Busted Flush

Just Cause: Part II

Carrie Vaughn

NEW YORK CITY

KATE AND ANA RUSHED to catch the subway. Dinner at Stellar, the posh restaurant at the top of the Empire State Building, was one thing, but a cab ride during a fuel shortage was too much of an extravagance. They rode standing, holding on to one of the bars, talking in hushed voices about this and that, phone calls home, how Ana’s brother was applying to the University of New Mexico and how Kate’s parents were still upset that she’d dropped out of college. They got stares. They always got stares, and a few whispers, “Is that really them? It couldn’t be . . . They look so much like . . .”

Street level was quiet. Perpetually gridlocked traffic had vanished. A few government vehicles, a few cabs, and very few private cars were active. Fifth Avenue might have been a street in any small town. The air actually smelled decent.

As soon as they turned the corner, shouted questions began from the group of reporters waiting outside the Empire State Building. Kate and Ana stood shoulder to shoulder and prepared to run the gauntlet.

“Curveball! Earth Witch! Who’s your pick on the new season of American Hero?”

Be nice, Kate reminded herself. Keep the press on your side. Those were the rules from American Hero, and they still worked. She shrugged and smiled her sweetheart smile. Cameras flashed. “I don’t know, I’m not really watching.”

“We’ve been a little busy,” Ana added.

More questions. Kate couldn’t make them all out.

“Earth Witch! Reports say you collapsed from exhaustion in Ec ua dor. Is it true? How’s your health?”

Ana’s face was a mask, the smile frozen in place. “I’m fine,” she said.

Someone pushed her way to the front and stuck a digital recorder out. “Is the Committee going to intervene to stop the genocide in Nigeria?”

Amid the way-too-personal questions about romances, diets, and clothes, the political ones struck like bolts of lightning.

Kate’s sweetheart smile turned apologetic. “No comment. I’m sorry.”

With the doorman helping to clear the way, they slipped inside, leaving the reporters crowded on the sidewalk.

Ana let out a sigh.

“You okay?” Kate asked.

“I’m sick of people asking me that,” Ana said.

“We’re just worried—”

“I’m fine,” Ana said, her smile tight. It was what they all said. They were all so tough.

They took the express elevator to the restaurant. They were nearly the last to arrive.

John turned to the elevator when it opened; his face brightened. “Kate! Wow, you look great!” She beamed back at him. She’d been hoping for that reaction. She wore a silky, floral halter dress with heels, and her hair was up. That alone made her look about five years older and a ton more sophisticated.

“You don’t look too shabby yourself.” He wore a suit with a band collar shirt, giving him sophisticated polish. Definitely his mother’s son. She reached for him, and they joined hands to pull each other into a kiss.

“You two are, as ever, awfully cute,” Bugsy said. “But I’d like to point out that Ana looks fabulous.”

Ana wore a black wraparound dress with a low-cut neck and flowing, knee-length skirt that clung and flattered in all the right places. Add her long black hair, dangly gold earrings, and ever-present St. Barbara medallion, and she looked exotic. And now, she was blushing. But smiling, too.

“We went shopping today,” Kate said. “It called to me from the store window,” Ana said. The two of them giggled.

Bugsy said, “What a surprise, we all clean up pretty good.”

“Maybe someday People will stop picking on how I dress,” Kate said.

“They named you best dressed at that UNICEF fundraiser last month,” Ana argued.

“Only because John’s mother picked out the dress.”

John got a dreamy look in his eyes. “That was a great dress.”

It had been a great dress, with enough architecture to give even Kate cleavage. A picture of the two of them from that night ended up on the cover of Aces! They were arm in arm, looking at something off to the side, smiling. They’d looked like royalty.

The Committee: Rusty, wearing a big grin, waved from the far corner, where he was talking with Bubbles and Holy Roller; Gardener was pointing out something on a potted fern to Toad Man and Brave Hawk; the Lama (from Nepal, who was able to turn insubstantial) and the Llama (from Bolivia, who was almost a joker, with a foot-long neck and fuzzy gray hair, and who could spit a gooey venom incredible distances) were glaring at each other across the foyer. Both had refused to change their ace name to avoid confusion. And Lilith, the British teleporter, standing with Lohengrin and surveying the room critically, like this was all beneath her. She wore an amazing gown, V-neck coming to a point between her breasts, slit in the skirt climbing to her waist, the diaphanous black material deceptively translucent. All the guys were stealing glances—and Lilith knew it.

