The Law of Averages

Book 2: Chapter 148: and 149 — Anastasia's Interlude

Anastasia Summers was in a rare good mood. For the first time in a very long time, she'd encountered a beneficial surprise. Little Abby's boy toy had finally proven himself worthy of her, and the power he'd stumbled upon. Grasping a concept was no simple thing, and few Naturals could claim to have mastered their own. This kind of progress in less than two years was not something she could rightfully complain about.

Teleportation! Genuine, point to point portals, created at will! She was almost giddy at the prospect! The opportunities! The options now opened to her! It was entirely worth the constant backtalk she faced whenever she interacted with the man responsible. Never was she more grateful for her self-restraint; her first instinct upon seeing the man her granddaughter had taken a shine to, was to pop his head like a zit. Thankfully, he'd found a spine somewhere along the way, and was now marginally tolerable. Kudos to little Abby. She'd seen something in him that Anastasia herself had missed.

Newman would obviously require compensation, but Anastasia was generous to those who worked willingly and well. The vast umbrella of her reputation already shielded him—it was the least she could do, for Abigail's sake—but there were any number of luxuries she'd be willing to provide in exchange for access to his power.

Teleportation!

Not even the bastardized version that the People used. She'd watched the recordings carefully. The man was nowhere near as versatile as he pretended to be. It cost him something to bring people along. The power was imperfect. Weak. Broken. The upgrade still served its purpose, to limit its subject. The People's meddling had not yet overcome that particular hurdle.

They would not, so long as Anastasia yet lived. Order would reign until her very last breath.

But enough of the grim thoughts! Today was going to be fun!

Anastasia stood in the shadow of a hangar roof, watching as her plane descended with its cargo. On the opposite side of the airfield, a trio of black SUVs approached over the tarmac. The FBI had never been big on subtlety. They might as well have mounted neon signs on the roof, saying 'VIP transport.' That may have actually been less obvious. In this case, it was a benefit. The cars would serve their purpose: Bait.

The RED building had spewed its bulbous innards out towards Memphis, leaving federal assets in D.C. relatively weak. Rawls had sent the dregs, not that he'd had much choice in the matter. Under normal circumstances, continuing this plan would be just shy of suicidal. Under normal circumstances, any half-competent hit squad would make swiss cheese out of what Anastasia assumed were a bunch of green desk jockeys playing secret agent. Under normal circumstances.

These were not normal circumstances. She was here, which greatly simplified matters.

"They've been informed, I presume?" she asked off-handedly. It really didn't matter if she was expected, or not. She would be joining this escort. It was a certainty; a fact, embedded into the fabric of reality.

"Rawls told them there'd be a plus one," Newman confirmed, with that absent tone he used when focusing on his power. "I didn't say who, in case of a leak."

Anastasia nodded. "Good."

The distant roar of jet engines began to fade, as her plane finished setting down. The convoy of armored vehicles pulled to a stop beside it, and agents began filing out. Even at this distance, she could feel the pressure they were under. The nervous twitches, the stress, the worry, all bundled into a single, peculiar report.

She stretched her senses further, out-out-out and beyond. The airport became a network of competing forces. Pushing and pulling, exertion and release. The world breathed, and Anastasia breathed alongside it. Everything in life had its own flavor. Most airstrips were just large, empty fields with some tarmac and hangars slapped down around them. This one had a thicket of trees off to one side, and a series of rolling hills on the other.

Anastasia stretched herself, and could just about feel the edge of the forest, just under a mile away. Details were hazy, with so much in her view, but people always stood out. They felt pressured in ways that defied natural convention. Each was a unique little stain on her mental landscape. She sensed nothing of that, now. Not in the distance, not hiding at the edge of the woods.

A shame. She would have like to have started early. Nothing incited anxiety quite like an ally's heart stopping without any discernible cause. But there were eyes on the airport, of that she had no doubt. Would they recognize her? Of course they would. The real question was if she wanted them to.

She mulled it over, then reached into her jacket pocket and withdrew her Mask. It was a small, rectangular object, no larger than a stick of gum. A relic from her younger years, when wet-work called for anonymity. Each was unique to their owner, custom built by a sanctioned Genius who'd been dead for longer than she could recall.

Her power reached inside the object, and pressed on a series of miniscule switches that were hidden inside. The device opened up like a spring-loaded umbrella. Hair-thin membrane attached to needle-thick arms formed into the shape of a mask. She saw Newman glance at the object, and visibly bite down his curiosity. Anastasia smiled to herself, and donned the Mask .

