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“Noted,” Jazz said. “You have my complete support in the matter. Gibby?”
“Agreed,” Gibby said into her phone.
“That’s three ayes,” Jazz said. “We have a majority, but we’ll run it by Seth later to make sure he’s in agreement. Guardian, if he tries to argue, you’ll need to threaten to break up with him to show how serious we are. Burrito Jerry is everything and should be celebrated as such.”
“I heard that,” another voice said. “Lighthouse, I’ll remind you that threats don’t work unless there’s follow-through.”
“I read you loud and clear, Pyro Storm,” Jazz said. “And I’ve threatened more people than you have, so why don’t we leave that to the professionals?”
“Goddamn,” Gibby breathed. “I’m so turned on right now.”
“Me, too,” Guardian said. “It’s very confusing. Pyro Storm, where are you?”
“See the building in front of you? East?”
“Uh,” Guardian said. “Yes. Right. East. Exactly. Because normal people use cardinal directions rather than just saying right or left.” He turned and looked across the street, ignoring the people gaping at them. “That’s east. Right?”
“And you wanted to leave me behind,” Gibby said. “For shame.” She grabbed Guardian by the shoulders and turned him around. “That’s east.” She nodded toward the building in front of them, an eight-story thing of old brick and mortar that, according to the sign out front, housed different offices on each level—a law office, an architectural firm, and half a dozen others.
“Got it,” Guardian said.
“On the roof,” Pyro Storm said. “I have a view of the rally. Lighthouse, scanning the faces in the crowd. Should be up on your screen.”
“It is,” Jazz said, keyboard clacking. “Guardian, I have a way to get you by the cops blocking the road without being noticed. Incoming. Gibby showed me how to do the line thing.”
A map appeared inside Guardian’s helmet, a red line stretching through the building and out on the other side. It would put them on a back street to come up behind the precinct. Nick knew this area well. His dad had worked at this precinct since before he was born, and he’d gone there countless times.
“Line thing received,” Guardian said. “Lighthouse, we’re on the move.”
“How do I look?” Gibby asked.
He turned toward her to see she’d wrapped the bandana around the lower half of her face, her nose a bump of green fabric. “Like it’s 1867 and you’re going to rob a train filled with rich people.”
She snorted. “Exactly what I was going for. Let’s go.”
He jogged toward the building, Gibby at his side, the roar of the crowd and Burke’s booming voice growing louder, people moving out of his way, eyes wide, phones following his every step.
“Thank you, citizens,” Guardian called as he moved through them. “Have an Extraordinary day and remember: say no to drugs unless prescribed by your physician.”
“Should’ve workshopped that one a little more,” Gibby muttered as they reached the heavy ornate door. She pulled it open, and a wave of cold air washed over them.
Guardian stepped inside, lenses brightening slightly to makeup for the difference in light from outside to inside. A security guard sitting behind a large desk said, “Welcome to… what?” His jaw dropped as he rose slightly from his chair.
“Just passing through,” Guardian told him. “Continue doing what you’re doing. I appreciate your cooperation.”
The security guard nodded dumbly, sitting hard back down on his chair.
As Guardian and Gibby moved through the lobby toward a set of doors on the opposite side, Pyro Storm said, “I’m not seeing him. Lighthouse, anything?”
“No,” Jazz said. “Are we sure he’s there?”
“She said he was,” Guardian said as they reached the doors. He opened the left one, leaning out to make sure no cops were standing outside. “If she saw him, then he’s there. Keep looking.”
“On it,” Jazz said. “Let me see where she… huh.”
“What is it?” Guardian asked, looking left, then right. This side of the building was mostly empty, used for deliveries to the back of the businesses. No sidewalks. One-way street with yellow arrows on black pavement.
“TK’s tracker is off,” Jazz said. “Why would she do that?”