Being America’s ace sweetheart didn’t count for a whole lot sometimes, thought Kate, in her cute and completely boring dress.

The absent member was obvious: at seven feet, DB dominated any room he was in.

“Where’s Michael?” she asked.

John frowned. “In Chicago wrapping up his concert tour, I think. Let’s make the introductions,” he said, turning their attention to the two women Kate didn’t know. Even more new members. “From Canada, this is Simone Duplaix, aka Snowblind, and Barbara Baden, the Translator, from Israel.”

Simone had dyed magenta hair that screamed look at me. She wore a black miniskirt, crop top, and a nose stud, and glared like she expected someone to challenge her on the dress code. Also in her twenties, Barbara was a little more upscale, with a clingy, midnight blue cocktail dress. She kept her hands folded in front of her and was a picture of calm.

“Simone, Barbara, this is Kate Brandt and Ana Cortez.” Handshakes all around.

“There’s hardly a need for introductions,” Barbara said. “Everyone knows who you are.”

“Introductions are more polite,” Kate said.

Tinker came in from the next room, holding one of his gadgets, a gunmetal gray box that looked like a cross between a TV remote and an eggbeater.

“What’s that?” Ana asked.

“Bug detector,” he said cheerfully in his thick Aussie accent. “John wanted the place swept. Can’t have spies now, right?”

“How do you know it even works?” Kate said.

He pointed it at Bugsy, and the device let out a high-pitched squeal that left them all wincing.

“Well,” Bugsy said, glaring at the thing. “My confidence is truly won over.”

Tinker huffed. “I built it to track down covert listening devices. I think you got a few of those on you, eh, mate?”

For the punch line, a small green wasp crawled out of the pocket of Tinker’s suit jacket.

“Hey!” Tinker swatted the bug, and it crunched. Bugsy winced. “Don’t you ever get tired of that trick?”

“I have another one, but you wouldn’t like it any better.”

The center of the next room had been cleared to make way for a long table draped in white linen. The arrangement lent a somber weight to the evening. This felt like a state dinner. And here, in this luxurious setting, on the eighty-sixth floor, Kate really felt on top of the world.

In keeping with its location, Stellar had a neo/retro art deco motif, with muted colors like pale grays, soft blues, streamlined chrome fixtures with inset lighting, ferns pouring from silver planters. The chairs and tables were mahogany and modernist. Movie stars of the 1930s in tuxedos and ball gowns might have come sweeping past at any moment. It was romantic, especially the balcony overlooking the Manhattan skyline.

“This place is amazing,” Kate said, taking a chair between John and Ana near the head of the table.

John gazed around, smiling. “This used to be a different restaurant. Aces High. All the big aces used to hang out here, and the owner did this aces-only dinner every year on Wild Card Day. Mom met my father there.

My real father, I mean. She says it’s the only reason she comes here, since Hiram retired. I guess I thought it’d be cool to come back. Start some new traditions now that aces are heroes again.”

He wore a wistful look, like he gazed through a window into that bygone time when everything was bigger, flashier, better. The woman he knew as his mother had been a different person then. And his father was dead.

Dinner first, meeting after. The staff brought out course after course of gourmet dishes: perfect breads, exotic pâtés, oysters with caviar, salmon, quail, and more. Maybe not more food than Kate had ever seen in one place, but certainly more different kinds of food. No holds barred. John ordered champagne, and they drank a toast to friends old and new, to jobs well done. And, as had become tradition, a toast to the friends who were missing. They’d lost people. They wanted to remember.

They relaxed into conversation and gossip.

“Guess who called me yesterday,” Kate said.

People threw out names, movie stars and pop singers, and she shook her head for each one. “Apparently, Michael Berman is looking for someone for the rogue ace challenge on American Hero.”

Groans greeted the name of the network executive who rode herd on the show.

