Proditio offered us a slightly different plan than usual.
The target was an auction, as usual. But instead of Zoe accompanying me, she'd accompany Kaz to free the kidnapped. Proditio claimed there would be a plethora of guards stationed outside, so Kaz required extra assistance.
Kaz would disguise me as a an attendee, and like the other times, I'd raze the place to the ground. But I'd do it alone: The plan hinged on me.
Not to mention this was the last job. If I screwed it up, I'd lose Rebecca. Forever.
Nerve wracking. Very nerve wracking.
As the car pulled up to the auction, hosted in a seaside warehouse, lapping ocean water flanking it on one side and other dilapidated warehouses flanking it on the other, I tugged at the collar of my shirt. In the car mirror, I caught a glimpse of myself; my white, sweaty skin harbored a pallid pallor, and I stopped to take deep breaths. In, out, in, out.
But no matter how much I tried, I couldn't shake the image of Rebecca. I saw wisps of her brown hair, and her inescapable gray eyes that gripped you and never let go. Most of all, her radiant smile that could thaw the coldest of hearts, my own included.
Rebecca... This was the last act I'd need to commit to get her back.
That imbibed me with the vitality I needed and I sprung out of the car, sparing a glance at the moon, full, bulbous, and a luminous silver. The portent night sky loomed over me, almost accusing. It felt like everything was tensed: the sky and moon watched from their perch above, and the ocean held its breath, and the swaying water ceased to a dull roar in the background. Even the very air hung heavy with tension.
Something felt off.
The driver, a dark-skinned man with dark hair and eyes, patted me down before shepherding me inside. Waiting for me was a throng of nondescript guards keen to give me their own pat downs and scrutiny.
The Traders then labored through an arduous process of checking my identity, which Proditio acquired for me. They passed the ID around, all of them nodding their approval. They eventually allowed "Winston Jole" into the auction
I entered, body tensed. Something definitely was wrong here. I considered sending a message a Wais, but refrained. This is the last job, I thought, clenching my teeth. We can't screw it up.
I was seated near the front of the auction and given a paddle for bidding. The "auction" consisted of unfolded metal chairs set up in a dimly lit, vast room. A make-shift stage, concocted of wood, sat in the front to address the audience. A few dozen guests uttered their disapproval, mumbling things like, "This is really shabby" or, "It's because of Pyro."
The cold metal of my seat seeped into my suit, chilling me. Or maybe it was because I was lounging in enemy territory brimming with people all whispering about me. Pyro enamored them. Pyro confused them. Pyro scared them.
Most of them laughed me off, making augury threats like "If he shows up he's got another thing coming" and other derivative variations. I almost snorted; these guys couldn't skirmish with a fly, let alone me. But I allowed them to proclaim their phony threats, denounce Pyro/Henry Jacobs, because all of them were about to face an abrupt awakening.
I paused. My irritation completely overshadowed my skepticism.
My dubiousness bubbled back to the surface when the speaker bounded up to the stage, brandishing a microphone. "Hello everyone. Welcome to our auction. I assume all of you have grabbed a paddle?"
My gaze flitted to my paddle. The splintered wooden stick, biting into my skin, was topped by a plastic disk proclaiming my number. My blood froze as I turned it over.
In big, bold numbers, my paddle proudly declared the number nineteen. The same number I had back in Los Angeles.
My mind flew into overdrive, poring over my memory. I remembered clear as day the number I had last was nineteen. Was this a coincidence? Or a trap?
I immediately scanned the room and people around me. The men and women, dressed in ostentatious suits and dresses, didn't conceal anything. No strange bulges in strange places, indicating a stashed weapon. No one sneaked me any glances, not even a split second one.
It could just be a coincidence, I thought, heart racing wildly. But in all my time attending auctions, I never received the same number in succession.
Nothing was out of place. The announcer was blithe to me, already wheeling a young boy up for sale to the stage. It could be a coincidence.
But coincidences didn't happen to people like me- criminals being hunted on multiple fronts. No, this wasn't a coincidence. It was a sign. Someone was taunting me. Someone here knew about me, Pyro, and his-my-actions.
