that!" Eric was suddenly angry. "Look, flatfoot, this is serious fucking shit. Angela and Valerie, they're getting *real* press, not just fantastical tabloid articles. After the GB's incident, lots of people, *important* people, *powerful* people are going to start to think the science fiction aspects maybe aren't so fictional. And they're going to send teams here. Recovery teams. They'll tear the fucking city apart looking for these two girls, and if they find them, they'll probably dissect them just to make sure they're not missing anything. The people I work for -- worked for, fuck! -- they were supposed to destroy the... the things that make Sapphire and Black Widow able to do the things they do. They're still trying to make it look like they've completed their mission."

"Make it look-" Noel trailed off in understanding. "So they can have the power for themselves."
"That's right. My only chance to make this right is to take them out and finish the mission."
"Destroy the sapphires."
Eric raised an eyebrow; so he knew the whole thing. Noel shrugged. "After helping Angela at the police station, I figured it out." He then gave the stranger a quizzical look. "So, how were you planning to pull that off?"
"I was hoping I could convince Angela to retire."
"And the Black Widow?"
"I think once Gerald Bates is dead, she'll fade into obscurity too. I don't think she wanted all this attention."
"Bates may already be dead. His limo blew up last night on the way to the airport."
Eric raised an eyebrow; there was something about the way the detective had said 'may.' "You don't think it was Bates."
"I think Sapphire completed *her* mission. The one your boss gave her. Recover the stones."
"Either way works for me."

Noel was still struggling to put everything together.

"If Sapphire and the Black Widow just disappear, won't people come looking for them anyway?"
"Not if they think the sapphires are destroyed. An explosion in a remote warehouse with trace amounts of melted sapphire will satisfy their curiosity. That was the original plan, anyway." That seemed like a long time ago... "But it has to happen *now*, before too many people start looking into it too closely. Information Management has to be able to contain the situation."
"Information Management."
"It's another branch of the... company I work for."
"They handle alien landings too?"
"Very funny."

Eric looked Noel straight in the eyes. "Tell me you're not going to do anything stupid."
"You can't expect me to just walk away and forget all this. Forget Angela."
"No. I expect you to contact Angela and tell her what happened to her mom. And convince *her* not to do anything stupid. I just want her to show up, draw them out, and let me handle it."
"They killed her mom. I think she's gonna want to handle it."
"Angela's no killer."
"Family getting killed changes people."
"All right, you're right, this is a teenage girl we're talking about. We can't control what she's gonna do. All I can do is be there when Ginger shows up."
"Ginger."
"My boss. And if Angela doesn't kill Ginger, I will."

Noel thought back to the coordinated attempt on his own life, and the volume of gunfire at the warehouse where Gladys was killed, and the rubble that was once the Barrett house. This wasn't a single-shot proposal; this was a guerilla war.
"You're sure you can do that?"
"I'll drop her like a bag of dirt."

Noel understood. "You were her assassin."

"I was a lot of things." Assassin. Courier. Mentor. Lover. Confidante. Coconspirator. Sucker.
Eric blinked, returning to the present. "I just need to know you're not going to interfere."

"And what happens when these people don't get a hold of my son for leverage?"

Eric's face clouded. "Fuck." He let out a sigh. "She'll probably grab people at random."
"She-? Oh, your boss."
"Former boss. She'll use innocent people as hostages, figuring Angela will cooperate to save them. I'll just have to be quick."
"Let me help."
"They'll kill you."
"I can take care of myself."
"This is the big leagues."
"And I'm sworn to serve and protect. It still means something to some of us on the force."

Eric gave Noel a wary eye.

Noel made his case. "I can get access to the surveillance system. You get me photos of these people, I can spot them for you. Look, the convention center is huge. People get lost in there all the time. I've worked security detail there. I know the layout."
"Can I trust you? We can't have SWAT rappelling down from the ceiling. If Ginger thinks anyone's on to her, there's no telling what she'll do."