Rusty said, “You actually talked to him?”

“God, no. He left like five messages. But I’m warning you—you all may be next.”

Ana said, “Depends on how desperate he gets.”

Kate wanted to argue, but she was probably right. Berman wouldn’t be calling her. Ana wasn’t considered as photogenic as the more conventionally sexy women who’d been on the show. Didn’t matter, because she could still kick all their asses with her power.

Kate rolled her eyes. “The guy’s an ass. I mean, have you seen who they picked for this season? Space Cadette? What’s up with that?”

“I thought you weren’t watching,” John said. Kate huffed.

They were finishing the main course when the restaurant doors slammed open. Drummer Boy appeared, lining all six hands on his hips.

“Hey,” he called in a booming voice. “Am I too late? No? Good.”

He had to duck to enter the room. He was bald, shirtless, showing off not only his impressive canvas of tattoos, but the tympanic membranes on his torso—his namesake.

John frowned, and Kate tensed. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Chicago?” John said.

“Not tonight. Had a little extra time so I thought I’d drop by. This meeting is for the whole Committee, right?”

Bugsy tried to divert the tension, opening a space by the table near him. “DB, pull up a chair. Meet the newbies. Simone, Barbara, DB.”

DB didn’t cooperate. “Ladies,” he said, nodding a minimum polite greeting, then grabbing a spare chair from another table and pulling it next to Kate. He couldn’t squeeze himself between her and Ana, so he remained behind them. Turning the chair backward to sit on it, he leaned one set of arms on the backs of Kate and Ana’s chairs, crossed another set, and Kate lost track of the third. Now, Kate had John on her left, DB on her right, and the two of them were glaring at each other over her head.

Ana, thank God, distracted him. “How’s the tour going?”

“It’s been fucking amazing. We’re playing stadiums. Hell, we’re not a stadium band! We started out punk in two-bit bars. Now here we are.” That third set of arms spread in a gesture of offering.

“I still haven’t seen the show,” Ana said.

“You should. When the next tour starts. I’ll get you the VIP treatment, front row seats, the works.”

“Cool,” Ana said.

“Bring earplugs,” Bugsy said. “I have seen the show.”

Lilith, sitting on the other side of the table, licked a bit of sauce off her fork. “Michael, dear, you look so uncomfortable hunched in over there. Why don’t you come sit here with me? There’s plenty of room at this end.”

In fact, there wasn’t, except for a sliver of space at the corner. And Lohengrin, already sitting by Lilith, straightened and puffed up his chest, as if he could fill the space by himself.

Kate half hoped DB would move. Except that would involve making Lilith happy.

DB smirked. “That’s okay. I wouldn’t want to upset Prince Valiant there.”

“Oh, Klaus here? He won’t be upset. He’s a big puppy.” She gazed up at the German ace through slitted, silver eyes.

What an amazing bitch, Kate marveled.

A clink of metal on glass rang out. A goblet tipped and splashed water over part of the tablecloth, plates, and people.

“Aw, cripes, would you look at that?” Rusty was half on his feet, reaching uselessly after the mess. “Sorry. I’m pretty clumsy, don’t you know.” His iron jaw creased into a bashful smile.

The tension broke. At least for the next half a second or so.

John made a production of digging in an attaché case for a set of manila folders, which he distributed. Moving on, then.

“Time for business, I’m afraid,” John said, standing at the head of the table. “A lot’s landed on us all at once, but I think we have the resources to handle it. At least, I’d like to prove that we do.” He flashed a smile, almost shy. “We’re still keeping an eye on the situation in Texas. We know there was an explosion. Lilith and Bugsy concluded that it was nuclear. We still don’t know what caused it, but the Feds think it was terrorists. For the moment, there isn’t much we can do until we hear further developments. But here’s what we can do.”

Secretary-General Jayewardene had given the Committee three separate missions, all of them deemed urgent.

First: a brutal hurricane season appeared to be developing in the Gulf, and Jayewardene had a hunch. The secretary-general had a track record of accurate hunches. If he wanted a team there to help, the Committee would go.

