Being a central figure in an emergency response is surreal. All these people rushing around, or standing in groups, or talking on cell phones, or typing on laptops or tablets while I’m sitting on the ground, beat up and sore, bleeding a little, trying both to consider what I’ve just done and not to at the same time. I have the weird impression I’m the human equivalent of a traffic accident everybody have to drive past. They don’t want to look at me too much, and, yeah, they understand the other assholes are to blame, but the Sidorovs crashed into me, and now everybody’s got to deal with it. This is the fucked up spectacle the audience has to endure politely before they can return to their regularly scheduled programs, and all the while I can’t know if the show’s over or if I’m in the middle of it or if it’s just starting. It’ll be someone else’s job to tell me that.

  I’ve waved off a couple of attempts by paramedics to look me over. They should, yep, but I’m just not ready yet. They’re going to wrap my ribs after much poking and prodding and probing questions. I’m pretty sure they’ll clean a lot of the blood off during the examination, probably coming across and patching whatever it is that’s causing my scalp to sting like that. Do they really do that looking for damage, or are they finding an excuse to indulge their humanity a little bit in a deniable way? I’m hurt and covered in gore. Wiping that away will restore my usual appearance, yeah, but usher in, hopefully, a return to normalcy, right? Like I’ve walked through some shit, but now I’ve ended my stroll and time for a shower. It’s all role playing. It’s easier to get people to act the part if you put them into costume first. My injuries, this mess, is who I had to be, not who I want to be. Cleaning me up would constitute a wardrobe change, which would be a kindness.

  I’ve had occasion to meet a bunch of EMTs and I haven’t met one yet that wasn’t kind in their own way.

  I don’t want anybody’s attentions at all right now. Who knows how I’ll even react? Better to just sit here and dissociate. Fuck, I’m too exhausted to do much about whatever they’d want to do with me, anyway. Maybe it’s the aftereffects of all the adrenaline vibrating through me for hours, but I don’t think I could move if I tried. Maybe they’ll have to hook me up to a tow truck and drag me away on my skateboard by the back of my pants.

  My isolation can’t last though, and it doesn’t.

  I’m resting my head on my knees when an enormous pair of ladies’ pumps show up beside two shiny brown Rockports, or this world’s equivalent. Agent Cal Tyler is standing next to a much shorter man in a nice suit and tasteful red tie. He looks a little like Stanley Tucci, balding, thick-rimmed glasses, only a bit more Mediterranean.

  “Ben,” says Cal. “This is Special Agent in Charge Matt Pomerantz.”

  The boss.

  Pomerantz nods once and holds out his hand.

  I shake it.

  He doesn’t let go, saying in a surprisingly deep voice, “After the morning we all just had, I’d join you down there, but we have to talk.”

  It’s my turn to nod, and I let him help me to my feet. I’m unsteady, and Cal has to lean into me, giving me a backstop. I look up at her, grateful.

  Pomerantz does that ‘after you’ gesture toward the surveillance van.

  Inside there are no less than six wide-screen monitors mounted to the walls, four workstations, and four wheeled chairs. Collapsing into one, it occurs to me to wonder how they keep them secured when the van’s moving. I look around to find some interesting brackets under the desk by mine. I scoot forward and see that the armrests of the chair will slide right in. Huh. Clever.

  Pomerantz’s elbows are on his knees, tie dangling, his expression expectant, waiting.

  Cal’s body language is a little more closed off. Her ankles and arms crossed. Her shoulders are tense. She’s uneasy.

  Great.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I’m, uh, easily distracted, I guess.”

  Pomerantz waves that away with a smile. “I did the same thing the first time I was in one of these vans. How does this not become like the inside of a pinball machine during a high-speed chase? I thought.” He points to the brackets. “And then I found those. Leave it to the tech guys, I say. Clever, right?”

  I nod, wondering if he’d reflected my own thoughts at me on purpose.