Screens winked into life, a HUD that overlaid tactical information right across her eyes. It was outdated, of course. Updating the software was impossible, and the damn thing wasn't even capable of wireless access, much less the kind of displays that even modern SPEAR teams used. But for concealing identities, it worked wonders.

"Now that is goddamn eerie," Newman commented from beside her.

She smiled, face hidden beneath featureless black nanoweave. Her voice came out in modulated robo-tone, "Let's get started."

"Do I get a fancy mask?" he asked.

She turned to regard him for several long moments. He shuffled his feet awkwardly, then gestured at the wall. Space folded, and Anastasia's power jolted in her brain. The sensation was distracting, strange, and novel. It also made a complete hash of her senses; a weakness she'd need to work to overcome.

The portal led to the inside of her plane, where a drugged and bound Thomas Dunkirk lay on on a gurney, still unconscious. She stepped through it, hiding a wince as she passed between the barrier. Newman followed, and the portal snapped shut behind him. He strolled past her, towards the intercom, and hit the switch.

"Open her up," he ordered.

The ramp groaned as it began to open. Daylight streamed in, along with the faces of nine federal agents, who collectively flinched upon laying eyes on her face. At least one of them recognized what a Mask was; the rest were just rightfully disturbed. They took in her clothing: an armored jacket and suit pants, set over a pair of weathered combat boots. Then eyes moved to Newman, who managed to present the appearance of slouching while standing perfectly straight, and wore a rumpled ensemble more suited to a homeless person than a professional courier.

He waved at them—ever the awkward buffoon—and declared, "Howdy fellas!"

Blank stares.

Newman continued, somehow unperturbed. He gestured dramatically at Anastasia. "This here is the backup I promised Rawls. She'll escort you to the RED Building."

More stares. Anastasia forced herself not to sigh. This was the quality of the FBI, these days. She was surprised by her own disappointment. With a shrug, she dismissed the thought. It was unnecessary. These men were nothing more than window dressing.

She flicked her finger at Dunkirk's gurney, and his straps released themselves. Her power wrapped itself around the man, exerting its influence where necessary. Her will raised the man into the air, dangling like a limp puppet. One of the agents swore, and stepped backwards.

Anastasia smiled behind her Mask.

"Gentleman," her modulated voice intoned. "Let's begin."

Anastasia swept her senses over the assembled vehicles and men. This close, detail was easy. She could feel every shape and texture, thanks to gravity's pull. The cars were outlined in clean strokes, while the men were muddy balls of stress. Anastasia wasn't an empath, not exactly, but emotions had ways of pressuring people in their own unique ways. Most of the men were afraid, or tense, but one was carrying more anxiety than the rest combined. It was one of the drivers, and she turned her focus towards his vehicle.

It took her all of five seconds to find the bomb strapped to the bottom of the center SUV. An Escalade, the same as the rest; this model appeared to lack the anti-IED plating on its sides and bottom. Budget concerns, Anastasia supposed, but it made it vulnerable to exactly what they were facing now: a shaped charge hidden beneath the frame, under the rear seats. The cause of it was fairly obvious to her. The driver—who was doing an admirable job of hiding his intense fear—would almost certainly survive the blast if he had any kind of durability upgrade.

On the outside, it might seem like sacrificing a low-level mole to remove Dunkirk as a witness would be an easy trade. In reality, the FBI was an excruciatingly difficult organization to infiltrate. Someone trusted had recommended this man. The same with his companions. They'd been vetted, carefully, critically, and thoroughly. It wouldn't end with the driver. The consequences would branch out, compromising every hidden asset, burning them out root and stem.

Whatever Dunkirk knew must be breathtakingly dangerous. So, this little adventure was worth her time after all. For a brief moment, Anastasia contemplated questioning the man herself. Right here, right now. Both of them, Dunkirk and the driver. It would be easy. Trivial, even. But it would also alienate potential allies. She could wait. She could be patient. When they arrived at the RED Building, she would reveal herself, and she would not be denied a place in the interrogation room.

In the meantime, she should figure out how to deal with this bomb. It would be trivial to detach it, but that would remove the evidence. Sabotage was a little trickier, but still within her capabilities. The optimal situation would be to arrive at the RED Building with the bomb in tow, but safely disarmed. Even Anastasia's word was not enough to condemn a federal agent. Proof would be required.

As she made her decision, Newman coughed into his fist. She paused, looked at him.