Second: the UN had received reports of genocide in Africa, in the oil region of Nigeria near its border with the People’s Paradise of Africa, a newish, self-declared nation that was either the latest in a long line of corrupt, despotic regimes or the beginning of a new, empowered Africa free of colonial influences. It depended on who you talked to. A Committee team would investigate the genocide claims and make recommendations.

And third: the current oil shortage was artificially induced. Prince Siraj of the Caliphate had manipulated production and forced prices to their current, stratospheric level of three hundred dollars a barrel. In the opinion of the secretary-general, this was nothing short of economic terrorism that was impacting the entire world and causing widespread hardship and depression. A team would go to the Middle East to open oil production again, and UN troops were assembling in anticipation of direct intervention.

“I don’t think I have to tell you that this last objective is top secret,” John said. “We don’t want any leaks to the press clowns downstairs. No blogging.” He pointed at Bugsy, who held up his hands in a show of innocence.

This was a new development, and Kate was surprised that the secretary-general had decided on such direct action. They’d almost be causing an international crisis rather than fixing one.

John read from his notes.

“Earth Witch, Gardener, Bubbles, and Holy Roller. You’ll head to New Orleans tomorrow. See what you can do about reinforcing the levee system and aiding in the evacuation, if that becomes necessary. DB, you’ll be leading the team going to the PPA. You’ll have Brave Hawk, Snowblind, Toad Man, and the Lama—Han, not Juan—with you. Curveball, Lohengrin, the Translator, Rustbelt, Tinker, and I will be going to Arabia. Bugsy, you and Juan will hold down the fort here, and Lilith will keep us all in communication, and provide emergency transport if needed—”

DB was shaking his head, chuckling quietly.

John regarded him a moment. “Do you have something to add?”

“I see what you’re doing,” DB said. “Pretty slick, actually.” He tapped a couple of beats on the edge of the table.

“And what is that?” John said tiredly.

DB seemed happy to explain. “Here it is. You’re taking all the hotshots to Arabia to be the saviors of the Western world. And you’re sending me and the second stringers to some shithole in Africa—to do what? Observe? Investigate? To do jack shit is what.”

“Hey, who are you calling second string?” said Buford, glaring at DB with bulging eyes.

Bugsy smirked. “Turning into a giant toad is not exactly A-list.”

“Got me further on American Hero than you.”

Ouch. A year later, people were still throwing that at each other.

“DB,” John said, “I’m just trying to put people where their powers will be most useful. I don’t know what you think—”

The joker’s sarcastic smile fell. “I’ll tell you what I think. I think you’re a glory hound, I think you’re—”

John dropped a folder on the table with a slap. “Who’s the glory hound between us, Mr. Rock Star? Really?”

DB didn’t slow down. “You’re setting me up to fail, maybe even get me killed . . .”

Kate closed her eyes. Counted to ten. So help her, if either one of them brought her up as an excuse . . .

“. . . and I think you’ll do anything you can to keep me away from Kate!”

That was it.

John actually laughed. “Geez, would you let it go? This isn’t about Kate!”

Kate stood. Picked up a steak knife. Hefted it in her hand, testing its weight. Felt a warmth flow like flames through her arm. Eventually, everyone was staring at the knife in her hand. Things got real quiet.

She looked at John on one side of her, DB on the other. They stared back, stricken.

“Finished?” she asked. “Can we all sit down and play nice?”

DB muttered, “Tell Captain Cruller to stop rigging the missions in his favor.”

“You’re being paranoid,” she said. He had to realize how monumentally bad this looked. Halfway down the table, Snowblind and the Translator stared in fascination.

“Kate, maybe you should put that down.” Ana nodded at the knife in her hand. Kate was gripping it, white-knuckled. In her mind’s eye she could almost see the glow, the buildup of power. In a temper, she’d let it fly and not even realize it. Ka-boom and fireworks. Wouldn’t that impress the newbies? But Ana recognized the mood. And Ana was about the only person who could say anything and not piss Kate off.

Carefully, she set the knife on the table and shook the tingle out of her arm.