  Pomerantz spreads his hands. “Look, Mr. Walker,” he says. “Ben. We owe you a lot. You have the gratitude of the FBI for getting Agent Ochoa back to us safe and sound.”

  I turn to Cal. “Did they…. Did the Sidorovs…?”

  Cal shakes her head. “Not that she’s said. I don’t think they had time to… do that. Had to keep her moving.”

  I could really do without the qualifying. Is Monica lying? Did they hurt her? How sure are we?

  Pomerantz’s lips whiten as they thin. “From what we can tell and from what she reported, they didn’t have the opportunity to hurt her significantly. She’ll have some time off and an evaluation. We take care of our own, Ben, you included. You don’t mind if I call you Ben?”

  I shrug. “No, please. It’s fine.”

  “Thank you. Like I said, you’ve earned the undying gratitude, again, of the FBI. First, you help us save Willamette.” He leans back to grin at Cal. “Though it’s more like we helped you do that, maybe.”

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  I snort. I would’ve been dead within a day if not for the agency and certain sheriff’s deputies and detectives, and they know it. Is this flattery? What’s he up to?

  “And now you’ve rescued an agent from the fucking Sidorovs.” He raises his eyebrows at me. “Not many are aware we’ve lost people to them before.”

  Cal blinks. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Yeah,” says Pomerantz. “A few out of the Seattle office and a couple from DC. Six total, over the years. Grabbed, interrogated, murdered.” He leans forward again, elbows back on his knees. Pomerantz seems a very honest and earnest man. “The Sidorovs were very good at their work. Violent. Amoral. They provided to-order victims to the Betans and other cults all over the United States and Europe. For such a relatively small organization, they did a tremendous amount of damage. From what we’ve seized this morning, we expect to be able to undo a great deal of that, and where we can’t, we could provide some closure to possibly hundreds of families who never found out what happened to their loved ones. Thank you.”

  “But.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “There’s a but, right? I sense a ‘but.’ I’m in trouble, aren’t I?”

  Pomerantz leans back, his expression grim. He peels off his glasses and starts polishing them with his tie. “Trouble, Ben? I don’t know how to answer that question.” His attention has been on his frames, but he looks at me, shooting me the closest equivalent to a side-eye without fully committing. “I have to ask you some first.”

  Tyler sighs.

  He gives her a look.

  Yay. They’re in disagreement about something.

  I wait.

  “These… powers of yours,” says Pomerantz. “How deliberate do you have to be with them?”

  I take a moment, but I’m not sure what he means.

  He nods, reading my expression. “For example, the nine dead outside—.”

  “Nine?” I counted seven.

  “Two never got out of their SUVs. One of them was busy minding Ochoa. The other? Who knows? Both hit with ricochets.” His eyes are on mine and I get the impression that SAC Matt Pomerantz has earned his current position. “When you fired on them, were you trying to stop them or were you trying to kill them?”

  “I’ve been told over and over again by my trainers, your agents, that trying to shoot them in the leg or arm or something is stupid. Irresponsible. It’s harder to do and rarely stops the bad guys. Center of mass, every time. If they have vests, head shots or any gap in the armor.”

  Pomerantz nods. “Yes, that’s how we train our agents. If you have to shoot, shoot to kill, so even if they don’t die, they’re incapacitated. Our agent goes home to his family. Good. Yes. And you are one of our agents, technically. You have capabilities beyond them. You were angry. An organization took your friend and partner and they were intent on harming her. Did you want them dead or stopped?”

  I want to say ‘stopped.’ And I almost do it before I can really think about it. I don’t want to think about it. Not at all. After a moment of doing it anyhow, I answer. “I…. I’m just not sure. I was so angry, I…. I don’t —. Wait. What are you saying?”

  Pomerantz studies his glasses. “That’s what I figured.” The words could have been harsh, but they don’t come out that way. They’re sad and soft. He looks me in the eye. “Look, Ben, whatever we learn about the Sidorovs, their victims, how they conducted their operations, we’ll only be able to get from their records.”