"Can you trust me? I should be asking you that question."
"Look, I'm willing to do whatever it takes. If you're gonna go 'by the book' on me, I'll kill you."
"You're just as bad as Ginger."
"I'm worse. But thanks to Angela I *might* have a conscience. So, can I trust you?"
"You can trust me."

Noel's expression was utterly guileless. Eric's gut told him this was a man of his word.

"Good." Eric's shoulders slumped, as if finally succumbing to the great weight placed upon them. "Because I don't want any more innocent blood on my hands."

Noel looked at the floor; his tone was soft. "You really fell for Angela, didn't you?"
"So did you."

Ricky couldn't believe his dad just left him out in the cold like that. He hadn't heard anything from this "Scott" person either. He felt like a fifth wheel. It was torture, knowing that something big was happening with Sapphire, something that put Angela in danger, and he was miles away and completely in the dark. And nobody on the board knew anything either. He just wished there was something he could do.

When Ricky couldn't do anything else, he drew. Energy flowed through his hand into the paper before him. Sweeping curves, sharp lines, rapid shadings. Moving the image from mind's eye to paper did more than just vent frustrations, it helped him think.

He'd been drawing Sapphire as Angela for so long, he was having trouble separating the two. His eraser kept rubbing out the light ovals and curves that were supposed to represent Angela cowering in the corner, about to be saved by the mighty Sapphire. He just couldn't see Angela that way. Helpless. Each time he tried to fill her in she came out fragile but defiant and unwavering, daring the evil Ginger to do her worst. After the fourth attempt, he left this stronger Sapphire-like Angela intact and began filling in the details. Wearing a simple skirt and a cropped sweater -- not unlike what she'd worn that first day in his room, actually -- she looked like Sapphire's little sister. No, twin sister. A pair of strong, beautiful women, allied against the forces of evil, one bringing to bear all the power the gods had bestowed upon her, the other relying on sheer grit and determination and strength of character. Each willing to put herself in harm's way to help the other.

It was the first time he'd drawn both of them on the same page. In the same universe. The juxtapositioning felt wrong. It forced him to recognize just how strongly he wished the two women could be one and the same. As if all of his previous work, keeping the two in different worlds, somehow affected the real world and made it possible that Angela was Sapphire. As if by making this drawing he'd somehow just now forced them apart.

He crumpled the paper and tossed it aside. Before the discarded drawing hit the floor his pencil had already started another sketch.

The exaggerated proportions, impossible poses, and overdramatic shadings took a break; this was a photograph from the mind's eye. A beautiful young woman kneeled at the edge of a building, looking off into the distance with a wary smile. Stray strands of long breezy dark hair veiled one eye; the other sparkled with dazzling brightness. Short flowing top, skirt, and sleeves added a contrasting sense of movement to the stillness of the subject; adornments at wrists and feet lent an air of authority; the small ornate hairpiece suggested regality.

Ricky remembered the first time he'd seen Angela, himself a new freshman, she a junior. She'd been kneeling at the top of the football grandstands, looking not down on the parking lot behind the field but out to the horizon, appearing so confident and contemplative and... mature. He'd thought he'd stumbled upon a heavenly angel just touched down for a moment of peaceful reflection. He knew not how long he'd stood there, captured by her simple beauty, in awe of her. Then that smooth-looking guy had called her down, given her ass a possessive smack, laughed at her daydreaming, and driven her off to some unknown adventure in his Mustang. Ricky couldn't have gotten a clearer message that Angela was out of his league if it had come DTS-encoded on a DVD via FedEx. At the time the early deflation had kept him from crushing on her; instead he'd focused on his studies and his hobbies, and two years later he was near the top of his class and only beginning to think about girls.

But as his hand now worked its magic over pencil, it was obvious that he'd never forgotten That Look. To recreate it now with only slightly different circumstances was telling.

Whether his intent had been to draw Angela in Sapphire garb -- the real Angela as he saw her, not the stylistically-enhanced manga/comic-book style of most of his art -- or to bring his exaggerated Sapphire comic book heroine into the world of the real, the result was the same.

