“He moved,” I said.
Andy didn’t respond.
“Andy. Fetch.”
No response.
The red-haired creeper stooped behind another huge tree and set something on the ground at the edge of the recess. Suddenly, an eerie children’s song I only half-recognized piped across the mausoleum’s speakers. A little girl looked up from the sandbox. Not good.
“Andy, you gotta move now!” Static crackled and died, and fresh panic hit me like an avalanche. I scanned the tree line, but Andy was nowhere to be seen. Normally, that wouldn’t bother me. Andy practically invented the art of stealth. Nobody could see him if he didn’t want them to, even without his uniform’s Shimmer mode. But he was relying on me, and I was not going to let a single one of those children disappear.
“Andy, if you can hear me, I’m going in.”
I touched the hidden latch on the mausoleum’s marble wall. It rolled open, and the smell of wet leaves gushed in. The evening had a slight chill, moist with the drifting fog.
As I bolted from my hideout toward the red-haired freak, darting silently between the trees, panic gave way to excitement. This was almost too easy. The Kilodan was wrong—I was ready. I had trained ten years for this. I grinned beneath my mask. That freak’s stalking days were officially over. I moved in behind him like the mist. Slowing my pace, I eased myself so close I could smell him. Gross. Just to be safe, I drew my Amplifier.
The weirdo stood icily still, watching the little girl on the playground, unaware that if he backed up, he’d trip over me. His breathing was slow and calculating. Head and shoulders taller than me, he wore a classy designer jacket and matching jeans. Nice outfit, but it clashed with his scent. Rancid Gym Sock, by Estee Stalker. Soap was apparently not part of his repertoire.
Neither were scruples. The creep wore an Elmo mask. That was just wrong. The scratchy music came from some sort of old tape recorder, and I realized it was the theme song to Sesame Street. Using a beloved childhood character to lure innocent rug rats gave a whole new meaning to the word “scum.” Brought to you by the letters P-U.
I thought about dropping him by pinching a nerve on his neck. Nice and clean. He’d never know what hit him. In hindsight, that would have been a better approach. Yeah. Instead, I grabbed his mask by the red fur and plucked it off. A grimy mop of dark, unwashed hair lay plastered against his head, and its stench hit me like a nuclear blast, obliterating the sweet green smell of the woods. I almost threw the mask back on him to save what remained of my sinuses. He grabbed at his head, then spun around in confusion, his face scrunched up with anger.
“Shhhh.” I held a gauntleted finger to my masked lips.
The creeper’s expression changed like he had flipped a light switch, and his breathing accelerated. He smiled down at me, and his face became so adorable I almost overlooked his stench.
“Do you want to play with me?” he whispered. His eyes were deep brown, sparkling. I put him at about forty, but he seemed very childlike. My first impression was that he’d probably clean up pretty well with the right combination of soap, love, and an industrial pressure washer. His sweet voice made me wonder whether we had the right guy.
Then he balled up his fist and tried to take my head off. Definitely the right guy.
I slapped his punch aside with a quick wave of my armored hand and slammed my fist into his stomach. It was soft. The creep had zero abs. Lucky for him I pulled the punch. He doubled over, gagged once, and tried unsuccessfully to breathe. I dropped to the ground and swept his feet out from under him. He landed hard and lay unmoving.
I hit the button on my mask.
“This is not a game.” My transformed voice thundered like an avenging angel, more horrifying than I had intended, and chills ran down my spine. Thankfully, it had the same effect on him. The Elmo-wannabe crawled to his knees, cringing. He wiped his mouth with his hand, then raised it as though he thought I would hit him again. I planned to, but not the way he expected. I had to hold him until Andy found us.
Fear me, I thought, and clamped my hand around his wrist. My body tingled as my mask filled with mental static. Psychic force rushed down my arm and ripped into him. His eyes bulged with terror.
“You’re not real!” he gasped, wildly shaking his head, struggling to pull away. His filthy hair stuck out like a scarecrow’s. I focused hard, pounding the cruelest delusions I could imagine into his mind. I felt his fear growing. That was good. That was how it worked during practice. In moments, he would be in a fetal position, too terrified to move.
“Get away!” he panted. The man recoiled, tearing out of my grip. He leapt to his feet, backpedaled and tripped, but caught himself. I moved in to end it. Fumbling at the zipper on his jacket, he ripped out a pistol and pointed it at my chest.