Chapter Text
The sun shone down on the city, as bright and cheerful as if it was the middle of summer rather than the dead of winter. Though a chill still lingered in the air, there was no sign of the winter storms that had plagued Toronto only weeks earlier. Greenery spilled across the city and all of the residents were thoroughly enjoying the weather, ignoring the TV experts droning on about the dire threat of global warming, so richly evidenced by Toronto’s lack of snow and ice.
In one area of the city, a cluster of squad cars sat around a squat, boxy black truck with the words ‘Mobile Command’ stenciled on the side in large white letters. The Metropolitan Police seal graced both of the truck cab’s doors, and, at the front of the truck, a silver push bar sat right in front of the slanted grill and curved headlights. Right above the fenders, more white lettering spelled out ‘SRU03’, marking the truck as the Command Truck typically used by Team Three, but today serving duty for Team One as their Command Truck was in the shop for yearly maintenance.
A man stood next to the Command Truck’s trailer door, alternating between pounding on it, pulling at the door handle, and calling out. Frustration blazed on his face beneath his trademark ball cap and bronze maple leaves were embroidered on both shoulders of his black uniform, right where sergeant chevrons had once rested. One hand dropped down to his thigh holster, nestled against his gray pants leg, before the man shook his head and returned to his pounding.
“Kate!” Lieutenant Greg Parker yelled, “I need you to open this door right now!”
Inside the truck, a middle-aged woman in a professional blue shirt and open-front navy suit lashed out, striking a man with dark brown hair. Her long brown hair tumbled down around her face and partway down her back, framing a sharp nose, dark brows, and blue eyes.
As he reeled, she drew back, studying her target as fingers tightened around her gun. The blood streaking down his nose was satisfying, but not nearly enough. Not with the sneer already coming to his face around the pain. Her lip curled, both for the thug sitting in front of her and the plea she could hear coming from outside the truck.
“Don’t do this,” Parker begged. “You’re too close to this thing. You’re not seeing this right.”
Expression set, she watched as Novak recovered enough to look up at her. “Couple more of those, Detective?” he jeered, turning his head to the side to spit out a mouthful of blood. “I’ll open right up.”
Outside, Parker kept pounding on the door, grimacing at the conflict he could hear within. Kate was tunneling, barreling straight for something she’d regret for the rest of her life. Hazel fixed on the door lock as he spared a moment to wish, bitterly, that this call had happened before the T-South Riot and the kick to the head that had crippled his magical ability.
Raising his voice, he called, “Now, I need you to open the door!”
Over the comm, he heard the distant sound of fingers typing, followed by Spike’s grim, “Sarge, visual’s up.”
Stepping back, the lieutenant jerked out his smartphone, thumbing it on as JARVIS automatically brought up the visual feed from Spike’s laptop. Hazel widened at the sight of Kate aiming her sidearm at Novak’s forehead, dead center.
Letting the phone drop back to his side, Parker turned and slammed his palm against the door, yelling, “No, Kate!”
He heard the sound of a gun being racked and felt his stomach drop.
He had to get in there!
But how?
* * * * *
7 hours earlier
Leaves still clung to the trees, all of them wearing their fall best, as if unaware that they should’ve been long bare with a coat of snow on their branches and icicles hanging down. Beneath their shade, the cemetery grounds were mostly green, with blades of grass poking through atop newly dug graves. The stones themselves marched in solemn rows, most of them squat, square hunks of marble, intermixed with a number of crosses, several flat stones that were shorter than the surrounding grass, and a few headstones tall enough to pass for obelisks.
The woman crouching in front of a tall bluish-green marble headstone noticed none of her surroundings. Her entire focus was on the words in front of her, indelibly carved into the rock – and into her heart.
EVAN
ANDREWS
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
A BELOVED SON
GONE TOO SOON
Reaching out, she ran her hand over the name, her eyes already burning with the effort of keeping back her tears. No matter how long she cried, how much she mourned, there always seemed to be more, just waiting for her focus to slip. Mustering a nonchalant tone, she mused, “Sometimes I wonder what you would think about this.” Tilting her head, she continued, “You would make a joke, that much I know. You would tease me about it, about me being here, talking to a hunk of stone.”