And then I finally noticed it.
No one was looking at me.
No one.
Everyone in the room made an onerous effort to affix their gaze to the announcer. Even the announcer spoke with a bit too much cheer and began devolving in his speech. He tripped over his sentences, laughing nervously with a bead of sweat on his brow. He never once glanced at me, despite being at the front, or the people dutifully raising their paddles.
Wais, this is a trap! Don't send Kaz or Zoe in! I thought, suppressing every urge I had to bolt myself.
Outwardly, I expressed no emotion. I was aloof. Apathetic. Stoic.
Inwardly? A deluge of fear, anger, and panic, crashed, swirled, bubbled, and simmered into a heaping pot of hatred directed towards one despicable person. The only person capable of arranging a room of Traders to attack me, knowing who I was.
Proditio betrayed us, I said to Wais, teeth clenched and fingers furled into fists.
Wais didn't miss a beat, leaping into action. You're alone in there, Henry. Dammit, Kaz and Zoe haven't gone in yet and Parker isn't nearby- he couldn't find a clear shot close to you.
I almost laughed. We walked right into Proditio's trap, unquestioning. It was so easy for her, too!
We suspected a possible trap, but we were blinded by the possibility of finally getting the people we loved back. Embracing them again. Never letting them go.
We were all blinded, Henry, Wais said, somber. Not just you.
The announcer bellowed a jovial shout when a plump man bid a small fortune on the boy for sale. People clapped and patted the man on the back half-heartedly. Their eyes were glazed over in distraction, as if counting down the minutes, seconds.
I joined the clapping, pretending to pretend I didn't know the underlying scheme. Henry, just stay there. We're on our-
No, I snapped. Proditio probably knows every move you'll make. Right now, her plan is to kill me. While she focuses on that, take everyone and leave Chicago. Find Hui and the bodies using Miranda's ability. Our chances may be slim but it's worth a shot. But most of all, be careful.
Wais began protesting but stopped. As much as he hated it, he knew I was right.
Henry, if you die, I'll kill you myself.
I grinned despite myself. I just walked into a trap laid down by an omniscient superhuman who knows everything I'll do before I even think to do it. I may be good, but I'm not that good.
Wais snorted via his telepathy. You're Pyro. Don't go down without a fight.
With that, he severed his connection, rushing to retreat and enact the worse-case scenario plan. I wasn't sure it'd work-Proditio had omnisciency, after all.
My vision pulsing, heart thudding, and breathing shallow, I didn't let that thought deter me as I stood up, jilting the guise of Winston Jole. The Traders, who previously saw me as a middle-aged man, streaks of gray hair offsetting black, wavy hair, saw veracity standing before them. Veracity with black hair, green eyes, and a vengeance.
The announcer faltered and the guests ceased their tepid chatter to look at Pyro, towering above the seated audience. "You didn't honestly think you'd fool me with this, right?" I asked, flippant and grinning.
Perplexity confounded them; the more adept ones leapt to their feet, alarmed, but I snapped my fingers. Of the two dozen people, the eight that stood ripped the air apart with their agonized screams. Some gasped and tried to dart away; I snapped my fingers again and a ring of searing fire encircled us. The two that didn't halt in time skidded into the wall of fire, howling and running around, crazed. Two more, lips quivering, vaulted past the fire, rolling on the floor fervently and scrambling for escape.
In my peripheral, I spotted guards bursting in. They reeled back at the scorching fire, shouting orders, but the uproar faded as I honed in on the impending fight.
Faced with a dozen people, all with different abilities out to kill me, I cracked my knuckles and rolled my neck, flexing my fingers and steeling myself. Time to show them what Pyro was made of.
A man in a suit charged at me, a curved knife protruding out his elbows. He swiped at me, but I ducked and kicked his legs out from under him, snapping my fingers and setting him alight.
