Murray Hill || A Superhuman Tale - 1

Chapter Fifty-Seven

It was unlikely anyone saw Tommy when he launched—he'd at least had the wherewithal to slip into the alley and look both ways before bursting into flight—but it wouldn't have mattered if they had. He was, by that time, as desperate and frantic as Philly had sounded on the phone. He was not going to lose another friend.

Sam's disappearance two days before had deeply shaken him. Afterward, he'd taken stock. He was confident Rhonda was safe—his anonymity and hers guaranteed that. Surrounding her with security likely would be counterproductive, merely drawing attention to her. Philly had assured him that the new security measures at her office/home where well underway, and she never went anywhere alone.

So, he'd swallowed his doubts and worries. But every minute of the last 48 hours had left him on the jagged edge of losing his temper and releasing his fury. He wasn't normally like that.

As Tommy soared, he reached into his pockets and recovered his keys, wallet, and phone, the indispensables. It was not a time for patience or modesty. He calmed himself and flew as fast as he'd ever flown in his life.

In just under 15 minutes, he touched down in Philly's San Francisco backyard, as naked as the day he was born, his clothes blown from his body by the tremendous velocity at which he'd just travelled. Looking up to the window where her office was situated, he realized it was open. He calmed himself, hopped up the 25 feet to the ledge, and was in the window in a flash. He again calmed himself as he recovered his spare clothes. Seconds later, he was jogging down the staircase into the central office area of Philly's small enterprise, still dressing as he went.

Three people were in the office, all of them noticeably shaken, and one was crying at her desk. The other two looked up at him in surprise.

He took a steadying breath. "Where's Philly?"

None of her colleagues spoke, but one looked over to the half-open door that led to the outer lobby. His sixth sense told him there were three people in the lobby, and two more seemed to be idling on the street outside the building. Philly's scent was still fresh in the air. Without pausing, he strode toward the lobby door.

The sound of his voice apparently had attracted attention. The lobby door moved, and a large, thirty-something male entered the office. The man wore slacks, a button-down shirt, and a windbreaker that read Homeland Security.

"Sit down and be quiet," the new man said sternly. He was looking directly at Tommy, who continued to walk toward the door through which the man had just emerged.

"Where's my friend?" Tommy said with as much composure as he could muster.

The man took two steps toward him, extending his left arm as he did. His right hand went behind his back, as if reaching for something.

Tommy ignored the man's motion, but stopped when the agent's hand met his chest. "Where is Phyllida Mettouchi?" he asked again.

"Young man, I am not going to ask you again. Sit down." The agent's tone was firm and his voice loud. This was a man accustomed to having his commands obeyed. A collapsible baton now appeared in his right hand. "That's an order."

Tommy did his level best to calm himself before he spoke. "And I'm not going to ask you again. Where's my friend? You're either going to tell me ... or you're going to take me to her."

The agent drew back and struck Tommy across the left thigh with the heavy baton. It was a blow that would have put a normal man on the ground. Nothing happened.

Tommy took another long breath. Displays of force take different forms, he reminded himself.

The agent redoubled his effort and struck the same thigh, to the same effect. A look of fear came into the man's eyes, and, whether through instinct or training, he aimed his next strike at Tommy's head.