Despite all her efforts, a sob forced its way up through her defenses. Anguish contorted her features and she stumbled on, a plea ringing in her voice as the first tear slipped down her cheek. “I know people talk about grief and… They say that it takes time. I’m waiting, Evan.”
From behind her, she heard the sound of footsteps, but stayed focused on the silent marble. “Doesn’t seem fair, though, right? That the three years that you have been gone take up so much more of my heart than the seventeen we spent together.”
Shifting on her heels to glance behind her, her mouth firmed and she rose, crossing her arms as she faced her visitor. Long brunette hair tumbled down from her head, spilling around her shoulders and partway down her back. Blue eyes narrowed a touch under her dark brows and her sharp nose rose along with her chin, a generous mouth pursing into tart disapproval.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
A flash of disappointment shot across her visitor’s face before he rallied. “No one knows I’m here.” Glancing past her at the grave, the young, dark-haired man remarked, “He’d be 21 today.” Without waiting for a reply, he said, “Doesn’t go away, does it? You know what I miss?”
“Luke, please. We can’t do this.” Her words were stern, but desperation rang behind them.
Luke’s face twisted in fresh discouragement and his mouth tightened as he nodded. Above his high forehead, his dark brown hair was unruly, combed well enough to pile atop his head, but still wild and poking up all over. A thick layer of stubble coated his cheeks, chin, and upper lip, just a few millimeters shy of an actual beard. Blue eyes glanced down, towards the ground where his friend lay.
Then he looked up again, lifting an open palm towards the woman. “You know, I have something for you.” She pulled back, bracing her chin with one hand, a black watch standing out on her arm as she stared at the object in his hand. “That bike chain bracelet Evan made, it’s been broken for the longest time. I finally got around to replacing the pin.” For an instant, Luke hesitated, then he held the bracelet out. “He wore it every day. He’d want you to have it.”
Pain flashed in the brunette’s eyes and she jerked her chin in refusal. “You keep it. It’s yours.”
Luke’s face fell. “Mrs. A, I think…”
She stepped back, cutting him off. “This can’t happen again.”
Then she strode away, leaving Luke behind. He stared after her, a wistful expression flashing before he turned back and gazed at his best friend’s grave. Wishing, yet again, that it had been him, not Evan.
* * * * *
The man storming through the hallways of SRU Headquarters was a familiar sight, though the severe frown and flashing eyes were not. He cut sideways, out from the office hallway and into the atrium towards the dispatcher desk.
“Where is he?” Lieutenant Greg Parker demanded.
“Briefing room,” Winnie called back.
Mid-stride, he adjusted, zeroing in on his target – and another figure stepped in between them. “Hold up, take a breath,” the taller man ordered.
“A street fight, Ed?”
Intent hawk blue skewered indignant gryphon hazel. “We don’t know the details,” Ed chided.
He didn’t want to hear it. “I spoke to Terry from 52,” Parker shot back, gesturing sharply in his agitation. “He took the call. A bunch of kids fighting. Someone swinging a hockey stick.”
“Apparently,” his best friend conceded, still in that infuriatingly calm voice.
Bristling, he demanded, “What’s he doing gettin’ mixed up in stuff like that?”
“Greg, you’re gonna ask him.”
“You’re damn right I’m--”
Ed’s hand shot to his chest, pushing him back as he started forward. “All right, hold up. You go in hot right now, it’s not gonna help the situation at all.”
Shoulder muscles tightened, right along with his jaw as fury pinned the other man. “I don’t wanna help the situation. I wanna take a paddle to the little punk.”
There was a long moment as Ed held his position, glancing over his shoulder before turning back, one eyebrow hiking in a pointed fashion. Parker glared right back, then sighed and took a breath, letting tension drain out of his system. The smile was a trifle forced, but genuine. “When does this get easier?”
Seeing his boss in control again, Sergeant Ed Lane stepped back, a wry grin appearing. “Well,” he drawled, “I hear that they become a little more manageable when they’re forty.”
Parker huffed a laugh, looking past Ed into the briefing room where his son sat with his back to the briefing room door, head down and a hint of fear in his posture.
Good.