Now *that* looked right.

Angela *was* Sapphire, if only in the world at the end of Ricky's pencil. At least in that world, Angela would always be all right.

There it was again. A soft, metallic knocking.

Nina crept quietly up to the door. One hand cupped around the peephole to shield it from the light of the room; the other gently lifted the piece of electrical tape down over it. Nina peered through.

A haggard-looking man in a beat-up trenchcoat shivered in front of her door. Some drugged-out shelter reject, no doubt, confusing her apartment for that of his junk dealer. She turned away from the door...

"Miss Nina! I have something for you."
What could he possibly have that she'd want?

"It's from Valerie."
Nina recalled only too vividly the nightmare that had been Valerie's last visit. "Go away!"

"She told me to give it to you if anything ever happened to her."

Nina felt a chill of dread and loss race through her. Her heart would not be denied.

The door flew open. "What happened to Valerie?"
The man looked down into Nina's eyes. "Bates" was all he said.

It was all he had to say.

Despite herself, Nina felt a tear slide down her cheek.

"I'm sorry," the man said quietly. He held out a thick dirt-smudged envelope in his hand. "Here."

The envelope slid between Nina's outstretched fingers. The man turned stiffly. The young woman's hands trembled with emotion as she broke the seal. Inside was a stack of hundred-dollar bills wrapped by a note.

The man's gravelly voice echoed up the hallway. "It's not often we get a second chance in life," he said. "Don't blow it."

Nina pulled out the note, leaning forward to catch the sliver of early daylight creeping up the hall from the foyer.

My dearest Nina,

There's a lot I don't know, but I have figured out two things.
You deserve better than me, and you deserve better than this.

Go home. Give them another chance.
You don't have to understand someone to love them.

I guess that's three things.

-Val

A rain of tears stained the page.

Wandering the streets. Time running out. Her objective as simple as it is hopeless.
The Black Widow is a ghost. Still, she searches.

Stilettos stabbing the sidewalk with every step.
Dark thoughts hammering at her already-withering confidence.

Her mom held captive by shadowy figures, organized and ruthless.
Killers on the loose. One with the ability to turn her only strength against her.
Her secret identity quickly unraveling.

Walking past the newsstand. Headlines assault her.

BLACK WIDOW: UNSTOPPABLE?
SAPPHIRE STILL AT LARGE
TWIN TERRORS DESTROY DOWNTOWN

But one stops her in her tracks.

LOVERS!

One word, smeared across the top of the page in bold red ink, above a shocking photograph of two women locked in a passionate embrace. Black Widow and Sapphire. One horrifying moment at the restaurant, the moment of her ignominious surrender, captured in vivid detail for the world to see.

A businessman bumps her, turning on his heel to give her a shameless stare.
She can't blame him. She's dressed like a tart.

Someone bumps her from behind. She's thrust forward. Her scarcely-restrained breasts jiggle. She catches herself, but not before feeling her strained top suddenly shift. A button bounces down the sidewalk, rolling to a stop at the leering businessman's feet.

She has to be dressed this way. Doesn't she?

She keeps moving. She has to keep moving. She won't catch Black Widow standing still.

"Mommy, look! It's her!" She doesn't dare turn to look.
"Hush! She'll hear you!" a mother scolds.

More people stop to stare as she walks by. Is it because they recognize her, or is it just because she's dressed like a whore?

A window reflection reveals a police cruiser behind her. She begins to walk more quickly. She's conscious of the way her longer strides make her body wiggle seductively.

Another reflection. The cruiser is still there. Following her.

She sees herself in the next reflection. The white top and skirt are almost see-through, and too short to fully cover her charms. She catches a flash of her panties. The sapphires always seem to make her flaunt her body.

She turns the corner. Another police car. It stops. Uniforms get out. They stare at her.