  What he’s saying takes me a moment. “Some of them got away? How —?”

  “No.” Cal says that.

  I realize she’s keeping her expression carefully blank.

  All the air goes out of the van.

  Pomerantz puts his glasses on. He pulls them back off. He works the hinges on their arms a little. Turns them in his hands, looking for blotches he might’ve missed when he cleaned them a moment ago. “Agent Tyler thought it was a bad idea to tell you.” He grimaces. “I wish I had the luxury.”

  “They’re all dead?” My voice cracks. My face is burning.

  Pomerantz puts on his glasses. “Yes. Ben, not only is every single one of their agents that went up against you this morning dead, but we were tracking some of their people overseas. Arguably, their best salesmen, if you can call him that, was in Paris, France, working on a deal there with probably the Betans there. There was another in Russia. One in Italy. Within the last twenty-four hours, they’ve all died. Another choked to death alone in his hotel room eating his dinner. One got mugged. One killed by his… slave that wasn’t broken as thoroughly as they thought. There are certainly more of them out there we didn’t know about, but I’m confident that, as of an hour ago, there’s not a member of the Sidorov Cartel alive on this planet. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh.” The floor of the van is clean. A rubberized walkway installed down the middle, between the chairs and workstations. I guess I expected cheese dust and food wrappers.

  “I wish I could leave it at that. Good riddance. A lot of people would congratulate you and consider it justice. Get on with their day.” Pomerantz sucks his teeth. “But I don’t think that’s how you’re taking it. You didn’t expect this. You weren’t trying to do this. You didn’t mean it. But I’m pretty sure you did it. I’m pretty sure you know it too. I can’t imagine how that must feel.”

  I feel like I’m about to lose my balance. That I’ll fall headfirst into that black strip of non slip walking surface, that I’ll pass through it, through the ground, through everything, and just fall. I think that’s why I can’t take my eyes off the floor. I’m looking for a place to pass out.

  “Until you have a better grip on your powers, we can’t use you in the field.” There’s a finality in his tone that brooks no argument, if I cared to give him one. Which I don’t. “And we have to take a moment to consider what this means to the broader picture.”

  What?

  I look up at him.

  Pomerantz points his glasses at me. “You don’t know this, but we’ve gone to everybody who knows about your abilities and sworn them to silence, and now it’s your turn. You’re to tell nobody, nobody, how you got this way, about your curses. Not ever. And you understand why. Especially after this morning.”

  I do.

  God help me, I do.

  “Imagine it,” says Pomerantz. “Some hapless folks snatched off the street or a bunch of volunteers, cursed twice by some government agents or terrorists or mobsters, trying to turn them into one-man death squads. How many times would it take to get it right?”

  The room swims and I have to put my head back down between my knees.

  He pats my shoulder. “You’re a good guy. Mo and Cal say so and I’ve read over their reports on you, plus the ones from the Willamette Sheriff’s office. Everybody likes you.” His laugh is kind. “Hell, I like you, but we’re going to have to be more careful. We’re all… figuring this out as we go, right? You’re not alone in this. Tyler and Ochoa are still your handlers, but this needs to be handled very carefully or the CIA will want to drop you on Iran or something, okay? Don’t back in the field until cleared to do so, yes?”

  I nod.

  My God, I’m a monster. A ferocious, rabid animal. I need a leash and a couple of zookeepers. There were three cars in the initial chase, each with at least four people in them. Five on the highway, and nine dead here. They counted. I can’t keep myself from the awful math. That’s maybe forty-one. Add the three that we know about that were abroad, and there had to be a minimum of ten gunmen at Asymmetry. That’s fifty-four. What if there were more? There probably were. Did I kill sixty? A hundred?

  “Jesus, what is that?” says Pomerantz. He’s looking at the top of my scalp, right where it stings.

  “Oh, yeah.” My voice sounds sepulchral. “Pretty sure it’s a guy’s tooth.”

  “A fucking tooth?” he says after a startled laugh. “Somebody bit you?”