* * * * *
The home was a typical suburban home – large, with a back patio and a generous back yard. Artwork adorned the walls of the dining room, all of it littered with colors and shapes and the large, uneven, sloppy writing of a child. A small mouse was on one side, taped up right next to the doorway from the kitchen to the rest of the house. Colored with crayons, the mouse was a light tan color, with the standard pink nose and black eyes. The ears, though, had been colored in with blue and several dark brown whiskers had been added on either side of the mouse’s muzzle, cut out of shopping bags and glued to the line art.
As a girl and her mother hurried through the room, they passed a table draped in a blue disposable table cloth. Four balloons – one white, one purple, and the middle two orange – hovered behind the table, pressed against the window as they sought to escape their white strings. A pile of wrapped presents were piled in the nook created by a partial wall that shielded the dining room from the back patio door and four girls sat at the table, playing with the plastic cups stacked next to the paper plates and the uncut birthday cake.
Deeper into the room, several couches and tables bracketed an elegant dark stone fireplace. A framed picture sat above the fireplace and two more adorned the walls, right under a pair of tall, narrow stained glass windows. Two men and a young blonde stood in front of the closest table and couch, just past where the floor rug ended.
One of the men was leaning over, helping his daughter bounce her new paddle with its attached rubber ball on a bungie string. He wore a white shirt under an open brown coat and shaggy brown locks fell forward, into his face. Next to him was a young man wearing a dark teal muscle shirt and a denim jacket.
“Hey, you know that Beemer that came in yesterday?” the younger man asked, a broad smile on his face as he watched his companion play with his daughter.
“The Enduro?”
“Yeah. Got it running.”
Looking up and glancing over, the older man replied, “Engine was full of sand, it was shot.”
“It was,” the younger agreed in a generous tone. “Now it’s not.”
Bending down, Brian Novak murmured, “That’s it, sweetie,” to his daughter, then released her hand so she could keep bouncing her new toy. Turning back towards his companion, he said, “You’re a genius, kid, you know that? When I was your age, it would’ve taken me weeks. ‘Course, things were different then.”
A teasing grin spread across the younger man’s face. “Yeah. Horsepower was actual horses, coal was the way of the future, heh.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Brian drawled, “Don’t get cocky, smart alec.”
As a couple walked by the trio, heading towards the door, Brian straightened. “Hi. Steven.”
“Boss,” his companion murmured respectfully, ducking his head as the man nodded to them and his wife gave them a brief smile. Then the couple left, heading out the front door to their car.
Crouching down, Brian looked his daughter in the eye. “Look, uh, sweetie, I want you to go out in the backyard, okay? Play with the other kids? All right? You have fun.”
She nodded eagerly and ran off. Behind Brian, the younger man waited until he was standing again to say, “Hey, I, uh, hear there’s a meet-and-greet in Chatham. New clients.”
Turning, Brian examined the other closely. “Yeah? Where’d you hear that?”
Leaning forward, his tone turned intent. “All I’m saying is, now that I’ve been promoted, maybe I should come.”
Underneath thick brows, Brian’s blue eyes narrowed in consideration. “Yeah. We’ll see.”
Before the younger man could press his case any further, there was an explosion from outside. Fire roared upwards as glass shattered and screams rose. The younger man whirled, racing out the front door with Brian right behind him. The other adults in the home followed them out, staring in horror as flames licked the sides and roof of the formerly immaculate late-model light gray SUV.
A black motorcycle raced by, the rider wearing all black, including his helmet. Only the motorcycle’s chrome, lights, and rear license plate deviated from the dark color scheme as he rocketed away from the explosion.
Behind him, on the house’s porch, the young man’s jaw tightened. He glanced back at the burning SUV, then raced down the stairs and the driveway, running for the old light-blue convertible parked right in front of the house. Streaks of black paint marked the passenger door, rear fender, and front fender, right behind the wheel, jarring against the car’s light teal paint coat, but the vehicle was unharmed by the nearby explosion.
“Luke, get back here!” Brian roared. “Luke! Get back here!”
The young man paused, gazing up at his boss for a moment.
“Come on, Luke!”
Then Luke shook his head and ducked into his car. The engine roared to life and Luke put the convertible in gear, racing away in pursuit of the motorcyclist.
Brian stared after him, expression unreadable as the men and women around him watched the SUV continue to burn.