Chapter 4
Author's Note: Sorry this one has been so long between updates, I've been working on my Elysium stories, but haven't forgotten this story.
"So, um," I hurried along through the crowd, trying not to be noticed, "how did you figure it out?" I hardly needed to ask Cyera what I meant.
She was keeping pace with me like she was born for this. "I watch TV, Temp. Your face was like, all over every station. You might lie and con all you want, but you can't hide that much. Not that I'd want you to get plastic surgery or anything." She paused for a moment by one of the water fountains to get a drink.
Believe me, that thought had occurred to me…even if my good looks were the key to getting everything from the best hotel rooms to the hottest girls, I was a hot item now. Getting a few tweaks from some surgeon in Mexico had crossed my mind more than once. In fact, I'd been damn lucky nobody here, whether it was a cop or a casual fan, had picked me out. That was one of the nice things about Americans: they had the attention spans of squirrels strung out on Adderall. Once you'd been off the news for a week or two, and we had, they seemed to forget about you in favor of whatever celeb had gotten busted for drugs or DUI. "Hey, it wouldn't be the same Faceman with a different face, huh?" I said as suavely as I could. It must not have worked, because Cyera just gave me a wry stare.
"If you're the man of a thousand faces, I'll never know why you picked that one," she joked, playfully punching me in the arm.
"Ouch," I said, more out of mock hurt than actual pain. "If you really want a thousand faces, Murdock's your guy." That was true…he changed personas more often than the average person changed his socks. Since we'd gotten back, and since his stay at the hospital, I'd been subjected to a whole busload of new ones. Hannibal said it was his way of dealing with stress. I said it was him just trying to piss me off…and his act today wasn't helping any.
Cyera's face lit up. "He is the sweetest guy. You're lucky to have him, Temp."
"Yeah." I looked down, out of embarrassment as much as the fact that three LAPD uniforms were walking towards us at that moment. "He's crazy all right, but…" I wanted to tell her how he saved my life more than once, how much I owed him, but tried to get my mind back where it needed to be. You're supposed to be saving the people in this stadium, not getting sentimental. "Anyway, he knows what he's doing. We need to figure out what's going on, and quick. Did you see any more of those guys in the hideous uniforms?"
"Nope," she said, making sure the cops were out of earshot, "but I did spot some weird-looking guy a section over. 118."
"This is L.A. There are weird guys everywhere."
She giggled, then collected herself. "Yeah, this guy looked like trouble, though. Kinda like a Manson Family reject, long beard, kooky face. He went into the door marked 'Employees Only' even though he was wearing civilian clothes. Like, a prison-type jumpsuit, only not orange."
I had to admit I was impressed; I hadn't noticed the guy in question, let alone seen him disappearing. "Where'd you learn how to do that?" I wanted to kiss her so badly, but knew it was both a waste of time and a surefire way to make Murdock jealous.
"Before I went into music, I thought about joining the FBI. Bet you didn't know that." Cyera winked and pulled at my sleeve. "Come on, 'Phil,' let's go catch some bad guys."
Guess I hadn't been the only one keeping secrets. I turned and followed her toward the door where she'd seen the guy.
~~s~~
Among the many obscure, but useful, talents I'd acquired over the years was the fine art of lockpicking. While Cyera kept watch (which was easy considering most of the fans were back watching the game), I forced open the door, thinking all the while how I should be watching the Eagles and not chasing ghosts down service hallways. That was beside the point now, though, and I heard the lock give way with a satisfying click. "Let's go," I whispered to Cyera, and we both stepped inside, shutting the heavy metal door behind us.
The stadium may have been brand-new, but this place looked like any other standard-issue maintenance hall, part warehouse, part concrete tunnel, and part budget Star Wars set. No sign of the Manson guy or the Banana Brothers. I drew my gun anyway. These places always gave me the creeps, with all the possible hiding places and shadowy alcoves.