"Can I get one last word with you, real quick?" he asked, jerking his head off to the side. "Over here."

Anastasia rolled her eyes beneath her Mask, but decided to accommodate the man. She gestured absently, and Dunkirk's floating form bobbed obediently behind her. She strolled after Newman, who walked back up the plane ramp. He glanced towards the intercom, but Anastasia headed him off.

"Don't bother," she said, assuming he was going to close the ramp again. She snapped her fingers, flexed her power, and the ambient sound dimmed. "They won't overhear us."

"Oh." Newman blinked, but ploughed forward. "Well, In that case: I'm pretty sure there's something beneath the middle car that doesn't belong."

"Oh?" Anastasia feigned ignorance to draw out information, entirely out of habit, as she mentally re-evaluated Newman's sensing abilities. "What is it?"

"I'm not entirely sure," he said, scratching at the back of his head. "My initial guess was a bomb of some kind, but I think that's just my go-to whenever I feel something suspicious and electronic."

Anastasia made a 'hmm' noise as she considered what to do, and more importantly, what she could learn from this. "Can you remove it?"

"Well, sure," he said with a shrug. "You want me to?"

"I'd rather have it around as evidence," Anastasia told him. "Can you disable it?"

Newman's brow furrowed. "I can... remove the power source. Snip all the wires."

"So long as it's instantaneous," Anastasia said. She was talking completely out of her ass, because it was important to seem knowledgeable and in control at all times. She was no bomb technician, but it sounded reasonable given her limited knowledge. The worst that would happen is the explosive went off early, but with nobody currently in the car, that was a situation that could be easily dealt with.

Newman shrugged, and said, "Done."

She hadn't even noticed... She focused, hard, on the tiny bomb she'd noticed before. Her power traced its edges, ever so delicately, and found— There! She would not have noticed the cuts if she hadn't already known they were there. The thought disturbed her, but she pushed it aside. Eyes were still upon her. Time to wrap this up.

"Is the device still in place?"

"A'yup. Any ideas on who put it there?"

"A few," she remarked.

"Whaddya gonna do about it?"

"Deal with it," Anastasia replied tersely. She turned to face him, blank Mask boring into him. "Your role in this is over, Daniel. Now, let me do mine. Go home, and give Abigail my love."

Newman considered her for several seconds, then, without a word or hint, he disappeared. Anastasia hid a wince as her power protested the sudden change. The sensation never ceased to bother her, but she'd long ago learned to conceal her reactions. Instead, she turned her gaze back to the waiting agents, who had at least made an attempt to secure the area. Anastasia dispelled her sound dampening technique and strolled out of the plane, Dunkirk in tow.

"Time to go," she announced, and then, "Where do you want him?"

Several eyes fell on the highest ranking agent, who swallowed hard. He was an older man, who obviously understood the signifance of her Mask. He seemed singularly hesitant to give her orders, but finally forced out, "Center SUV. Please. Ma'am."

Anastasia complied, swinging Dunkirk's limp form around to the back of the waiting SUV. As she expected, the nervous driver was the one who guided in Dunkirk's body, settling him in almost directly on top of the disabled bomb. It was confirmation, for Anastasia, that the driver was indeed a plant. The question now, was if he was the only one. He was certainly the most nervous, but that wasn't a pre-requisite for treachery. Cooler heads often prevailed.

Well, she supposed it didn't matter. Everyone present would be subjected to interrogation. No way around that.

She watched stoically as Dunkirk was buckled in. The man's head drooped to one side, and a line of drool rolled own his chin. He should be waking soon, but not soon enough. She felt sorry for him, in a way. He probably didn't realize how disposable he was, to both sides. Even with full cooperation, the rest of his life would not be a comfortable one. The man was well-connected within the bureau and without; only a fool wouldn't take the opportunity to prise out all his secrets. The feds loved their blackmail.

Anastasia loaded up into the center SUV, casually replacing whoever had claimed the passenger seat. She turned to face the driver, increasing the man's anxiety just for the fun of it. Anastasia couldn't quite control fear, but she could manipulate the pressure one felt from that fear, which basically amounted to the same thing. It took an extremely focused mind to distinguish between fear, and a fear response. The poor soul beside her was experiencing the full breadth of her power, as he did his best to moderate his breathing through the rampant terror he was now experiencing.

The lead car started off, and Anastasia had to prod her driver into action with a, "Well? Get going!"