John shuffled the folders in front of him, a mindless gesture. “Fine. We’ll switch. DB, you’re on the Arabia team. I’ll go to Africa. It’s not a big deal.” He pulled his chair back and sank into it. Catching her gaze, he was trying to tell her something. Maybe: See? I can play nice. But his solution left her feeling a little sick. She hated to think that a squabble like this might damage a mission, any mission.

Mostly, she hated that they were fighting over her. As if her own choice hadn’t had anything to do with which of them she’d ended up.

Seemingly mollified, DB sat, flexing his arms and running a quick riff on his torso.

John was talking again. “You have your assignments. The New Orleans team will leave first thing—”

A commotion sounded from the restaurant’s foyer: heavy footsteps, voices arguing. Just what they needed—more excitement. So much for a nice dinner.

A waiter spoke. “I’m sorry, we’re—”

“We have a warrant.”

Bugsy stared at the entrance and said, “I have a bad feeling—”

Three men and a woman, all wearing suits and an air of government-backed smugness, came through the door. The guy in front, above average in height and notably fit, filled his expensive pale suit well. He had a buzz cut and a face that was hard to describe. Not ugly exactly, but definitely not right. Crooked nose, uneven eyes—broken bones that had knitted a little off, and laugh lines that had developed oddly because of that.

That disconcerting face twisted in a smile that suggested he was enjoying the situation.

“If you’ll all remain seated and quiet we’ll get this over with as quickly and painlessly as possible,” he said in a decisive, cop-in-charge voice.

John didn’t stay seated and quiet. “Billy, what—”

“That’s Director Ray to you, Mr. Fortune. Now please sit down.” That was possibly the shit-eatingest grin Kate had ever seen. John sat.

Director Billy Ray drew a folded pack of papers from the inside pocket of his jacket.

“Mr. Jonathan Tipton-Clarke?” He scanned the group like he was looking for someone, but Ray knew exactly where Bugsy was. His gaze fell on him in a second. “I have here a warrant for your arrest.”

“What?” John demanded. “What for?”

“For disseminating classified information in a public venue and potentially damaging national security,” Ray said.

Bugsy smirked. “I blogged about Texas.”

“Geez, don’t admit anything,” John said. “He’s an affiliate of the United Nations, there are proper channels for this.”

It was a valiant effort, but Ray wasn’t interested in proper channels, obviously. He was probably very interested in parading a handcuffed member of the Committee past the paparazzi downstairs. “Mr. Tipton-Clarke, if you’d stand, please.”

Bugsy did. Ray gestured, and one of the agents produced handcuffs.

“You can’t do this, mate,” Tinker said. Murmurs around the table agreed with him.

“An American citizen engaging in activities damaging to the safety of the American government and people? I certainly can.”

Kate glanced around the table. Eighteen aces and jokers, all—most—with formidable powers. All of whom were tense, glaring at Ray and his goons with unhappy expressions. In one of New York City’s poshest restaurants. This could end badly.

Obligingly, Bugsy turned his back to the agent and put his hands behind him, letting them cuff him without complaint. That meant Kate saw him smile and wink, right before he disintegrated.

Thousands of green wasps buzzed as clothing and handcuffs fell. Ray lunged with what had to be ace-fueled reflexes. All he managed to do was snatch the shirt before it reached the floor.

“Shit!” Ray said, ripping the shirt and tossing it aside. “I hate when that happens!”

The agent who’d been trying to cuff Bugsy yelped and jumped back, reaching inside his jacket for a gun. The other agents did the same.

All around the table, aces and jokers braced for battle.

Kate had hoped her teammates weren’t stupid enough to start something against Ray and his goons. So much for that.

John shouted, “Stand down! Back off!”

The bugs swarmed the four federal agents, clouds of them fogging around their heads. The agents slapped and swatted, hissing as they were stung. Ray swore, snarling as he slapped at himself, crushing wasps when he found them, and scratching at new welts.

With a whoosh and crash, a giant toad bounded onto the table, knocking aside water glasses and tea lights. His mouth was already open, the hideous tongue lolling, before Kate could stop him. A few drops of mucus hit her as the tongue whipped out and grabbed a gun out of the nearest agent’s hand. Stunned, the guy regarded his slime-covered hands with a look of horror.

