pricked his conscience. Although he had piloted bombers in Korea, he’d never killed anyone in cold blood before.
This was for Isabelle,
he reminded himself.
Sirens blared from all directions, growing louder by the second. A police car squealed to a halt a few yards back from the burning scooter. Officers in blue uniforms poured out of the car. Shielding themselves behind their vehicle, they drew their guns on Richard and Yul.
“Fermate!”
a tense-looking cop ordered.
Richard flexed his mental muscles. There had been a time, when he was first discovering his abilities, that he could only lift a few small objects at a time, but that was a long time ago. He effortlessly threw the men backward. They scattered like bowling pins as they went rolling down the street. Up on the awning, the heroic waitress wailed in despair.
Enough,
Richard thought. They had done what they had come to do. Now he just wanted to get out of here.
Where’s our ride?
As if on cue, a sleek black Porsche came speeding onto the scene from the opposite direction of the cops. The sports car pulled up to the curb. The passenger side door swung open. The young Goth chick, Evee Borland, called out to the two men. “You guys done here?”
Richard questioned Yul with a look.
“He’s toast,” the other man said, referring to Calabria.
“And the nanites?” Richard asked.
“Nothing but slag.”
That was good enough for Richard. They piled into the Porsche, which drove up onto the sidewalk to execute a tight U-turn before accelerating back toward their safe house in Trastevere. Police cars and fire trucks, their emergency lights flashing, raced past them as they left the cardinal’s scorched ashes behind. Richard slumped back into the passenger seat while Nicole and Yul congratulated themselves on the success of their mission. They had been shadowing Calabria for hours, with the help, ironically enough, of a clairvoyant nun who was one of the original 4400, just waiting for their designated target to leave the safety of the Vatican. Tonight all their efforts had paid off.
So why don’t I feel more euphoric?
Richard wondered. His face stung where the Italian girl had scratched him. Unlike his new comrades, he felt more deflated than elated by tonight’s events. Vengeance turned out to have a bitter aftertaste. He couldn’t help remembering that the real Emanuel Calabria had perished along with the insidious invader occupying his body. He wished there was some way to free the innocent victims of theMarked instead of simply killing them, but, according to Collier, that was not the case. The only way to eliminate the threat of the Marked was killing them along with their hosts. Richard sighed at the bloody road ahead of him.
One down. Six more to go.
EIGHT
M ARCO POPPED INTO the morgue—literally.
One minute the tardy genius was nowhere to be seen. The next, he suddenly appeared between Tom and Diana as they waited for him in NTAC’s private medical facility. Floppy brown hair needed combing. Intelligent brown eyes peered out from behind a pair of horn-rimmed black glasses. He wore a tweedy jacket over a faded concert T-shirt. “Sorry I’m late.”
“Marco!” Diana blurted, startled by his abrupt manifestation. She clutched her chest to quiet the racing of her heart. “You know you’re not supposed to do that. Especially not at work.”
The endearingly nerdy analyst had gained the ability to teleport after surviving fifty/fifty. Pretty much everyone at NTAC knew what he could do, but public displays of promicin abilities were strongly discouraged. Diana shook her head in disapproval. Marco knew better than to ’port around like that. What if some higher-up from D.C. was visiting?
“I know,” he admitted. “But it’s just so convenient. And I didn’t want to keep you folks waiting.” He glanced around the sterile, stainless-steel morgue. “So what did I miss?”
“Just the usual weirdness,” Diana
This was for Isabelle,
he reminded himself.
Sirens blared from all directions, growing louder by the second. A police car squealed to a halt a few yards back from the burning scooter. Officers in blue uniforms poured out of the car. Shielding themselves behind their vehicle, they drew their guns on Richard and Yul.
“Fermate!”
a tense-looking cop ordered.
Richard flexed his mental muscles. There had been a time, when he was first discovering his abilities, that he could only lift a few small objects at a time, but that was a long time ago. He effortlessly threw the men backward. They scattered like bowling pins as they went rolling down the street. Up on the awning, the heroic waitress wailed in despair.
Enough,
Richard thought. They had done what they had come to do. Now he just wanted to get out of here.
Where’s our ride?
As if on cue, a sleek black Porsche came speeding onto the scene from the opposite direction of the cops. The sports car pulled up to the curb. The passenger side door swung open. The young Goth chick, Evee Borland, called out to the two men. “You guys done here?”
Richard questioned Yul with a look.
“He’s toast,” the other man said, referring to Calabria.
“And the nanites?” Richard asked.
“Nothing but slag.”
That was good enough for Richard. They piled into the Porsche, which drove up onto the sidewalk to execute a tight U-turn before accelerating back toward their safe house in Trastevere. Police cars and fire trucks, their emergency lights flashing, raced past them as they left the cardinal’s scorched ashes behind. Richard slumped back into the passenger seat while Nicole and Yul congratulated themselves on the success of their mission. They had been shadowing Calabria for hours, with the help, ironically enough, of a clairvoyant nun who was one of the original 4400, just waiting for their designated target to leave the safety of the Vatican. Tonight all their efforts had paid off.
So why don’t I feel more euphoric?
Richard wondered. His face stung where the Italian girl had scratched him. Unlike his new comrades, he felt more deflated than elated by tonight’s events. Vengeance turned out to have a bitter aftertaste. He couldn’t help remembering that the real Emanuel Calabria had perished along with the insidious invader occupying his body. He wished there was some way to free the innocent victims of theMarked instead of simply killing them, but, according to Collier, that was not the case. The only way to eliminate the threat of the Marked was killing them along with their hosts. Richard sighed at the bloody road ahead of him.
One down. Six more to go.
EIGHT
M ARCO POPPED INTO the morgue—literally.
One minute the tardy genius was nowhere to be seen. The next, he suddenly appeared between Tom and Diana as they waited for him in NTAC’s private medical facility. Floppy brown hair needed combing. Intelligent brown eyes peered out from behind a pair of horn-rimmed black glasses. He wore a tweedy jacket over a faded concert T-shirt. “Sorry I’m late.”
“Marco!” Diana blurted, startled by his abrupt manifestation. She clutched her chest to quiet the racing of her heart. “You know you’re not supposed to do that. Especially not at work.”
The endearingly nerdy analyst had gained the ability to teleport after surviving fifty/fifty. Pretty much everyone at NTAC knew what he could do, but public displays of promicin abilities were strongly discouraged. Diana shook her head in disapproval. Marco knew better than to ’port around like that. What if some higher-up from D.C. was visiting?
“I know,” he admitted. “But it’s just so convenient. And I didn’t want to keep you folks waiting.” He glanced around the sterile, stainless-steel morgue. “So what did I miss?”
“Just the usual weirdness,” Diana
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