still ate at the boat as more emergency and police vehicles rushed onto the scene. Rescue workers and medical personnel transported bodies of the dead and the maimed while onlookers watched in stunned shock.
She had to focus. She’d come here tonight for a story, albeit Quinton Valtrez’s, but now she had a different one to cover.
Yet as she approached the boat, she spotted Quinton on board. He paused next to a man who was trapped beneath a burning beam. She raised her camera to take a photo and snapped it quickly.
Quinton tried to lift the beam, but it must have been too heavy and didn’t budge. Then he backed away, glanced around him as if searching for help or to see if anyone was watching. Slowly he fisted his hands and stared at the beam with his piercing eyes. His complexion seemed to take on a darker hue; his eyes turned glassy against the dark, then glittered with a strange silver glow.
She gasped at the transformation—he didn’t look quite human at that moment, more like an animal about to attack.
She raised her camera and snapped another photo just as he flicked one hand up and, without touching the beam, sent it flying off the screaming man.
Annabelle blinked in shock, uncertain if what she’d seen was real.
It was almost as if he’d moved the heavy beam with his mind. But that was impossible.
Wasn’t it?
Quinton helped the old man off to the side, glancing around to make certain no one had seen what he’d done. Dammit, he tried never to use his powers in public, but this was an emergency, and the man would have died in seconds had he not released him.
“Thank you,” the man said with a cough as Quinton handed him over to a medic.
He nodded, then raced through the fire at superhuman speed, stopping to help more injured escape the burning rubble and carrying strangers to safety.
His senses remained alert, searching. He wanted to find the bomber. To know the source and reason behind this attack.
He placed his hand on the stiff body of a man but felt no evil vibrating from the man’s soul, only the sickening sense of despair the man had felt just before he’d drawn his last breath.
A medic raced up, two firemen on his tail, dragging hoses to extinguish the flames.
“Move the bodies over there!” a suited man who looked like a cop shouted to him and a few other men who’d jumped in to help.
“I’m a doctor,” a white-haired man said as he ran up. “Let’s start a triage area so we can prioritize the victims according to their injuries.”
Another team of medics appeared, along with nurses and more medical staff and began to organize the recovery efforts. Policemen flooded the area, attempting to establish order in the chaos and prevent any further injuries.
Quinton moved silently, like the Ghost he’d become, helping with the madness while still trying to sniff out the culprit.
In a pile of rubble, he spotted fragments of what appeared to be the bomb, then examined them, his temper flaring as he noticed a tiny piece of green corduroy fabric clinging to one of the small wires.
Though the remains of the body nearby looked less than human, he recognized the earlier distinct odor of the man amid the charred scent of his flesh.
He had been right about the homeless man being evil.
But what had caused him to turn into a suicide bomber?
His body humming with fury, he called over an officer, introduced himself, then pointed out the evidence so they could send it to forensics. While the officer grabbed a CSI, Quinton unpocketed his cell phone and disappeared into the darkness. With his near photographic memory, he recognized the type of bomb parts used. He knew where they’d come from.
In the periphery of his vision, he caught sight of Annabelle Armstrong helping an elderly lady to a gurney and turned away, finding safety within the sprawling branches of a live oak dripping in spidery Spanish moss.
Then he punched in the number for his handler and explained what had happened.
“I
She had to focus. She’d come here tonight for a story, albeit Quinton Valtrez’s, but now she had a different one to cover.
Yet as she approached the boat, she spotted Quinton on board. He paused next to a man who was trapped beneath a burning beam. She raised her camera to take a photo and snapped it quickly.
Quinton tried to lift the beam, but it must have been too heavy and didn’t budge. Then he backed away, glanced around him as if searching for help or to see if anyone was watching. Slowly he fisted his hands and stared at the beam with his piercing eyes. His complexion seemed to take on a darker hue; his eyes turned glassy against the dark, then glittered with a strange silver glow.
She gasped at the transformation—he didn’t look quite human at that moment, more like an animal about to attack.
She raised her camera and snapped another photo just as he flicked one hand up and, without touching the beam, sent it flying off the screaming man.
Annabelle blinked in shock, uncertain if what she’d seen was real.
It was almost as if he’d moved the heavy beam with his mind. But that was impossible.
Wasn’t it?
Quinton helped the old man off to the side, glancing around to make certain no one had seen what he’d done. Dammit, he tried never to use his powers in public, but this was an emergency, and the man would have died in seconds had he not released him.
“Thank you,” the man said with a cough as Quinton handed him over to a medic.
He nodded, then raced through the fire at superhuman speed, stopping to help more injured escape the burning rubble and carrying strangers to safety.
His senses remained alert, searching. He wanted to find the bomber. To know the source and reason behind this attack.
He placed his hand on the stiff body of a man but felt no evil vibrating from the man’s soul, only the sickening sense of despair the man had felt just before he’d drawn his last breath.
A medic raced up, two firemen on his tail, dragging hoses to extinguish the flames.
“Move the bodies over there!” a suited man who looked like a cop shouted to him and a few other men who’d jumped in to help.
“I’m a doctor,” a white-haired man said as he ran up. “Let’s start a triage area so we can prioritize the victims according to their injuries.”
Another team of medics appeared, along with nurses and more medical staff and began to organize the recovery efforts. Policemen flooded the area, attempting to establish order in the chaos and prevent any further injuries.
Quinton moved silently, like the Ghost he’d become, helping with the madness while still trying to sniff out the culprit.
In a pile of rubble, he spotted fragments of what appeared to be the bomb, then examined them, his temper flaring as he noticed a tiny piece of green corduroy fabric clinging to one of the small wires.
Though the remains of the body nearby looked less than human, he recognized the earlier distinct odor of the man amid the charred scent of his flesh.
He had been right about the homeless man being evil.
But what had caused him to turn into a suicide bomber?
His body humming with fury, he called over an officer, introduced himself, then pointed out the evidence so they could send it to forensics. While the officer grabbed a CSI, Quinton unpocketed his cell phone and disappeared into the darkness. With his near photographic memory, he recognized the type of bomb parts used. He knew where they’d come from.
In the periphery of his vision, he caught sight of Annabelle Armstrong helping an elderly lady to a gurney and turned away, finding safety within the sprawling branches of a live oak dripping in spidery Spanish moss.
Then he punched in the number for his handler and explained what had happened.
“I
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