"You know, maybe we should just call in an anonymous tip or something," Cyera said, keeping her voice low. Sound really carried in here, and for the first time, she sounded scared. "Use one of those service phones?"
That thought had occurred to me too…then I remembered there were cameras everywhere in this place. My image, and Murdock's, was already on tape. I'd taken enough risks just being here to have someone possibly connect me to some plot at the Super Bowl, of all places. "No. We've got this," I said confidently, wishing I knew what the hell "this" was. Maybe it was just some fraternity playing an elaborate prank, or a publicity stunt. Or maybe not. My gut, which had been so reliable all those years in Iraq, told me it was more than someone's idea of a joke.
I had no idea where Murdock was, or if he'd managed to track down the three we'd seen before. Left to his own devices, Murdock could be as unpredictable as a tornado in the middle of a trailer park. Cursing myself for not having brought walkie-talkies, I wished there were some way I could reach him. Then I almost smacked my forehead. Of course I can talk to him…he has his phone, doesn't he?
"Something wrong?" Cyera asked me. She must have seen the look on my face in between glancing nervously down the abandoned corridor.
I fished out the phone from my jacket pocket. "This," I said, "is how we'll bring these guys down. I just gotta talk to Murdock, make sure he's on their trail…" Then my heart sank. The phone, white and small, one of the newer smartphone designs, sure looked like mine. If mine had a pink butterfly background and little fake jewels on the buttons.
Cyera laughed when she saw it. "Kinda girly even for you, isn't it, Temp?"
"Only it's not mine." It had to be the girls, the ones who stopped us thinking I was that stupid Cooper Bradley guy. They must have done a little switcheroo on us…I was a little in awe of anybody who could do that…and it was okay, considering how well I'd locked the thing. Still, there were a few pictures on there, from some wild parties, I'd miss. Anyway, I couldn't dwell on that now. "I can still use it to figure out what's going on, though. Come on, I'll do this as we go," I said, holding the phone in one hand and the gun in the other.
"Should you be texting and shooting, Temp?"
"Hey, I got this."
We both tried to make our footsteps as quiet as possible, knowing whoever it was might hear us coming. Cyera might have dreamed about joining the FBI, but that didn't count for real training. I was trained, and every instinct in my body told me something was up. I just didn't know what, and that was what drove me crazy.
After unlocking the phone, I started looking up schematics for the stadium. "Here we go," I said, flicking my finger over the screen. "Control room."
"Why there?"
"Just call it a hunch," I said, knowing there could be a nest of snipers, or a lunatic with an exploding vest, or a kamikaze pilot or who knew what else out there. Yet my heart, not my head, had led me this far. The guys we'd seen were college kids. Cyera said she'd spotted an older guy with a bead…the ringleader? If I had to guess, the kind who'd rather hijack a network feed and broadcast their grievances instead of blowing up the place. Peace and love, man.
"What do you think these guys are up to?" Cyera said. We'd passed several locked doors and not seen another person. Something was clearly up.
Much as I'd have liked to let "the professionals" handle this, I was in too deep now. Whatever Cyera thought of my sexuality, I was still trying to impress her, playing Dirty Harry and showing off my skills. Besides, I could explain away later, that it was all Murdock's idea of a joke. I needed to have a few choice words with him anyway…and as my fingers hovered over the phone's keyboard, I realized I didn't have his number committed to memory. "Dammit," I cursed under my breath. "So much for that idea."
A distant roar erupted from somewhere outside. Touchdown, I thought. It was nearly halftime, and I had no idea what the score was. I'd barely seen any of the action since the first quarter.
"We should get a move on, Temp. You know it's gonna be swarming with people at halftime, right?"
Halftime. It was like something clicked into place. I remembered a dozen Super Bowls I'd seen over the years, with pop stars dancing and singing on a quickly put-together stage. Lots of people clustered around…and a bunch of faceless guys in uniforms. That had to be it.