The Llama—the Bolivian one—was the second to jump on the table. His long neck stretched forward, his fists clenched at his side, and he puckered his lips.

“Michael, grab him!” Kate yelled at DB, who was closer.

The big joker reached behind the Llama and took hold of various parts—arms, shoulders, back, legs—with all six arms and yanked him backward, off the table and onto the floor, but not before he got off a shot of spit.

Fortunately, the spit bomb went wide. Only part of it landed on the sleeve of Billy Ray’s suit jacket.

The federal ace regarded the spot for a moment. Then, with a sigh, he drew a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped off the glob. He seemed resigned as he tossed the handkerchief aside.

Buzzing, the bugs formed a loose cloud, circling the room and occasionally dropping to take another sting at one of the agents.

“Stand down!” Kate shouted. Facing her team, Kate planted herself between them and the agents. Buford had opened his mouth for another go with his tongue, the Llama was unsuccessfully wrestling with DB, the other Lama had his eyes closed and seemed to be meditating, Brave Hawk had sprouted his wings and gripped a steak knife but hadn’t actually done anything yet. Lohengrin had donned his armor and looked like he wanted to march forward—but John planted a hand on his chest. The others seemed caught between decisions to stay put and take action. Lilith stood at the end of the table, arms crossed, regarding the scene with an aggravating lift to her brow.

A sudden breeze ruffled Kate’s bangs—the door to the balcony had opened.

Bugsy’s swarm banked around the room, stretching into a streamlined shape, shot out the balcony door like an arrow, and disappeared into the New York sky.

Scratching at a swollen spot on his nose, Billy Ray glared at the balcony, and at the Amazing Bubbles, who knelt by the open door with her hand on the latch.

“I thought we needed a little air,” Michelle said, shrugging with an air of innocence that wasn’t entirely genuine.

The room was quiet, finally. Lohengrin’s armor faded. Buford, human now, climbed off the table.

Billy Ray stood at Kate’s shoulder. Literally breathing down her neck.

“I am this close to dragging all of your asses to jail,” he said to her, holding his thumb and forefinger so they barely touched. “But because you’re cute, and I like blondes, I’ll give you a break. Today.”

Kate rolled her eyes.

Ray wasn’t finished with them. As he regarded them, his gaze sweeping from one end of the table to the other, his frown deepened. For a moment, the ace almost looked tired. He muttered, “You kids are going to get yourselves killed. And I’m probably going to be the one who has to scrape your guts off the pavement.”

He stalked out, gesturing at his underlings, who fell into step with him. They were all scratching at angry, swollen bug bites. Kate ran a hand through her hair and sighed. When was her life going to stop feeling like reality TV?

A woman giggled. Snowblind, stifling the laugh with a hand over her mouth. The hand was trembling, just a little. “I knew joining the Committee would be exciting, but I had no idea.”

Nervous chatter dispelled some of the tension as people straightened chairs and returned to their seats. Some of the wait staff crept out of hiding.

Kate pulled out a chair and sat. John brought over another chair and sat with her.

“So. Bugsy’s wanted by the Feds,” he said. “I guess that’s another line on the to-do list.”

“What are we going to do about it?”

“Normally I would call the director of SCARE to clear this up. But Billy Ray is the director of SCARE.” He winced. “And how the hell did that happen?”

It never ended. Always another mission. Three more missions, in this case. Kate leaned close to John and spoke softly. “You promised Ana would get a break. But you’re sending her out again tomorrow?”

John had the grace to look chagrined. “I know. But we need her. No one else can do what she does. This isn’t going to get fixed by . . . by a giant toad.”

She couldn’t argue, because he was right. Ana herself wouldn’t want to be left out of this. Even now, the ace was helping the staff pick up scattered glassware and table settings, like she could never sit back and let someone else do the work.

“I’ll make it up to her,” he said, earnest. “I promise.”

“Hey, John,” Tinker called. “What do you want to do with these?” He held up Bugsy’s discarded clothing.

Someone said, “Whoa. I never would have pegged Bugsy as a boxers guy.” John just shook his head in long-suffering bemusement. Smiling, Kate wrapped her arm around his and rested her head on his shoulder. “You sure know how to show a girl a good time.”