She quickly reverses direction, stumbling in her sky-high one-strap mules. The preposterous footwear seems particularly precarious now. She wonders if her sapphires are somehow spent. Her heart beats faster. Is it adrenaline or arousal? Is there a difference anymore?

Footsteps behind her quicken. They close in. She breaks into a run, scampering down an alley, barely keeping her feet. Her skirt dances madly about her hips; her halter top threatens to burst open with every step.

She turns another corner only to run headlong into something. Someone. A man in a trenchcoat. He grabs her arm and wheels her around, slamming her up against the brick wall.
Pressing his body up against hers. Pinning her.

She feels the rough brick wall up against her skin. Another button pops loose.

"You're under arrest." He's a police officer.

Her hands are wrenched up over her head, pressed into the wall. She leaves them there, afraid to move. A heavy boot kicks her feet apart.

He begins to frisk her.

Hands slide up her legs. Legs made taut and sculpted by her tall heels.
She's wearing almost nothing, but her body overrides her protest of the unnecessary search. Hands run outside over knees, around the thighs.
Under the skirt.

A palm runs up her side, flipping and dropping her skirt, fingers reaching for quivering titflesh. She shudders at the touch.

He's taking a long time to frisk her.
And she fights with her body, searching for the will to resist.

A hand smacks her ass hard; she squeals in surprise. Now it grabs her asscheek, its kneading motion mimicking its twin's ministrations over her exposed breast.
The rough treatment inflames her.

"That's enough for now."

Wrists are yanked down one at a time and clipped together behind her. He hauls her out of the alley, stumbling and swaying and gyrating.
She crashes against the hot metal of a police cruiser's fender.

A crowd has gathered.
"Who is she?"
"That's Sapphire."
"Her real name is Angela Barrett."
"I heard that she wasn't a good crimefighter at all; she could barely control herself."
"Half the time the criminals got away by bribing her with sexual favors."
"Just look at her; you know it's true."
"What a slut."

The rear door of the cruiser opens; she's spun around.

"Why didn't you tell me?"
The voice is familiar. She searches the crowd for the source.
"I could have helped you."
A young man steps forward. It is Ricky.

"Oh, Ricky, I'm so sorry..."
She leans into him, desperate to feel his loving touch, her lust-addled body rubbing lewdly against him.

He pulls away. "It's too late now, Angela."
Her cheeks burn red with shame; a single tear betrays her sorrow.

She is pushed backwards, down into the car. Her ass bumps up against the doorframe; she feels the seat of her filmy panties catch on something sharp, tearing open and snapping free of her hip. She looks down in horror; her flounced skirt is scarcely more than a wide ruffled belt hanging low on her hips. Her bare engorged lips are in full view.

A patrolman's boot kicks her feet inside the door and slams it shut.
Faces press up against the windows. Faces of disapproval, horror, smug satisfaction.

"We'll take it from here."
She looks up to see an evil-looking woman in a tailored black suit behind the wheel.

"Indeed we shall."
The voice is hot in her ear; she turns to see The Hunter. His wicked smile at once chills her and stokes the fire of her lust.

His hand gropes her breast roughly through the straining top, cruelly pinching a nipple through the worn fabric before tearing it open. She struggles vainly against her handcuffs, succeeding only in pressing her swollen mammaries deeper into his grasp.

She desperately summons the power of her sapphires. They reward her with a mind-blowing sensation of helpless pleasure. She collapses against her aggressor, exhausted and exhilerated.

She feels herself pushed down onto her back, her legs lifted sideways onto the seat, then rudely parted. She sees the Hunter's eyes flash with the thrill of her submission. His body presses down upon her, his turgid staff angling up toward the junction of her thighs...

She pulls him inside her with hungry desperation.

He begins pumping in and out of her slick squeezing slit with long but quickening strokes. She wraps her legs around him, urging him deeper.

She lets the Hunter defile her. She wants him to. She needs him to. She needs him to cum inside her. She needs to cum.

