"I'll take her up first," Jude said. "Don't follow immediately. If anyone comes after me, use that window to move."
M.M. frowned. "What if nobody comes after you?"
"Then the guard at the counter is going to have another difficult interaction with the cat."
The staircase was quiet.
First time extending the stealth to include someone else. Jude kept his pace measured. He balanced the woman's weight across his arms. His Master-level concealment was reliable in the dark, but noon in a crowded supermarket was a different proposition. He figured his odds at around eighty percent.
The supermarket had settled back to normal. The guard stood at the counter, staring ahead, betraying no signs of the earlier incident. Yomogi was gone. She was waiting outside.
Jude moved down the aisle. Shoppers' eyes tracked them for a second—a casual, lazy drag of attention toward movement in their periphery. Nobody stopped. The guard at the counter glanced up, then looked back at his phone.
Eighty-five percent, Jude thought.
He cleared the entrance. M.M., Frenchie, and Butcher slipped through the white door one by one. They reached his side without incident. Frenchie immediately stepped in.
"Give her to me. I'll carry her. You drive."
Satsuki sat across the street in Chevrolet mode, right where they had parked. Jude handed the woman over. Frenchie hitched her onto his back in one smooth motion, shifting her weight until she was secure.
They stepped away from the supermarket and walked right into a group of men strolling down the sidewalk, rubbing their stomachs.
Both groups stopped.
The men carried pistols at their hips. They wore the same clothes as the crew sleeping in the basement. The meal break shift.
The men looked at Frenchie. They looked at the woman on his back. Three seconds ticked by on the Chinatown sidewalk.
"Um," Jude said. "Have you eaten?"
"Kill them! Don't let her get away!"
Frenchie was already moving. He locked the woman's arms around his neck and sprinted for the Chevrolet.
The guards drew their weapons. Jude left his special pistol holstered. Broad daylight, crowded street, cameras everywhere. An unusual weapon would flag on Vought's facial recognition. Instead, he raised both hands, gripping two standard pistols lifted from the guards downstairs.
His hearing mapped the trajectories before the men even squeezed their triggers. His Master-level Firearms Proficiency calculated the variables: elevation, distance, the metallic clack of slides cycling. His enhanced reaction time gave him the margin to move. He shifted his torso. Just enough, but not entirely out of the way.
If I dodge all of them, I'm not a sharpshooter anymore. I'm a supe. And that brings Vought's full attention in approximately one news cycle.
Two rounds connected. One grazed his right side. The second punched a clean through-and-through in his left leg. Non-fatal hits. Within the profile of a skilled human, not a supe.
The pistols in his hands settled into a rhythm.
He shot for hands. Dominant hand first, then secondary, moving down the line based on who had the best angle. Five seconds passed. The incoming fire dropped from seven shooters to two. The last two men swapped their guns to their off-hands and kept firing. Jude fired again. At ten seconds, none of them could hold a weapon.
Butcher had fired maybe three shots. M.M. slightly more. Neither had found a clear angle.
"What are you standing there for?" Jude said. "Run."
A cheerful tune drifted over from the Chevrolet.
I shouldered my pack, shouldered my pack—
"Move," Jude said. The three of them sprinted for the car.
Chinatown had entirely emptied out. Butcher threw himself behind the wheel. M.M. took the passenger seat. Jude slid into the back next to Frenchie and the woman. The street was clear, save for the bleeding gunmen and the rising wail of police sirens.
Butcher floored the gas.
Jude reached under the seat and pulled out his gourd. He popped the cap and held it under his nose. A thin, warm vapor drifted out. He breathed it in slowly. This was the recovery compound. His side and leg throbbed. He leaned back against the seat, giving the vapor a minute to work.
The flute started up again.
The rain is still pouring down, aren't you scared—
It was coming from the roof.
Jude reached out the window, grabbed Yomogi by the scruff, and hauled her inside. He snatched the flute out of her paws.
"That was a perfectly appropriate song for the situation," Yomogi complained.
"We're in a car chase," Jude said. "Please."
She curled up in his lap and huffed.
Beside him, Frenchie lifted the hem of the woman's jacket.
The car went dead quiet.
A bullet hole sat dead center over her heart. The wound was open. Blood pulsed out in thick, steady waves.
"She was on my back," Frenchie said. His voice was entirely flat. "During the gunfight. She blocked them. She took all of them."
He looked at Jude.
"You have things. You must have something. You can save her. Right?"
"I can't bring someone back to life," Jude said.
Frenchie stared at the floorboards.
Jude reached over and pressed two fingers against the woman's throat. He waited. He blinked, staring at her neck.
"She's not dead," he said.
Frenchie looked up.
"Her vitals are suppressed, but present. She's in a recovery state. The injury is severe, so it's going to take time. But she's recovering on her own." Jude leaned closer to the wound. "Let me see."
He ripped a section of the jacket away and peeled the fabric back.
Beneath it, her skin was perfectly smooth.
"The heart wound is closed." Jude stared at her chest. "That's faster than what I saw during the fight."
"Wait," M.M. said from the front seat. "There's blood—"
"From her head, I think." Jude tilted her sideways. "I noticed earlier."
He brushed her hair aside. A deformed bullet rolled loose, dropped from her scalp, and landed on the seat cushions.
It had entered through the back of her skull. The exit point was gone. The tissue knitted itself together right in front of them. A sliver of gray cerebral matter clung to the edge of the sealing skin.
"Look at that," Jude said. He picked up the bullet and set it aside. "Brain matter."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Writing takes time, coffee, and a lot of love.If you'd like to support my work, join me at [email protected]/GoldenGaruda
You'll get early access to over 50 chapters, selection on new series, and the satisfaction of knowing your support directly fuels more stories.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~