"Let's go," I said, pulling Cyera by the arm and shoving the phone back into my pocket. "I'll explain on the way…"
~~s~~
I wasn't gonna lie, I was starting to get winded. I'd have given anything for one of those little helmet cars, or a skateboard. Hell, a Segway might have helped at this point. Luckily Cyera was in good shape and kept up with me. When I'd asked her about it, she just laughed.
"Oh, there's more to being a pop star than just looking pretty all the time," she said with a wink. "You wouldn't believe how my agent and everyone else, like the magazines, get on you if you gain five pounds."
I was going to tell her how Hannibal always did the same thing whenever we had PT sessions together, but figured she wouldn't understand. Friend or not, there were some things you just couldn't talk to women about. Besides, she'd really get the wrong idea if I talked about me and the boys getting all sweaty in a gym somewhere…
The Manson guy hadn't shown back up, but one of the younger ones in the horrible yellow uniform had. We'd followed him all the way down to the lower levels below the field, keeping just out of sight all the while. I held the gun so tightly in my hand my fingers were starting to get sore. What the hell was going on here? It was already a miracle we hadn't been seen by anybody.
Down here, though, that was going to be damn near impossible. Hundreds of workers swarmed in and out of the hallways, no doubt getting ready for the big halftime spectacular.
"Hey. This area's restricted."
Anyone else might have acted guilty; I'd been through hundreds of rodeos just like this. "Detective Vandiver, LAPD," I said smoothly, flashing my fake badge to the portly, balding guy who'd just yelled at me. "This is my partner, Detective, um…"
"Jensen," Cyera finished, using my mom's maiden name. "Just conducting a sweep. We'll stay out of your way."
The guy looked at her, then me, and shrugged. "Okay. Fine. Just try not to break anything, detectives," he said before turning his attention to a couple of younger workers carrying an enormous fake palm tree.
"That was good," I said to Cyera from the corner of my mouth. "Maybe you should have been a cop."
"Or a con artist. I know the best one in the business."
She knew me all right...she may have thought I was gayer than a three-dollar bill right now, but other than that she was spot-on.
I was looking around for anything out of place, which was difficult considering the area we found ourselves in was noisy, crowded, and full of people in goofy outfits from dance attire to marching band uniforms. I didn't know what I was looking for, quite; my tours in the sandbox had taught me to look for signs of unease. Fidgeting, looking down, that kind of thing. It was that level of observation that had saved my life, and my team's lives, more times than I cared to count. There were a few people standing around who looked nervous, sure enough. They were also about to go on live TV in front of millions of viewers, so that was normal. What I was trying to find was more specific than that.
"There." Cyera jerked her head slightly to one side. "Didn't we see him earlier?"
Over in the corner, next to part of the stage, was unmistakably the skinny, acne-faced punk who'd been wearing a yellow uniform not half an hour earlier. "Bingo," I agreed with her. "Where are his friends, though?"
I had a bad feeling I knew. They'd probably split up…and unless Murdock had gotten lucky, I had no idea of knowing where they were. Stepping out of the way of a crew carrying more props, I decided I'd try to reach him on the phone. His number, I knew, started with 687 something…what was the rest of it?
"Oh, shit." Cyera murmured next to me. "Where'd he go?"
In the moment it had taken me to pull out the phone and ponder what Murdock's number might be, our mark had vanished.
Several things happened all at once then. Another enormous cheer arose from the crowd…perhaps another touchdown? I saw the guy headed out onto the field among a crowd of maintenance workers, and when I turned to follow him, a strange, prickly sensation crept into the back of my right leg, like I'd been bitten by the biggest mosquito in L.A.
Cyera uttered a little cry of surprise next to me, which I wouldn't have heard over the crowd noise if she hadn't been so close. She crumpled to the ground as if she'd fainted from surprise.
I felt the world swirling around like water going down a drain. Something…was wrong…
My last thought before my eyes closed was how badly I wished Murdock were here right now, if only to save me from blacking out.
To Be Continued