They drove along the twisty road out of the airfield, bumping and bouncing on the rural road. It would be another twenty minutes before they hit the city, so Anastasia settled in to wait. She fished a small com-bead out of her pocket and slipped it into her ear. It crackled for a moment, searching nearby frequencies, until automatically patching into the federal channel. She would pick up anything the agents said to each other. A few taps on the device, and a background function was enabled. In the radio silence, sound began to play: News broadcasts from Memphis.

The instant Echo showed himself, she would call for Newman to transport her, but the feds had her in the meantime.

Flat plains soon gave way to hills, and trees. Within five minutes, they'd transitioned from open fields to thick forests. As they hit a particularly dense patch, the SUV began to accelerate. The lead car pulled to the side, braking, and allowing the next two to pass. Anastasia watched with mild interest as the order of the vehicles were shuffled to hide Dunkirk's presence. Not a bad plan, all things considered. Just their bad luck that the person now leading the caravan was a traitor.

The shape of the plan was now taking focus. Transport jobs like this rarely used a single, fixed route. Usually, there were four or five planned out, just in case, and it was up to the lead driver to determine which best suited the situation. Anastasia assumed at least one of those plans lead through an ambush site. The bomb would go off, crippling the car. They'd come to a stop in an alley, or a one way street. They'd be pinned from the front, while enemies came in from behind. Everyone would die, except perhaps the mole. No bodies would be found. Disappearing a corpse was trivial in this day and age. No traitor to scrutinize. No mole to catch.

Naturally, that was not how things were going to play out. Not now that she was here.

The minutes passed uneventfully. The longer the convoy drove, the more certain Anastasia became of her predictions. When the city came into sight, and they turned off the main road, she knew she was correct. They moved through the dingy streets of the capitol, on a circuitous route probably plotted by some egghead without a second of field experience.

Eventually, suburban sprawl gave way to factories and warehouses. Office buildings, skyscrapers, shops. D.C. wasn't a big town, in the grand scheme of things, but there were plenty of places to hide misdeeds. The convoy drove through the worst of the city, three black SUVs drawing as much attention as a herd of unicorns. Anastasia wondered if that was part of the story. Was blame to be placed on poor, desperate gangsters? These feds were awfully green, but that would be an embarrassing end.

She felt her driver's fear spike and she came to alert. They were turning into a long, narrow street, and she felt a few dozen people in the neighboring buildings. Her power outlined their forms; body armor and guns, helmets, explosives. There was fear, too, but much less than there should be. They didn't know who she was.

Anastasia smiled.

They eased down the road, the driver's hands tense on the wheel. He was bracing himself for the boom, and it never came. Was it proximity, she wondered, or a trigger? He didn't hold it, that much was obvious. She could identify the exact moment that he realized something had gone wrong with the bomb. His fear reached its peak, and she tweaked it even further, curious as to what he might do.

He slammed on the breaks, jolting her in against her seat belt, then slammed the vehicle into park. The other agents cursed. Dunkirk fell sideways in his seat. The driver unclipped his belt, and bolted out the door, sprinting like the hounds of Hell were nipping at his heels. It was so unexpected that Anastasia was stuck staring at him for almost a full two seconds, before she came back to herself.

The people in the surrounding buildings were scrambling. Boarded up windows were kicked open, and guns were shoved out into open air. Doors burst open, and bodies poured out into the street. Physical upgrades shimmered into existence, a kaleidoscope of colors and abilities. Fingers squeezed, hammers fell, weapons bucked and lead flew.

Anastasia harrumphed, and the city flinched. Air shattered, deflecting bullets into asphalt. The foundations of the surrounding buildings buckled, as the pressure they withstood increased exponentially. The mob at ground level collapsed like puppets with their strings cut, as each and every one of them experienced extreme hypertension. Rifles exploded in their owners' hands as firing mechanisms catastrophically failed, overtaxed by the pressure waves that propelled each bullet. The fleeing agent was dragged backwards, screaming, towards the SUV that he'd abandoned. His head struck the top edge of the roof as his body was wedged into the driver's seat.

Anastasia stepped out of the car and looked around at the devastated street. Dust swirled from the collapsed buildings. Men and women groaned on the ground, blood pouring from their eyes and ears and noses. The feds were exiting their vehicles, adrenaline flooding their veins but finding no recourse. Three seconds and thirty bodies, and this was all that remained.

Anastasia clicked her tongue.

"Like bringing a nuke to a knife fight," she remarked, shaking her head. She turned to the confused agents and stepped forward to assume command. It was time to wrap this up. She had questions. There would be answers.

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