The Hunter's head is down now, focused resolutely on drilling his helpless sapphire slut. Her nails dig into his strong back, holding on for dear life, praying for sweet release.

"You're mine now."
She looks up, over the seat to the woman driving. The driver looks back at her. She notices the woman's blue eyes begin to glow, brighter and brighter.

They aren't eyes at all. They're sapphires, glowing brilling blue-white light. The woman laughs maniacally as Angela reaches her final humiliating orgasm, screaming in mindless terror and delight.

Angela awoke to the sound of her own scream. Her whole body shuddered in panicked revulsion as the nightmare orgasm ebbed. Her eyes opened hesitantly, afraid that she would see her nightmare real.

Morning sunlight streaked from a window across the floor. She was in a strange room. What was she doing here?

Her memory caught up with her. She bolted up off the couch, nearly tripping over the fallen garment around her legs; she kicked the obstruction free, heading unsteadily for the kitchen.

There on the table was the phone. The phone that they'd given her. Whoever they were. They had her mom, and they wanted the stones; that's all that mattered now.

And she was no closer to finding the Black Widow. Or freeing her mom. Or ending this nightmare.

She picked up the phone. Underneath was a note.

Something came up -- another fallen angel in a bit of a jam. I should be back in the morning. Stay as long as you like. There's some food in the fridge, a towel on the sink, some clothes hanging on the back of the door.

--Faith

She didn't have time for that. She struggled to remember Mr. Aquino's number. Finally, phone shaking in her delicate hands, she dialed.

"Detective Aquino speaking."
"Did you find her? Did you find my mom?"
"Angela, thank God it's you. Listen to me. You can't give Ginger the stones. She's an evil woman. She'll use them to do terrible things. Your sapphires will be used to kill innocent people. You can't give them up, not for anything." Noel delayed the inevitable.
"But my mom..."
"Oh God, Angela, honey, your mom, she found out. She found out about you and all of the good things you did with your gift, and she found out that these bad people wanted to take that away from you, and wanted to hurt lots of people, and hurt you, and... well, your mom couldn't let them do that, she couldn't let them hurt her baby, so she..."
"Mr. Aquino, what are you saying? What happened to my mom?"
"She was so proud of you and she wanted you to do the right thing, and she didn't want you or anybody else hurt because of her, so she... she fought back, she was strong, just like her daughter, just like you, and she tried to get away, but... but they tried to stop her, and they shot her, and she... she didn't make it."

Angela felt faint; she grabbed the edge of the table for support. This couldn't be happening. "No," she choked. She suddenly had no breath. Her eyes blurred with tears. The voice on the other end seemed to retreat into the distance.

"I'm sorry, honey, there was nothing we could do, but... She didn't let them win. And you can't let them win. She said 'Angela can't give up.' She said that. You have to be strong, Angela, like your mother. Can you do that? Angela? Angela? Are you there? Talk to me Angela."

The phone slipped free of the young woman's fingers. It seemed an eternity later that it crashed to the floor, cheap plastic shattering, buttons bouncing outward like rebound from a raindrop.

Angela screamed.

"Nnnoooo!! No no no! You killed her! She's dead and you killed her! Why? Why?" She turned, running blindly to the couch, hands clawing underneath, digging to find the source of her anguish. The tiara slid across the room, careening off the baseboard and skidding toward the door. Talon-like fingers gripped shoes and wristbands, hurling them across the room in a fit of grievous rage. "I hate you I hate you I hate you!" The sapphires' impact strobed the room blue.

The destroyed girl threw herself against the couch, kicking and swinging in tortured useless defiance and despair. "Why?"

There was no one to answer but herself.
No one to blame but herself.

Angry screams weakened in the face of overwhelming self-loathing regret. "I hate you I hate you I hate you." The chant became a desperate plea for relief from crushing sorrow, but none would come. Violent thrashing became feeble tremors.

"I hate you I hate you I hate you I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry mom I need you I miss you I love you mommy I'm sorry I'm sorry..."

Words faded to quiet sobs.