Another man leapt at me, arms outstretched and hands poised to grip my throat. I scrambled backwards, but I collided with a woman and we hurtled for the ground. My back smashed into the cement floor; the air ripped out of my lungs, I crawled back, distancing myself from the man and woman and snapped my fingers before they barraged me.
Fire engulfed the man and woman: Their screams shattered the air.
Breathing heavily, I clutched my chest, struggling to climb to my feet. I stumbled but caught myself and watched the nine others, five men and four women, lingering by the wall of fire opposite of me. A thin sheen of sweat dampened their skin, and the fire singed their hair, but they were callous statues.
As their filthy companions withered into ash, wailing until they toppled to the floor as flaming corpses, they stood indifferent.
Perplexed, I frowned. If they don't want to come at me, then I'll finish this my-
They attacked.
A woman dashed at me, flicking her wrist and sliding out a concealed knife. Two men supported her from behind, one launching buzzing balls of electricity at me and the other raining bullets made of air.
The woman swiped her knife; I ducked and it cut the air above me. I kept back as swiped again, and I twisted to avoid a ball of electricity: It impacted my ring of fire and fizzled into nothingness.
From there, everything became a blur. I ducked when the woman slashed, dodged when balls of electricity and bullets were thrown at me. My wall of fire blocked the guards from entry but their tumultuous attempts to barrel past it shook the ground and their clamoring vibrated the air.
I channeled my rage. Proditio, I thought, diving to the right, ducking a punch from one of the men and snapping my fingers, watching another Trader succumb to my flames.
She betrayed us, I thought, grabbing someone's hurtling fist, twisting it, and kicking them to the floor.
Rebecca, I thought, anger flashing hot in my blood. She took her away again.
I didn't see men or women. Black or white. I didn't discern guards bursting through my wall of fire from the Trader scum in their superfluous clothing. My ears didn't hear the raucous shouting, the roaring fire, or the cries of anguish coming from others or my own battered body. I didn't smell the stench of fire consuming flesh, or taste my own blood, a musty copper, percolating onto my tongue. I didn't even feel touch, feel ash collect on my skin and clothing.
All I heard, all I saw, all I smelled, tasted, and touched, was red. White hot red.
Howling, I snapped my fingers in an endless stream. When I wasn't avoiding fists, punches, creatures conjured out of thin air or the blood-thirsty, air-curdling screams, I snapped my fingers. I set clothes, people, things, the building, everything-everyone-I could on fire.
I didn't keep track of time. I only knew that by the time sirens blared in the night, blackened husks and a hellish, beleaguered landscape surrounded me. Fire engulfed the warehouse, leaving it a wreckage; smoke rose up like columns in the night.
Shallow cuts oozed blood and insidious bruises where blows landed covered my body. But I was alive.
Alive...
Yes, I was alive. How? Did Proditio want me alive? Or did she somehow miscalculate something?
My vision spun and the world shifted under my feet.
I staggered forward, unsteady on my feet until I stumbled outside, hacking and clutching my stomach, gasping for air.
Blue and red lights flashed in all directions: Cars pulled up, screeching to a halt. Police officers flooded out of their cars. One of them shouted if I was alright.
I half wanted to bark, Do I look alright? but my knees buckled and I smashed into the ground, head first. An explosion split my head: Pain seared my body and my throbbing head pulsed incessantly and I groaned, rolling onto my back.
As police rushed in, wielding their guns, I managed to laugh through the torment of my splitting headache and injured body. One of them, a young woman, rushed to my side, urging me to "hang on."
Her more astute partner gaped at me, dumbfounded. "Is that Jacobs?" the astonished cop dared to ask, unbelieving.
Recognition registered on her face and she spewed orders to her partner, who relayed them to other cops. I would've bolted, crawled if my body would've allow me, but I was entrenched on the floor, coughing and unable to move my leadened limbs.
I laughed again, hugging my sides while wheezing for air. As ambulances arrived and hauled me into a bed, a police officer wrapped cuffs around my hands and secured me in place. All the while, I realized something.
Something that was boggling, baffling, and definitely confusing.
Proditio never wanted to kill me. She wanted me in prison.